Friday, December 31, 2010

They make it so hard on us baby.

The world is ending tomorrow. Well, please hold. Not so dramatic this time. Take two. This year is ending tomorrow. We've got one more night to do whatever we think we should have done all year, and we've got one night to try to remember all of the things we did and all of the things we said and did not say all year. All the people we should or should not have met, or known, or spent the time to meet or know. We've got hours people. Roughly twenty four hours from now, i will be wrapped around someone somewhere telling them that I love them, and that I couldn't have possibly lived this far in my time without them, even though it is a person I just met, this year, that minute, the follow spot on my cue into a rousing rendition of Auld Lang Syne. Dear Lord, Dear all ya'll. Are you ready? Are you ready for all of the love that is going to be barfed onto you in a few hours?

Every year I build the New Year celebration up to be something I think is going to be the best night of my life. Something to the effect of the first time I ever got drunk or did any drugs, or rode down Lake Shore Drive at six in the morning listening to "1979" and watching the sunrise on Montrose Beach, or spent the night with someone I truly loved on a massive level, and every year, the hangover of the New Years celebration begins before the actual hangover begins.

I love a celebration, please believe. I also love any time where it is customary to guzzle champagne and hug everyone. Right now, I've got the Jenny Lewis sads, and while taking a trip back in my time machine of patchy memories of what happened this summer/this year, makes me wish it would've never ended, I wished that before the summer ended. I've got the sads in a good way. This year, as opposed to the past few years, has provided me with enough hilarious stories, and loves of my life to last me the rest of my life. All sentimentality aside, this year I felt everything I could possibly feel with every single person who is important to me in my life. Uppers and downers. I haven't felt that in a long time, and I will admit that the majority of the time it was NOT chemically induced.

I had the best year of my life, and it was all thanks to every person I met/know/took in along the way to wherever I decided I was going to try to go, but then ended up somewhere absolutely different.

I wouldn't change any of this for anything, and I want you to know, that while I think resolutions are a waste of time, and sure, it is just another year, and sure we can all do the same thing next year, sure we can. We can do whatever you want babe.

This is an important time for me. I like an end of the year "wrap up" special, like what you see on the E! channel. I like watching things happen again that have already happened, and you think, "Oh mah gawd. That def happened! How totes perf!" "I can't believe that happened!" "I can't believe we spent the entire summer on my stoop watching the neighborhood get down with itself, and drank a milli beers, and sang songs together, and spent hot ass summer nights trying to figure out how to stop it with all the sweating..." we sure did learn a lot about ourselves didn't we? I mean, didn't we? At least a little? I'd like to think that I ring in the dead end of my 20s as something truly spectacular and then, once I turn 30, it will be like being born again.

The countdown has already begun, and I want you all to know, that even if things didn't work out exactly as you thought this year( I did try my best to love you, I reallly did, and, whatever, I still probably do, but these things have a way of not working out, but working out, and that is something that will just have to heal itself), we have another year, and another one after that, and then yet another after that etc. etc. etcetra. We have the rest of our lives to be everything that we think we want to be tonight. Tonight we will be everything we want, whether it makes us hate ourselves Saturday morning or not.

This New Years party is our perfect match, and I cannot wait to spend it with all of you. Wear something sparkly, and meet me at my place around 8. There will be champagne, and jams, and hugs, and everything will be perfect, we will all be each other's perfect mate, even if it is just for one night.


Friday, October 29, 2010

Betrayal and my betrayals

Tonight's post is brought to you by a Spanish wine named "Wrongo Dongo" that was recommended to me by the nice gay at the Kafka wine shop. So helpful! This wine is perf.

After the semi-rambling I puked out last night, I felt as if I needed to write about a little something else. I've been thinking heavily, while drinking heavily, about Harold Pinter. I've been thinking about minimalism, and I've been thinking about Harold Pinter, and I've been thinking about Betrayal.

I've been a performer for my entire life. Even though I spent my formative years on the stage, I never felt anything as painful and as bizarre as when I saw Betrayal for the first time. I was either a freshman or a sophomore in college, and I was taking an introductory acting class at my very bourgeois, very tiny private college, in a very small town in Wisconsin. The story is as follows: Three people spend their entire lives figuring out that they have all fucked each other in various sexual and non-sexual ways. There are the two marrieds, Emma and Robert, and then Robert's BFF Jerry(who is also married) who enters into an affair with Emma whilst at a party thrown by Robert and Emma. The story is told beginning with the end of Emma and Jerry's affair, and we take the horrifying trip backwards through all of the stolen moments, and almost uncoverings of the affair, right up to the very first illicit kiss between Emma and Jerry.

I want to hate these men, and this woman. I want to stop them from making mistakes that will ultimately ruin their lives. Every time I have the opportunity to see this show, I will see it. Harold Pinter is the master of minimalist theater because he doesn't waste your time talking and singing about every single arbitrary thing the people in the cast are doing at any given time. The dialogue is so short and loaded, and that is why it is so uncomfortable. It is possible to communicate with truncated language instead of a Gilmore Girls-esque verbal diarrhea landslide.

Any time I start thinking about Betrayal, I start thinking about our relationships with the people who are closest to us. I start to think about all the threesomes and foursomes, and in some sad, silly cases, twosomes we get ourselves into.

Two days ago, I was getting my hair cut, and my stylist, who is also my friend said, as we gossiped about our relationships and non-relationships, that "we never like who actually likes us. We always want the asshole." I don't mean to get all superficial, selfish, sonofabitch Carrie Bradshaw, but.....the FUCK? As much as I want to hate Harold Pinter for being a misogynistic man, I can't help but agree with Emma. Why not try to have both of the men you want? Because threesomes never work out as glamourously as the movies allow them to be. In real-time, they are very much like Betrayal. We start something with one person, knowing goddamn well that this is the person that is mean to be the "right" choice, and, then, cue the third party who is more exciting, even a titty bit dangerous, and absolutely the wrong choice. The wrong choice will always win because it makes a person disassociate. Psychologically, you spend the vast majority of your time rationalizing why spending time with the wrong person is ok, and why spending time with the right person is boring and will never go anywhere.

Betrayal can serve as a morality tale for all of us who are in-between friends/lovers. Telling a person you are in love with, that you are in love with them is terrifying, and can be, in some cases, totally out of line and a case of mistaken identity. The line you cross can and will become unclear, and you will decide that the wrong is the right, and the wrong is the absolute.

Pretty words are what sways us in the end. Both the "right" and the "wrong" have said the right things, and I have said the right things, but we cannot all live together in peace and harmoneeeeeeeeee...Make a choice. Claim this person or lose them forever to the shit show that is non-descript relationships.

Claim a person and eliminate the prospect of a Betrayal like betrayal.

I can never love you both the same way.


p.s. Even if you thought it was Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor, this is my favorite piece of music ever written.

Private Lives.

In my youth, I spent many nights wasted out of my skull, entertaining the idea that somebody out there gave an ounce of a fuck about what I had to say. I would spend my nights writing about everything all over the place on MySpace, and, even though the medium, for a few seconds of sobriety, felt like a diary that no one would read unless instructed to(in a last will and testament sort of way), i knew that it was basically like jizzing my feelings all over the internet. I used to mainly write when I was 100% drunk, and I only wrote about people I knew were not "subscribers." Jesus I am so cool. Every once in awhile I'd get a case of the sads, and write about some poor fool named Patrick who I used and abused for many years. All of this information is free to the public. Anyone can go into my old ass generic ridiculous MySpace profile, and not only see old embarassing photographs of me, but you can read all about it. If you want the LOL of your life, take a trip back in time with me.

I'm J/K. The story is that I'm home alone all weekend, and if you are my friend on the internet, you would already know this. If you're not, then I don't know you, because if we're not friends online, then who are you really? All night I have been updating my status about what movies I'm watching, what I'm doing while I'm watching them, what I think about them, how I'm teaching myself Chinese phrases so I can go to Chinatown and feel cool and show off my totally excellent learning skills, how I drank a whole bottle of Malbec(no big deal, I'm Italian, so my blood is actually wine), how I took some pictures of my cat, my apartment's cold, etc. etc. etc.

My point is that while everyone is pissing and moaning about how their privacy is being violated in a non-sexy way by Mark Zuckerberg and palz, I am over here writing(drunkenly, thus, more sharingly than normal) about all the shit I'm doing, where I'm doing it, and who I'm doing it or not doing it with (everyone who wouldn't hang out with me tonight thus forcing me to drink alone I'm directing this at you). At this point in my relationship with the internet, I could not give less of a fuck who knows what I'm doing. I'll tell you. All you have to do is become my friend on some friend thing on the internet, and I will tell you every single thing I am doing at all times. I will show you photographs of things I am doing and projects I am in the process of completing. I will tell you what movies I am watching and give you my opinions about said movies. I will relay to you a series of adventures I have had on any given weekend and most likely will post the accompanying photos. We will all laugh the next day, and then, I will ignore all the comments I receive that are redundant and idiotic and remind me that my attitude towards the internet can be, at times, for lack of a better descriptive terms, chilly and dismissive.

This thing is powerful in ways that it shouldn't be, and that is both confusing and exciting. I know that I am going to share this entry on Facebook, and that people will read it and mostly not know exactly how to process it. Wait, it's not funny, or about DJ Pauly D, or some art thing she's into, wait what? It's not celebrity gossip, or nail polish sparkles, or, for FUCK'S SAKE HALLOWEEN??????? WTFLOLROTFLKITRIPXYZ.

I enjoy talking to people in my real life, why not share with people online. If I want to share private moments in my life(which I don't unless you are a person I see regularly), then I will do so how I please. I can't be intimidated by the prospect that someone might find some information I have posted online and attempt to use it against me in some childish and insufficient way. I left that information out there in the middle of cyberspace for a reason. I was just some emo wino searching for some boy to love me in a way I'd only seen in the movies. That is where these things originate, and that is where they will shrivel and die.

If you people wanted privacy, you wouldn't be on the internet every waking second of every day, and you wouldn't spend all your damn time checking yourself into Facebook Places. You would tell all social networking sites to suck a dick, and you would go about your business as if they never existed.

Since I'm kinda drunk and sharing, and remembering the good 'ol embarassing days, here's a link to my blog on myspace. I just read the first few and boy am I wishing the internet would self destruct. I just keeeeeedingggg!!!! Read away. I love the attention.


Sunday, August 15, 2010

Choose your own idiot.

I have a thing for idiots. Idiots of the male variety. They make my life more interesting, and always give me something to complain/gossip about. I like having idiot men in my life because it balances out how overly serious I am guilty of taking myself. Nothing clears up a case of the emos like a totally idiot dude pal who's around to make me explode into a fit of idiotic laughter and forget what I doing in the first place. I LOVE IDIOTS!!!

If I were ever stranded on a desert island with nothing but a couple of idiots and maybe the smoke monster(just for tree shaking purposes), these are the dumbasses I'd want to dick around with(celebrity edition).

DJ Pauly D

I don't know what it is about this guy, but recently, I was watching an episode of the Jersey Shore, and my first thought was, "oh dear lord, I am attracted to fucking DJ Pauly D." He is the king of the idiots, but he is SOOOOOOO CUTE! You guys seriously. Wouldn't we make the stupidest couple ever??? FUN! On day 357 of our stay on our deserted island, while he was sleeping, I would totally shave his Sonic the Hedgehog hair off, and then he would get totally mad at me and I'd be all, "Your hair makes you look like an idiot!" and then he'd be all, "well your haircut makes you look like a lesbian who looks like Justin Bieber!" and then I'd start laughing, and then he'd start laughing, and I'd say, "Oh Pauly D, I just can't be mad at that idiot mug." Then we'd skip off into the jungle. ZOMG cute tops.

Zach Galifianakis
Duh. He is like the Prince to Pauly D's King. This guy would be cracking me up all day and all night. DJ Pauly D and I would probably get super annoyed with him all the time, and it would be like a weird Three's Company episode now with more idiots! I would laugh at his poor choice of clothing, but I would insist on using his intense beer gut as my pillow every night. Pauly D would get jealous, and I'd be all, "go sleep on that pillow I made from banana leaves and that Brillo pad I shaved off your dome." These guys!

Martin Starr

I fell in love with Martin Starr when I saw him in Adventureland. I know he's part of the Freaks and Geeks squad, and has been in those Judd Apatow debacles, but his true idiot awkwardness shone like the last working bulb on the Ferris Wheel on the set of Adventureland. While Pauly D and Zachary and I were prancing around like total spazzes after we ate some psychotropic plants, Martin would be all, "Chill out you guys. You're totally embarassing me even though there's no one else here to be embarassed in front of. Shut up. Leave me alone." Then we'd all start giggling uncontrollably, and then Martin would say, "Ah fuck it, gimme some of those gross leaves you just ate!" Then we'd all dance like stooooopidz idiotzzzz until the sun came up.

Man, my Island of Idiots would be so totally fun. Let's make this dream a realititty!!!


Friday, August 6, 2010

Tennis bracelets and tiaras.

Tonight is my 10 year highschool reunion, and while most people will spend the night remembering the good 'ol days, and reflecting on the carefree days of yore, the days before marriage and children, I am preparing to make a hilarious appearance with my bestie Heidi, and then I plan to leave out and go hang with the folks I really want to see.

Today I tried on my homecoming tiara, and looked at some totally horrific photographs of me from a dance freshman year. A hilarious dress from the 60s that I'd found in a thrift shop in Minneapolis, white tights, electric blue platform shoes, NO makeup, and horrible skin. Let's NOT remember the good ol days. I mean, let's remember them, but like all good things, only in moderation. I got through one box of photos from highschool theater and Junior and Senior prom, and then I was all, "I'm out."

I will enjoy my time tonight seeing everyone I forgot about and people who I'm sure have forgotten about me. We will all awkwardly talk to each other while eating stale pretzels and drinking flat sodas. Then we'll all write on Facebook about how we had the best time ever and how it was great to see everyone, and then we'll wake up, but the top will still be spinning. IT WAS ALL A DREAM!

Just kidding. Have fun tonight everyone, whatever you may be doing. I love leaving because it makes the return that much sweeter. I hope your babies look like monkeys.


Monday, August 2, 2010

Time for Adventures.

This year has made me feel like I'm 20 years old again. It has been nothing but insanely fun and bizarre adventures from asking a cab driver to "drop us off in the alley behind the Double Door" on New Years Eve to my experience last week in the isolation tank. Everything in between, too many adventures to remember, but the ones I do remember make this year, this summer, this time in my life, in all of our lives, exciting again. It's that new life smell. We're all almost 30, some of us are closer than others, and while every once in awhile, we feel the overwhelming pressure of the fact that we are almost 30, we seem to have forgotten, or at least made the decision that what we are doing right will not be what we're doing in another 30 years, and this idea, to me, is totally comforting. I can get all of my 20s out of my system in the next two years because as soon as I turn 30, things will be different for me. For you. For all of us. Our lives with change, but it will be ok, because we are not meant to stay this way forever.

Why.So.Serious??? On Friday, I went to see a preview of my friend's performance piece. It was so different and inspiring to see his work in person, and not just as a photograph, or as some kind of an oral history lesson. Previously, I had a hate-hate relationship with performance art for many years. It wasn't until I took the time to hear everyone out that I began to understand it, and then...I started to like it. After I liked it enough, I loved it so much I wanted to marry it. It seemed to me like the purest form of expression. More expressive than even some of my favorite paintings. ESCANDALO! I understand that art in any form is a deeply personal and intimate thing, and if you make something out of anything, paintings, sculptures, words, yourself, you form a relationship with your creation. Sometimes when it's over, you want to immediately destroy it, but then there are the times you make something so special, you can't let it go. You dig your fingernails in and the next thing we know, you're living in the Misty Mountains, and asking a furry footed midget, "what's taters Precious?"

What I love love LURVE about any sort of performance art is the impermanence of it. Art museums are tombs for artwork. Sure it's fun to see Monet's "Water Lillies" or Picasso's "Demoiselles d'Avignon," but what else? Most people I see wandering through museums pass right by all these incredible pieces, and I can see them mentally checking it off of their list. There isn't any emotion, no connection, no immediacy of a situation. So what?

I saw Marina Abrovomic at the MOMA in New York doing a show called The Artist is Present. One part of the piece took place in the middle of the room, and you could wait in line to sit across from her and stare at her for as long as you wanted. She did this for about 2 months. If you didn't see it the first time, you will never see it again. Ever. Chris Burden stood in a room and had someone shoot him in the arm. Ladies and gentleman, one night only.

A few days after seeing Matt's show, I started thinking that what I love about art, and why I intend to spend the rest of my life in a relationship with art is because I am in love with the impermanence of it. Even if I were to have Matt perform this piece again, it would never be the same show. Seeing the same pieces hanging in the same places in the same museums is tedious and boring. What makes these adventures so exciting is the fact that we will never ever do them the same way again. Last night, I got into some hood rat stuff with my friends, ended up in some awful bars, drank some truly foul liquor, and then somehow made it home. That night will never happen again. Even if I went to every single place I went to last night, in the exact order I arrived, it will never be the same. Routines are necessary, and I understand that. I have them. I indulge them. I hate them.

To find the absolute adventures for the rest of this year, we should, like any great performer, act as if we are unaware of an audience. This is our time to be free. Take a chance to laugh out loud if you think it's funny. If you think I'm a dramatic idiot who looks too far on the inside too much. Do it. I dare you. Have emotions in public and share them with people. Speak words you actually mean, and make art in any form that will degrade and someday turn to yellowed dust in someone's alley. Art shouldn't be forced to last forever, and we should feel sad for paintings locked in museums. They are ghosts of ghosts who cannot die. Create to destroy.

Until then, our adventures continue, and if we're all going to be seen together, we need to all be seen wearing these.


Sunday, July 25, 2010

Space boots!

Tomorrow I am taking a dip in a salt pool. A friend of mine at work was telling me about her experience in the isolation tank and it sounded like what I want part of my own personal pan-Heaven to be like. I understand why it seems weird. It is totally weird. You get inside of some 8' X 4' tank and float in the dark for an hour. You're completely alone with whatever is going on inside your gourd piece and there is nothing to distract you from anything! ZOMG!

My main reasoning for this dip trip is that I can never relax. Anywhere. I go on vacations to beach resorts and I'm on my phone, reading magazines, reading news feeds, commenting on goddamn Facebook status' while I'm supposed to be Kentucky frying my skin off on some nice ass beach zone. I drink gallons of espresso all day long. I need to chill and normally I can't. Shit up top gets real real fiery and intense and I need some isolation. I also love being in the water whenever I can be, so, while this isn't the beach, it's water and I'll be floating my ass off for an hour, and when I get out, I hope to return at least once a month for the rest of my life.

Since I'm going to be experiencing some weird solo MIO times tomorrow, I wanted to let you guys in on the biggest piece of trivia about me. Save it for the future when there is one Jeopardy show dedicated to me and Trebek is a robo. Final Jeopardy.

My favortie book of all time is Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. One of the greatest novels of anyone's time. I remember trying to find a copy at somewhere gross like Borders and it was listed under "Horror." I called that bookseller a "horror," and wrote a letter to their corporate offices!!! Just kidding! I wrote that H8 mail to Phaidon! I digress. Here is a man, Dr. Frankenstein so lost and tragically marred by the events of his life that he becomes obessed with the creation of this monster. It's a situation not unlike the call and response attitude associated with the triple dog dare. Or really any situation when you want to do something, people claim impossibility, and then just to prove to them that you can do it, you do. The success of your endeavors is always a personal journey and no one can convince you one way or the other. Frankenstein brought inanimate pieces of human wreckage to life, and then immediately had creator's remorse. He destroys himself and the life of the thing he creates and I want to hug and punch at the same time.

At the other end is the monster her creates. A thing so horrible and grotesque that even it's creator shrinks back in disgust after he's realized what he's done. The chapters where we are first able to get inside of the mind of the monster we find it out, homeboy got mad problems son! Can you even imagine it? You wake up and you're made out of pieces of other deadzos??? You probably smell terrible, you look like something somebody barfed up, and you were ever so cruelly gifted with enough cognitive ability to recognize these things. The monster lives inside of his head and a body that terrifies all those sensitive ladies and children dickin' around Geneva.

Both Frankenstein and his monster live in a populated world, but neither of them can exist inside of it. The only way they can be anything is if they forget about the rest of the world, and disappear from it. We all go down together, me and this book that is. I would run into a burning building to save every copy I have of this thing.

I'll be thinking about it all day tomorrow afternoon when I am floating away on inside of a Space Tank.


Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Your play-in jams this summer.

I used to love knowing everything about music. I was in a bunch of shitty bands when I was a teenager, I sang my ass over all over the theater, I stayed up every sunday night to watch Matt Pinfield's ugly bald ass talk about the Portishead, Tricky, and other random 90's bullshit music that I still like, because let's face it you guys, those were really the days. The fashion was impeccable, we all had great hair, and the music we listened to was vastly superior to that of today's non-stop fuckery.............................ZOMG you guys! I am totally J/K!!!! I will give it to a few 90's bands, but let's just say that I am thankful for art school because without that we wouldn't have our Crystal Castles, Of Montreals, and Vampire Weekends. Take your parent's money and run foolies! That. Is. WHAT'SUP!

What's really up, is that it's summer, and summer means summer jams. While Gawker's talking about all the songs they wish would burn and die forever, I'm talking about crazy great jamz that we need to be listening to on repeat all summer long because we work hard and we deserve to drink 15 beers after work with our crazy friends, listen to the prime cutz of summer, dance in our kitchen, scream along, and then have our yuppie neighbors call the policia because, let's face it, these assholes are mad they had a baby and can't hang anymore. We are worth it in '010.

These are my picks for what we should be screaming to the DJ at Berlin through that anti drunk person song request fence they put up. Don't they know who I am(the gay in the fur at the door always remembers my wig)? Some of the videos wouldn't let me embed their asses, or they don't have a video for....THE REEEEEEEEMIXXXXXXXXXX!

Royksopp Feat. Robyn "The Girl and the Robot"
I'd like to call this one the suprise jam that I initially thought wasn't that good, but the more I listened to it, the more I liked it. You can watch the video here. Nothing is more appropriate that the love between a girl and her robot. Mmmmmmmmmm....inter-intelligence romance.

Dragonette "Pick Up the Phone" Richard X Remix
I literally have been listening to this song on repeat every morning on my way to work. It is my personal theme for the Euro-trash Starbucks on Rush and Walton. It's the kind of jam that keeps my sunglasses on inside of an already poorly lit room. The non-remix video is here.

Discovery "I Want You Back"
I was at work a couple of weeks ago, and this song came on, and I was all, "Wait, this this? Wait, a Jackson Five cover?" This is a Vampire Weekend side piece, and one that I would listen to on repeat all day errrrrryday if I could. Jam.Of.The.Year.

Also, here's a video of some dumb son of a bitch dancing his azzz off in his anti-girl zone. Greatest hits include: Star Wars Poster(I watch Star Wars literally once a week! Maybe he's my boyfriend!), dancing with his kitty kat, a boomerang. You're welcome.

Katy Perry "Electric Feel" MGMT cover
I can't help but like this broad. She looks like the blow up doll version of Zooey D, and she is boning the grossest man alive, yet, I still find myself listening to her effin' songs all day long. I love MGMT, mostly because they look like gross coked up hippies(PERFECT FOR MOM AND DAD!!!), and this was my jam of last year. Ms. Perry's version is like a nerve pill for the soul on a hot summer day.

If you're curioso about what your brain looks like on the inside when you're tripping ballz, here you go. I would. With just about everyone in that band.

Beyonce feat. Lady Gaga "Videophone"
I know this song is not knew, but I am hypnotized by this video, and the song is the perfect slutty girl jam at the club. B's videos are like a stripper dance class. You watch them enough and you can pop dat azz like her in NO TIME! Also, Lady Gaga is a terrible dancer, so if you are not that rhythmically inclined, just jerk your body around and make weird hand motions like Gaga. I serve it up like a bitch on the Price is Right.

La Roux "In For the Kill"
Sometimes late at night on one of the international news channels my non-cable gets, they show music videos. It's like MTV 2. Kind of. I happened upon this gem one night, and now it is in my constant rotation. I am so into this chick that cut all the rest of my hair off so I could look like her. She. Is. Perfect. She has awesome hair(now I do too!!!), she dresses like a weirdo, her songs are musically complex, and she has awesome hair. When I was at Berlin during Pride and this song came on, I. Lost. My. Life. I want you to just go watch the video, so check on it here.

Gossip "Love Long Distance"
Beth Ditto's voice is a cause for jealousy. No, wait. What really makes me jelly in the brains, is that Alexander McQueen loved her and made her an entire collection. R.I.P., but still. It's my turn. Pasenmelo. Roller Sk8s. Keytar.

Katy Perry "Waking Up In Vegas" Remixzzzzzzzzz
Again with this one. She makes me want to quit this blonde hair and go dark again. This version here is the Roscoe's edition "Dance Remix." Duh. We like to dance. The Calvin Harris remix below is way better, but who are we kidding? I will dance all day everyday to every hot track I hear.

This. Is. The. Best. to listen to at 7:30AM on the way to work. It really jacks you in the brains and fires your shit up to sit in your office all day. Or, like me, answer phones while dancing to hot tracks like this! I dare you to try not to chair dance when you're listening. I just took a break to do it.

Also.....It's goin' down on aisle three I'll bag you like some groceries! Man. Epic.

Finally, this one's for you Dr. Sharp. I am gonna miss yo azzzz when you move to Texas, but now I will have a new place to road trip to with my wife. I love you like the glitteriest rainbow evs, and I wish you all the best of the best. Fax on boo!!!!

As always, thanks for reading, and please enjoy these jamz responsibly.


Saturday, June 26, 2010

Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow.

Happy Gay Pride ya'll. Get into hoodrat stuff with your friends, drink gallons of fruity bullshit in a glass, dance your ass off to terrible music, and wake up in a gutter full of glittery puke.

I love you 4evs.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

One Ups to my pops.

This is a photo of my dad from last Christmas when my sister and I were home. I know I can always count on her for doing shit like taking photographs with her phone because in my mind, I am still using a rotary phone, checking my pager, and using a dot matrix printer.

This past Sunday was father's day, and I failed to call my old man, so I decided that I would dedicate this blog post to how awesome my dad is, and how much more awesome he is than your dad. SUCK IT EVERYONE ELSE'S DAD!!! I'm J/K you guys. Dads are awesome for reals.

My parents are both nerds, but differently. While my mom was reading us Mythology books, and learning us real good about the Civil War, my dad was indulging OUR inner nerd and letting us chillax with all of his dinosaur books. My favorite book was the one that, through pages and pages of awesome illustrations, mapped out the evolution of beasts that once roamed the planet, and it looks a little like this. AWESOME!!! I still love that book's greasy guts. My sister and I were encouraged by our dad to embrace our nerdiness, and even though it took a while for us to realize that we're still way cooler and more interesting than most girls we know, we're not afraid now to let the nerd flag fly. Just this afternoon, I was meeting with some friends about a gallery project I'm going to be working on, and we were eating this backyard smoked jerky, and I was all, "This looks like that shit Luke was eating when he crashed into the Dagobah swamp." What? Nerd. Alert.

My dad's accomplishments with his children are many, and they include, letting us listen to hilariously tragic folk music which, as a young Gaga in training, I loved. He taught us about music, taught me how to play guitar, taught us about the badasses of science fiction cinema and literature, and ultimately, these few things taught us how to roll with any kind of person we came in contact with which, as I have found in most every place I find myself these days, is an amazingly valuable skill. Talking to everyone and making them feel like you're actually paying attention to their boring asses at their boring ass parties is a skill I can attribute to my father. THANKS DAD for teaching me how to transport my mind to another dimension while looking like I'm totally interested! It's harder than you all think. J/K. It's totally E-Z! Watch for it the next time you're boring me.

My dad also, as I am sure most girl's fathers did, stuck it out through my annoying Tori Amos and dirty rock chick phases. He handled it when I turned thirteen and felt like leveling every building I walked into and out of. If I could give you an image of what it was like inside of my head when I was thirteen-eighteen, I would say, just pick any image of any explosion from ANY Die Hard movie, and there you have it kids. Shit was gittin' oh so real up in there. I was in my room constantly playing Siamese Dream over and over again, marrying Billy Corgan in my mind, lighting black candles and pretending to call the corners. Shit, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness was written FOR ME! I was the queen of mopey shit and writing in my diary about boys. It was just one episode of My So Called Life after another. I was like, so totally Angela Chase minus Jared Catalano, and that dead angel chick.

The best part about parents, and I imagine the best part about being a parent, is that your renegade asshole teenagers will one day grow up to be intelligent well-spoken humans who make all the years of teenage fuckery worth it. I may still listen to Tori Amos when I'm alone, and I may have a "moment" everytime I'm in a car and "1979" comes on, but let's never do any of that again please.

My dad is awesome on so many levels and whenever I am home, and we get into serious conversations about anything, nerdy or otherwise, it makes me proud to tell people about my family, or have them meet my family.

I hope you had the bomb Father's Day dad, and I hope you did some grillaxing and some drinking of fine single malts. Thanks for reading my blog, and for supporting every avenue I have pursued in my young life. I appreciate having you as my dad errrrryday of my lifes!


Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Finna get my chappeau.

I work with a woman who is like my drunk Chicago mom. She's told me before that she's my Chicago mom, and while she sort of is, she absolutely is not. She is like my older drunk Chicago friend. You can never have too many!!! Maybe you're already wondering where the effzo I'm heading with these rather vague statements. Patience precious, I'll elaborate. My drunk Chicago mom is cleaning out her house, and she is unloading her collection of awesome hats from the 40s, 50s, and 60s on me. Every day when I come in to work, there's a new one for me. It's like Christmas. She also praises every crazy outfit I wear and tells me we were separated at birth. These are lifestyle affirming compliments, and I appreciate every last one of them.

The more hats I get, the more excited I am to wear them, and then I start thinking about all the opportunities women have to express themselves through their clothing. Ladies be shuffling down the street looking a mess with their Crocs and pajama jeans on, and wonder why they can feel my side eye from miles away??? It makes me wish that my friend Kevin and I would have really gone 100% on our show entitled, "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?!?" Only I would have added "THEFUCK!?" I'm not saying that everyone has to walk out the door looking like Betty Draper...oh wait, that's exactly what I'm saying. Every day and every where you go is an opportunity for an outfit. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ballerina because I was obsessed with the Nutcracker and the outfits were AWWWWEEEESSSSSOOOOOMMMMEEEEEE and not because I gave a shit about having some greasy queen in spandex flip me around the stage.

Ladies and gents have been wearing and making hats as fashion and function for centuries, and while I understand that I'm not going to persuade any women to look like they give a shred of a shit about their appearance through the medium of le BLOG, I like to think that I maybe I can. THROUGH DOING!

I've been in love with the work of Philip Treacy since I learned who Isabella Blow was. He custom designed all of her hats and if no one cared who she was as a person or what she did, we all cared and knew her for her outrageous style, and her ability to literally wear anything and still make it look like it was meant to be worn exactly like she did.

What made her powerful was that she wasn't afraid to make fashion choices that may have felt ridiculous or ugly to everyone else, and what made her vulnerable was that she wanted so desperately to fit in, that she would do anything for attention. We can talk all about her tragic life and end of said life when we're playing Mall Madness in my room later. In the meantime, let's talk about this: I believe the purpose of fashion is to scare the shit out of every person you pass on the street, but also, to stir up a maestrom of jealously because secretly, when they're at home looking through their closets of polos and Tori Burch flip flops, they wish they had something, anything, that would make people look at them the way they just looked at you.

My collection of ridiculous hats pales in comparison to Ms. Blow's, however, now that it is growing ever so rapidly, I feel the overwhelming need to kick things up a notch. BAM! I now belong to the school of silly hats. We've all accepted that our lives are far less formal day to day than they were fourty years ago, but that doesn't mean that we have to call that whole idea a bitch and keep dressing like slobbering idiots. The art of dressing doesn't have to sound so formal and academic if you just take a look at what you're putting on, and then think about what it looks like when you walk down the street, into your job, to a party, to the bar, to buy drugs from your dealer, the list could go on FORRRRRRREEEEEEVVVEEERRRRRRRR, but you get the jist. People are looking at you because you look like the bum on the corner of Rush and Walton who is wearing fifteen pairs of sweatpants rolled up to his balls. No. He. Didn't. Ohyeshedid.

I direct my criticisms towards men yes, but I will come down hard on women also. We've come a long way baby(Thanks Virginia Slims), and I know that we can all wear pants and work corporate jobs, and fly our asses around the cuntry in our G5s, but let's get serious. You're still a woman. Your feminine charm should be exploited at all costs!!! No one's going to take you more seriously because you wear a power suit to work(unless it looks like this) Don't take it over the edge and dress like the hot ho on the stroll either. Together we can find a happy medium where we can look feminine, have the best job, make more money than our male counterparts, and not look like we're giving $5 blowjobs in the breakroom(I mean, if that's part of your five year plan on your way to the top, then by all means,

After much rambling(I've had a distracting weekend) and gnashing of teeth, my point to all of this is that you shouldn't be afraid to dress up in public. Dress yourself like it is a lost artform, and you're one of the pioneers that has been given the task to bring back the excitement and drama that can come with. You shouldn't be afraid to dress well or even a little eccentrically because at the end of the day, you are not afraid, and everyone else is trapped in the closet. If you live in an accessories closet like I do, just roll around on the floor until something sticks, and then leave the house! Living in an ethnic neighborhood also helps. People are not afraid to roll their windows down and yell, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??!?!?!?!?!" I only speak from personal experience.

It'll be funnier next time I promise.

p.s. Here's a Philip Treacy retrospective
p.p.s. Here's a coupla bitches I'd like to know/dress like

Sunday, May 16, 2010


In anticipation of Never Ender Bender, menage edition, I've spent this Sunday dowloading a bunch of totally random ass songs, which includes a delicious blend of hilarious and horrible guily pleasures (don't tell ANYONE I love that GD David Archuleta song!!!! Al, my side eye is focused on you). Amongst the dancey fun, I've downloaded a buncha live Lady Gaga jams. I love her like a rainbow, and I find myself defending her voice all the time.
Autotune was the best worst invention of this last decade because it allows anyone to become a pop star(Ke$ha, my side eye is pointed in your stanky direction). I don't care what you think about The Gaga, that is neither here nor there. What I do care about is when fools try to tell me she can't sing. Well, I guess if you judge what "singing" is from watching American Idle, then, wait, no, if you think THAT is singing, then, F+. Kelly Clarkson and Glambert are the only two who made it out of that shit show alive.

My point is, strip away the autotune, and you will find a lot of tone deaf "musicians." I love T-Pain as much as the next upper middle class white person, but I want to stress, that when you take away The Gaga's autotune, you're left with a voice that is suprisingly pure and holy shit, ON KEY! Listening to her really sing without the help of a studio gives me hope that one day, music will return to what it was before everyone sounded like they swallowed a vocoder.


Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Dead Presidents

I wrote this blog over a month ago, but I got a major case of the lazies, and made you all wait it out. So, finally, you can exhale and cool your blue balls on this indulgent piece.

When I was hitting the snooze button repeatedly this morning, I was having the most whacked out dream evs. I dreamt I was in a nail salon about to get my nails done(bizarro! I know!) It seemed scarily similar to the place I spent working in that week back in February(The Linda Fields Salon and Spa if anyone's curio). In my dream, I was sitting in a chair next to a window admiring all of the art and sculpture places throughout the tiny space. The owner was explaining to me that it was a show about American History, thus every wall was covered with paintings of George Washington crossing the Delaware, sculptures of tall ships, antique urns, and all manner of paintings depicting scenes from any history book you've ever looked in ever. While we were all sitting around looking like bored assholes whilst getting our nails done, I started staring at one particular painting. It was in the middle of the room on the wall, let's say the south wall, because in my dream, there was a window facing Millenium Park(which is east for people not from Chicago), and in the painting, there was a scene of soldiers surrounding another man who was bound in what looked like a burlap sack. He had a rope around his ankles and his neck, and his hands were tied behind the chair(Goya anyone?) The soldiers had their guns and bayonettes pointed pointed at the man, and all of of a sudden, the man started breathing. In the painting, the man started breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The breaths started getting bigger and almost like he was the wolf trying toblow down the little pig's house. The burplap was moving up and down with every breath, and we were just staring at it. Hypnotized. We couldn't look away. The breathing continued until all of a sudden, bag collapsed, and an enormous cloud of thick, black smoke billowed up into the night scene. Then the smoke turned into a giant bear. If you're trying to place an image of what this might look like, remember that part in Aladdin where they go to the Cave of Wonders? It looked like that. I remember the room getting larger all of a sudden, like we were in the painting. Then, I remember running and hiding behind a wall. Every angle of the room became distorted. Like that part in Beetlejuice where he tries to marry Lydia, and the fireplace turns into a doorway, and that weird little man comes out of it. Kinda like that. I kept peeking out to try to see the smoke bear, but I was afraid, and I didn't want it to see me because I was afraid of what it might do. I remember it was talking about something, but I don't remember exactly what it was saying. The I work up short of breath and weirded out by what my subconscious had manufactured. The moral of this story kids, is that you shouldn't drink a bottle of wine before you get in your bed and then don't fall asleep watching Pirates of the Carribbean pt 3. I watch too many movies.

Later, when I was on the bus on the way to work, I started thinking about presidents. Mostly presidential portraits. I am obsessed with presidential portraits, and anytime I can find old janky paintings or prints of men in wigs, trousers and ascots, the Pavlovian drool response kicks in, and I just can't help myself. A woman left a biography of George Washington at the salon entitled "His Excellency," and let me tell you belongs to me now!

I realize that today, it's all photo op and photo shop, and that creativity, and the real imaginative spirit of art is lost on people what with inventions in technology that make it possible for everyone to be able to take a crappy photograph of someone famous looking bored and uninteresting.

What I adore about presidential portraits, or portraits of the monarchy, is the elaborate staging of the entire operation. What I love more that the thought of a person standing in one place for hours holding a taxidermied bird, is the construction of a scene straight out of the artist's imagination! Thses men and women were so revered that scenes were made up about how awesome they were! Allow me to present to you distinguished ladies and gentlemen of the court, my portrait of George Washington slaying a drago while whistin' at the ladies, picking up Taco Bell drive-thru, and fluffing and folding his whites! He really COULD do it all!!! Also, I heard something about a wig for his wig.

I want us to think about the subjects we see in portraits today and how very few of them are very exciting. We see these people, celebrities and heads of state alike on television mostly, which is the eqivalent of passing someone you sort of know on the street, but you don't say hello because maybe it isn't them, and you don't want to embarass yourself. We don't ever really see them in what would be their equivalent of crossing the Delaware. Michelle Obama was in Vogue. That is the closest we've gotten. Now, I realize that Vogue is heavily phototshopped, but it is the only place you will find portraits comparable to paintings. Feel free to light a candle next to your Anna Wintour shrine and thank her for appreciating art for you. I just did.

If you are an amateur at life, you might write off a portrait as a boring piece of fluff, but if you really take the time to study an exceptionally crafted portrait, you will leave the space feeling like you have known that person your entire life. A well adjusted allows you to see into that person's soul, and that is a feat not all photoraphers are capable of achieving. Some truly are boring, but some, painted or not, capture a person at a very specific time, and with a very specific.

If you've looked into a magazine at any point in the twenty years, or visited a museum in your life ever, you will have seen a portrait by Richard Avedon. We see or even hear the name Avedon, and immediately we rmemeber a classic portrait, but what is often forgotten about is the fact that he was one of the forefathers of fashion photography, and of aiding and abetting the lifestyle associated with Fashion and the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. His portraits were sexy and provacative, and then he did The Americans. Before we were reading about "Who Wore it Best" in the pages of US Weekly, we were staring at portraits of the poor and unfortunate. Nothing about Jacob Riis' photographs were glamourous nor were they noble. When you run into those photographs of children taking a break from the factory all covered in dirt and suffering from the black lung, you don't want to keep looking. You want it to stop. You want them to stop, and all of a sudden you care about humanity. Photography is awesome!!!!

When I see a photograph by Nan Goldin, I cringe, and find no romance in the photographs on her face marred by two black eyes, and the broke down drag queen working the stroll. I do, however, feel the heartbreak, and for whatever reason, and however photographs are able to do this to me, I get emotional. They make me emote. I. Get. EMO! Even though I have absolutely nothing in common with Nan Goldin, except maybe my penchant for drag queens and working the stroll, I feel a kinship with her. We've all known someone in her situation before, and if she were sitting beside you sobbing on your shoulder for the fiftieth time after fiftieth time of her boyfriend beating her ass, you would still put your arm around her and tell her he was an asshole and that she should leave his broke-off ass because she deserves so much better. Thumbing through the pages of any coffee table book of her's feels like my arm around her shoulder everytime. I love and respect her and her willingness to share her uncomfortable situations with me. Cue the Saves the Day cuts.

Before we were watching TMZ every night, and reading every gossip blog we could get our eyes on(some people start their days with a brisk run, I start it with Dlisted), social and political leaders gave us serious face time. In these troubled times, celebrities are our royalty, and we foam at the mouth the get close to them, and to see them not looking like us on our days off, but instead looking like the stuff our dreams are made of. I bought Details because I wanted to see Aleksander Skarsgaard all greased up looking like he's been ripped from a Danielle Steele novel, not because I wanted to see what the average Swede looks like douche-in around the flat.

Annie Liebovitz(El Broke-o Loco), David Lachapelle(tastes like neon lube), and Mario Testino(my future wedding photographer) have had beautiful careers photographing celebrities, so, we've flipped things a bit. Although, maybe we haven't. Before we could photograph, in order to bring an image to the people, artists were comissioned to paint the likes of popes, monarchs, and outlaw, all of which would have been considered celebrities of the time. NOw, since all we do is look at photographers, and also because of the evolution of the portrait, we've traded Royals for Rihanna, and for all our dumbasses know these days, Rihanna might as well be the Princess to Beyonce's Queen B.

There are a million photographers I could ramble on and on about, but I will leave you with these few. Also, if you are so inclined, and have Thursday or Friday off, I strongly suggest you hit the Mdern Wing of the Art Institute and enjoy the William Eggleston retrospective. Give your eyeballs a day off from staring at the computer screen(All of YouTube's videos are NOT awesome), and spend the day with sweey Willie Eggles! Portrait photographer. Purveyor of the deliciousness of Americana. Made me wanna start a revolution.

You know I love you, and have missed you all of these days.


P.S. Columbia College's graduation is this weekend. Congrats you guys! All 10 years of undergrad finally paid off!!! My slow clap this week goes out to my homegirl Kelly who will be getting up in front of the Art History department to present her thesis on William Eggleston and Wassily Kandinsky. Good luck home-bro. I am starting the slooooowwwwwwweeeeeeesssssssstttttttt clap evs.

P.P.S. I think awkward segues are the champagne of conversation, so here's an interview involving two things I like, one I'd like to do in my spare time: Derrick Beckles interviewed by WOOOOO! Magazine!

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Jelly Bellies!

Hey ya'll! B. Winfrey here. I've been working on some sweet blogs, which I will post soon. Until then, since I like to keep you all fed and happy, here's a video of my favorite Mark Ryden painting a piece called "Incarnation." If you've never seen his paintings in person, I suggest you book a trip to NYC immediately. As lame-o as it sounds, seeing his work in person is a magical experience. He is a master painter, and you would be doing yourself a great favor by paying attention. His new show, entitled, "The Gay 90's" will be unleashed unto us mortals April 29th and will run through June 5th. The Paul Kasmin Gallery(293 10th Ave, NY) will host. If you're around NYC for the opening, please go, and then brag to me all about it. You are allowed to dress in an old timey costume!!! I'm tearing up just thinking of all the fun I could have. I'll be in NYC the week before that spending some time with Tim Burton, Cartier Bresson, and William Kentridge, but my heart will always belong to Mark Ryden.


Go see the show!!!


Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Laugh because I told you to!

Here are a couple videos that everyone should have seen about 3 years ago, but in case you take slow bus to work(I didn't say SHORT, I said SLLLLLOOOOOWWWWWW), here they are for you, and they come courtesy of my hot hot boyfriend pal, Brad Neely.

Rivers. Of. Shit.

Hot track of the summer.

Yeah, I wish my cat could drive stuff around(mainly my lazy ass.

Now, I'm off to get back into my Twin Peaks marathon!


Sunday, March 21, 2010

We young. We Fly. And we gonna stay flashy til the day that we die.

Well, I'm back from my Amazing Race style travels, and let's just say I did NOT win. I have been through seemingly every airport from here to the end of the world and back. I used to like airports, and while I have managed to hold onto most of that love, I gotta say, Dear Philadelphia, your airport benches suck, and make it very difficult for a girl to stretch out when she has to sleep in the airport because she missed her connection to Chicago, because LaGuardia airport is ghetto and never on time for anything. After all we've been through together, I thought it fitting for me to highlight the hilarious places I've been in the past week, and maybe sometime you can share your travel blunders with me, and we can all get a good laugh, even though, at the time, we were crying on the inside, or almost on the outside.

I haven't flown probably since I went to South Carolina and Georgia in 2006, so I was rusty behind the 3oz liquid wheel(duMb!) I also must have looked like a foreigner walking through security because I kept forgetting to do things, and, since WHEN! do they make you do stuff at the airport??? They are literally paying those people to stand there and act like everyone is a terrorist. site is OFFICIAL!) I made it through security with no problem, with the exception of feeling all dissheveled(oh yeah, I filled 2 bins full of my shit, and also somehow smuggled a lighter in my purse. By the time I got to NYC, Phil's roommate was all, "how'd you get that lighter through?" I'm magic MF!)

I love an adventure, that is a total positive, and since my patience threshhold has more flavor than a stick of Orbit Mist, I don't mind waiting at the gate. While I was waiting at O'Hare, CNN's weird HLN channel is running on a loop, and that, my homie friends, is where I heard Corey Haim was no mo'. First BONER now COREY!!!! WTF? Actually, I take back my WTF. I never saw anything either of those two were in. I'll pause for all impending gasps. The only reason I know who they are is because, contrary to my childhood, I watch a shit ton of televise now. I also read my body weight in tab-roids, and gossip websites, so I can fake it like a pro-ho!

After the 15th time I heard Corey's name on HLN, naturally, I turned to Dlisted, and read the "real" news. Side note: Didn't Corey Haim sing that "I wear my sunglasses at night" song? If so, I can get behind that jam, mostly because I treat that lyric as words to live by. Also, there was a story about a wolverine humping a tree! Of COURSE! What will these cray cray animals think of next? Also, this just confirms that even animals are as bored with their own kind as I am! TREEEEETED! While I was sitting there ignoring the kids that would inevitably be on my flight, I thought, "Why take a hiatus from writing, when I can just write whilst I haul my gear all across the country!" BONER! (r.i.p.) So put some hot tracks on and read all about it.

My first tip to a successful trip is to look awesome. As always, fools will tell you that you need to dress comfortably, but just like the results of your lie detector test on Maury, "THAT IS A LIE!!!" Don't schlep yourself around the airport in your Juicy sweats and that Von Douche cap you still own(L7 loserville!) You should plan your outfit wisely because you never know what you're going to be doing on the other end of your flight. You might have to go right out when you get to where you're going, and you don't want to look like a some schlubby schlub with dirty hair, chipped nail polish, and a bad outfit. No girl. Get a sweet outfit together, get a haircut, get a manicure, and sashay your ass through the airport like you just won the final bid on Ebay for that collectors Star Wars Big Gulp cup.

Tip number two is to stay caffeinated and energized Shit gets longs as hell, and also really boring and you want to be ready to party or do whatever you gotta do when you get to the other side. Nothing is worse than what I looked and felt like when I got into Chicago this past Tuesday. You want to try to look as fresh as possible, so drink some coffee, thrown back a shot of 5 hour energy, drink a Jamba with an energy boost, eat some whatever you need to keep you running. Traveling always makes me tired, but I have espresso running through my veins instead of blood, so I'm good thanks.

Tip number three is o be extra nice to the airline staff. Their jobs are probably the worst of all time, and they will automatically be on edge and ready to whip out their shiv at a moment's notice, so just be polite. Don't even pretend to sound like you're pissed about whatever is happening to you, or whatever you're doing that is probably an idiot move anyway. Customer service jobs are a bitch, and if you work in one, you will know, that people are dumb assholes, and yes, sometimes people are having bad days, and kids are little assholes too, and the airport is a general hot mess( even more than me on my birthday this week!), but you just gotta get through it, get past them, only talk to them if you have to, say "please" and "thank you" and then get the effffff over to your gate, and commence ignoring everyone. My flight out of Chicago was delayed one hour, and when the guy told me, he kind of paused, I assume because he was preparing himself for a freak out from me, but it was 8:30 in the morning, and I coulda given an eff. He was still kinda rude to me, but, I mean, these people already hate you as soon as they see you walk in the door, so just kill them with kindness, and maybe your luggage will end up in the same place you do.

Other things I noticed while waiting in the airport:
1. I had the same haircut as a couple of 8 year olds running around next to me
2. Everyone was eating the MacDonald's

Clearly another fun time waster in playing the "would you hit it" game. When I was in the Cinncinasty airport, I tried to play it, but I basically came up with a lot of "no way in HEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAALS!" coupled with "What IS that???" Cinncinati's airport was much larger than I expected, and they had smoking lounges which seemed very 70s to me. The smoking lounge was also next to a fast food chili place. Why the effffzo would you want to smoke cigarettes, eat chili, then get on a plane for a few hours, and have to drop a nasty coffee/cigarette/chili deuce in the tiny airplane barfroom? What the hell is wrong with Cinncinati? Also, when my plane rolled up in Chicago, it was tiny, and I was immediately anxious. Small planes feel like roller coasters through turbulence, and I hate roller coasters. Landscapes from 30,000 feet is awesome, and flying above the clouds is cool and it still makes me wish the Care Bears were real. Fun with FUNSHINE BEAR!!! I sure did give that plane the Care Bears side-eye stare because it was tiny, and turbulence scares my shit. When I first got onto that tiny tiny plane, my stewardess(not deragatory!) seemed kind of rude, and also drunk. We all deal with our jobs differently I guess. I smoke cigarettes and ignore people, and my stewardess Jamie does five shots of Cuervo before flying the friendly skies.

I flew over Orlando at night which looked like the voodoo swamp village in The Pirates of the Caribbean movies( I rode that ride!!! Animatronic animals chasing each other!). I guess I forgot that Orlando is a swamp thang, and I was LOLing my face off because my mom just kept talking about how she wanted to see a gator. The weather was mostly shittay, but there were palm trees, and I was on vacation, so no worries homie!

I guess tip number four is don't let a hospital visit drag you down. My mom got a kidney stone the first day I was there, so I spent most of my time watching the guy on the hospital computers cruise Battlestar Gallactica websites, and Rachel Ray make a barf pot pie. I also made some friends in reception who were also from Chicago(79th and Harlem!!!) and I gave every employee the side-eye for moving slower than molasses in January. My side-eye was set to stun all week.

Disney world is a hilarious place. Hilarious mostly because it is the biggest ripoff of your life, and getting information about the greater Orlando area is like trying to hussle for drugs in a back alley. They are basically not allowed to give it up, but, since my dad is a Smooth Operator he persuaded the concierge to print out maps and addresses to some Orlando thrift shops I wanted to try to visit.

On Friday, it was a total monsoon out, so my mom and I got up sort of early, and made our way to downtown Orlando to try to find a little non-Disney shopping. Orlando proper is pretty much just like downtown Milwaukee. It's real small, and cute, but it takes about 5 minutes to drive from one end to the other. I also took a picture of the one homeless person. Hey girl heyyyyy! When I'm away from my big gross city for too long, I start to miss the sound of "Streeeeeeetwisssssseeeeee."

After driving around forever, getting lost, getting really excited about finding a Target, we found the first thrift store which was in the style of Unique or Family Thrift in Chicago. There was so much unicorn bullshit there I wished I had brought an extra suitcase so I could have just shipped back a box of unicorn goodies. I managed to find some sweet joo-ree, and my mom almost got into a girl fight with some old broad over this awesome gold lame leopard print top/dress! It is amazing!!! My moms also contributed more unicorns to our unicorn emporium that is better known to ya'll as where I stays at(that's my apartment for the slow ones). After we got lost finding the first place, we got lost again trying to find the other place, but then, by some random Floridian miracle, we ended up on the street we had been trying to find in the first place, and found this amazing Vintage shop called Deja Vu Vintage The link is basically some reviews and a map, but if you are ever in Orlando, you should go to this shop. Finding this part of Orange Avenue is a little confusing, but once you do, there are janky little record shops, namely Rock and Roll Heaven, and this sassy little restaurant called The White Wolf Cafe. The White Wolf Cafe has a cute arty little vibe, a friendly staff, and as an aesthetic side dish, they display and sell antiques. SUPER NEAT STUFF!!!

I had a great time exploring all over that tiny street, and would recommend that if any of you ever find yourself in and around, or driving through Orlando, skip the "Historical Drive" because it is lame, and about one street long, and none of the shops in said "Drive" are open (WTF '010!), and head straight for North Orange Avenue. If it hadn't been pouring rain like an MF, we probably would have walked around a little more, but since I was down under Tropic Thunder, we couldn't.

My final day in Orlando was not only 75 and perfect, but it was also the day I revisited an old friend. DISNEYWORLD FOOL!!! My mom and I took the bus from our hotel to the Magic Kingdom and spent the day riding the funny old rides, and I giggled at animatronic Lincoln. "FOUR SCORE AND SEVEN YEARS AGO...." cue janky robotic hand motions. In all honesty, the Hall of Presidents was dope as hell, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The Pirates ride has been re-vamped a little only due to the success(?) of the movies(I mean, I love them, and even though everyone says the third one is the worst, I like it the best. SECRETS! I have a crush on Davey Jones). It's A Small World is still pretty cute, and that song is still pretty annoying. When Keyboard Cat plays us all out in 2012, it's nice to know that besides roaches and Heidi Mont-hag, the It's a Small World ride will be right there with them.

OH! Also, since it was my barfday this week, I told the folks at Disney that it was my birthday when I was there, so I got this button with my name on it which I proudly wore all the eff over the resort AND the park, and everyone wished me a Happy Barfday from near and far! I H8ed the attention(you know I didn't). My favorite was the guy on the Jungle cruise, herding people into the boats who was all, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY BETSY!!! SPRING BREAK 2010!!!!!"

By the time I was ready to leave Florida, I wished my vacation there would have lasted a little longer. At least the palm trees part. The Disney part gets old after the seventieth time someone tells you to have a "Magical Evening" or to "Celebrate Everyday!" Celebrate my foot up your ass!

I left Disney at 0 dark o'clock, and got to the airport at 0 darker o'clock. After giving the Orlando security staff the side-eye of their lives, I got to the gate and waited. Got to Hotlanta, and waited. The weather on the East Coast of this country was really treating people in a bad way, so there were all these bums sleeping on the ground and everyone was crabby(who knew that in about 24 hours I would be that crabby bum sleeping on the floor! FUN!).

When we were finally flying over New Jersey(Which is awesome by the by.) we couldn't land, so we flew to Connecticut, sat on the tarmac, and waited to the plane to re-fuel, and for everyone to get all their complaining out of their systems. Luckily for me, I was sitting next to a really hot dude brah, so we chatted about where we were going, I gave him some gum, and it was love at first sight (DANCEDANCEDANCEAMPAMPAMP!). Jersey looks like a better version of Indiana. I know you all just gave me the side-eye, but listen, I love industrial cities, and that industry giveth and taketh away. Jersey is the Shiva the Destroyer. Sorry Indiana. I got in to Jersey, and got the bus to New York. When I was riding into the clusterfuck that is Lincoln Tunnel, I just kept hearing that Alicia Keys song about New York, and it felt a little bit like a movie. This was my first trip to NYC(I know! How dare I!), and it was definitely worth it. I got in, got off the bus, wandered around Grand Central, charged my phone at the ticket counter, ate some delish French Onion Soup at this restaurant across from the station, met up with Phil, saw Times Square, Central Park, Letterman's digs, some Gossip Girl related stuff, drank 40s in the Bronx, went to Chinatown, got a manicure (with designs girl!), walked through Soho, ate a street hot dog(spicy mustard!), walked through Hell's Kitchen, at a $1 slice of pizza, tried to get into the MOMA, got treated, smoked a cigarette in Central Park, took the train to Harlem, took the M60, got to LaGuardia, flight was an hour and a half late, missed my connection in Philly, drank at the airport bar, slept in the airport, looked like a bum, got into Chicago at 11:30 Tuesday, payed my cabbie in coins, passed out. I think maybe I did win the Amazing Race. I'm going back to New York to see the Tim Burton show. and this time I'm going to plan ahead! New York, you're beautiful( and by beautiful, I mean smelly, dirty, and crowded) and I'll see you again soon. Until then, happy travels to all of you, and I'll leave you with my personal dream team:


P.S. Thanks to errrrrryone who came out for my literal barfday Thursday, or last night, and everyone who wished me a Happy Barfday this week. I'm thankful for you guys '010!

P.P.S. Also, Christine and I are going to make some T-Shirts that say "DANCEDANCEDANCEAMPAMPAMP!" and I'm opening the floor to a hilarious design to put on these t-shirts. You can e-mail me your ideas at Let's make awesome stuff together!

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Welcome to God's waiting room.

Hey ya'll. I know I've been neglecting you like that step child I acquired in the marriage, but I promise, I shall return momentarily with more good times and great oldies.

This week I'll be in Disneyworld(aka, getting into hood rat stuff with my friends) but I'll be back Monday, and then plan your time wisely because my barfday is next Thursday. We finna get loose somewhere out in this city!

Until then, congrats to all the Oscar winners I liked, and J Cams can suck it hard! (sorry dad.)

I love ya'll, and I'll most likely be updating my Twatter and FB whilst I am away, so stay tuned to the best show NOT on television!


Monday, March 1, 2010

I want thee love marriage!

When I wake up in the morning, there are three things I do from the comfort of my bed. 1. Check my phone for messages 2. Check Facebook to see what people who wake up early are doing, and 3. Read Dlisted. I honestly don't know what I was laughing at before I read Michael K's thoughts. I want to seriously believe that when I go to New York, I will stalk his ass down, and we will become BFFs 4EVAH! It's be like that time I was in a cab with Phil, and we were on our way to probably Rainbow Club for my barfday, and as our cab spun around the corner, a girl with the shortest skirt on imaginable was crossing the street and Phil yells out the window, "I CAN SEE YOUR PAD!" Oh how we laughed. Even our cabby laughed.

Anyhoos, this video comes courtesy of Dlisted, and my new BFF Michael K. This guy Wilbur Sargunaraj is a "call center specialist" and musical sensation! I mean, the song is pretty catchy, and his dance moves look like anything I've seen flailing around the Hideout on a saturday night dance party. You can buy his awesome dance CD on his website. His website alone will kill at least an hour of "work" at your cubicle today. I dedicated this post to my sister because when the link you click on to contact Wilbur says "Please make the contact!" ahahahahaha! I FINISH!"

Enjoy this video at work ya'lls! I'll be sitting in my kitchen drinking coffee and listening to Passion Pit in my underwears!


Friday, February 26, 2010

Hot Dog Down a Hallway!

The other day when I was at work, one of the assistants came up to me with a hot dog in her hand, and was all, "You want this?" I thought for that one second that God might actually exist because I have been craving a Chicago style hot dog 4EVAH! Seriously, for probably the last 3 weeks, and then here one is, right in my MOUFTHS! It was so disgustingly glamourous, I felt like I needed to sacrifice someone's child or something to thank the God of hot dogs.

The best part of that whole story, is that when I was a kid, I H8ed hot dogs. I was too much of a miss priss to eat some hot doggy fake bullshit(which is super funny, because when I was really young, I used to like to eat dog biscuits, and they are basically soylent dog). Also, when I would eat them, I would only eat them with ketchup( my bad you guys). When I think about the damn kids today, I think, "Holy shit, these kids are picky little brats who make you customize their shit all the damn time! You eat what I give you!" Then, I take a step back, and I remember that whoopsie! I used to be one of those damn kids, always pissing and moaning about the food my mom made for dinner that I didn't like(sorry mom!). For example, gross processed assholes and elbows, better known as hot dogs.

Thanks be to JC that I grew out of that phase. I ate my first Chicago style hot dog only a few years ago( I also called mustard and hot peppers a bitch when I was a kid), and it has changed my life. I could probably eat 1-10 a day for the rest of my life, and never get tired of them, and that's why today's post is about the greatest food item ever invented: The muthfucking HOT DOG!!! The three places I've chosen for today's class are all awesome in their own special special way. They are also all pretty drastically different, and, well, you might just learn a little bit about yourself in the process. I know I did. LOLarrhea!!!! Because I'm wearing them, and I just did.

First, and most academically, we have The Vienna Beef Factory. This shit has been squeezing out cased meats since 1972, but the Vienna Beef brand has been fartin' around Chicago since the late 19th Century. The factory is right on Damen Avenue, just a little north of Fullerton, and just a squirt away from Costco( Oprah's been there, but I haven't. Yet one more reason why I am less than Oprah). It's a FACT! You can go to the factory and buy cased meats that were just delivered from the assembly line, and the best part is that you're eating actual beef( with just a hint of colon)! OMGKITRIPXYZ!!! That makes me want to eat them, in the words of Lionel Ritchie, "all night lonnnnggg. All night!" Some other random info about the Vienna Beef factory, is that there is this dude there named Mark Reitman, whose official title(according to cray crays at the Vienna Boeuf website) is GD PROFESSOR OF HOT DOGS!!!! What the hell was I doing for those six years of undergrad? I could have been a goddamn professor of hot dogs! My jealousy knows no bounds. Vienna Beef is a Chicago classic, and everyone should take some time out of their busy busy (aka boring) schedules, and visit the factory. Bring the kids! Fun for the whole family!!! Here's a post from a blog called "Pure Tastes", wherein, Matt and Rebecca (the two pals who write the blog) visit the Vienna Beef Factory, and then fondle their wieners with their moufths(Grossout '010, Rebecca likes BBQ sauce on her hot dogs. Get. Away.)

In other news, I got to second base with Hot Doug's. Actually, zero base because it hasn't had the pleasure yet. Last winter, Christine(better known to you all as my wifey pal) had surgery, and I went with her as moral support, and because I am a good wife(Better than that Margulies mess). While Christine's ass(literally) was knocked the fuck out, I watched Anthony Bourdain's drunk ass stumble around Chicago, and he totally went to Hot Doug's!!! He ate the "fois gras and Sauternes duck sausage with truffle aioli, fois gras mousse and fleur de sel." What. The.!!! I have been dreaming about that mess for at least a year, and lord only knows why I haven't stumbled my drunk ass there on some hungover/re-activated drunk morning. Oh wait, I know why. Call me Anna Wintour at the Diesel show, but I hate waking up and going somewhere only to wait in a line forever. Duck fat fries(yep, on the weekends ONLY. BASTARDOS)might make me rise from my snuggle zone. I said MIGHT which basically means "maybe" which basically means "no." Hot Doug's is located in Chicago's Avondale neighborhood, and is a wildly popular joint, so I suggest(for you and for me), that if you decide to go, either go on the weekday, OR, bring games and a six-pack because you will be waiting your ass in line for a nice long while. You will want to kill a bitch for their duck fat fries, so please, bring something to entertain yourself while you wait.

Speaking of waiting in lines, The Wiener's Circle is our last stop today. I went there last year sometime( I think ) with my friend Sherrie, and some random dude we met at a chad bar who followed us everywhere we went that night( later we took him to a gay strip club, and he seemed like he wanted to git up on that stage and shake his shit for the gayz.) Naturally, Sherrie and I were drunk and HONGRAAAY for some bullshit, so we walked ourselves over to The Wiener's Circle to get some food. I was totally nervous because, well, shit gets real in there. By "real," I mean, it's run by two weird old white dudes, but the actual spot is handled by a cast of feisty black women who are not afraid to literally call you a bitch. When I got up to the counter to order, I was ordered very politely(aka very Waspily), paid, tipped them $10, and then moved off to the side to wait for my food. Meanwhile, guy we were with who followed us is all up in my face yelling at me to ask them for a chocolate milkshake. I told him it wasn't on the menu, but he kept yelling at me to ask them for it because they would make it. It wasn't until later, when I was watching This American Life's first season of their TV show on Showtime, that I learned that "chocolate milkshake is code for "lift up your top and shake your tits around." Mortification space station nation. MY dumbfuckery aside, the food here is amazingly greasy delicious and it is cheap as hell. If you go there in the daytime, it's totally like some normal greaaaaaaasy hot dog place, and the ladies are chilled out, but at night, when all the Lincoln Park assholios start stumbling out of their surrounding watering holes(double entendre!), it can get a little fucked up. Again, if you are scared of angry drunk mobs, and forget that you live in a hyper-segregated city, go in the daytime. If you're up fo an adventure, and potentially embarassing experience, well, then, prepare yourself for a lot of yelling, shoving, a sprinkle of racism, and probably some homeless guy shuffling up beside you laughing like he was laughing at what you were just talking about, but then holding his hand out, and mumbling "abahwillbahyoubahbuybahmebahsomebahfriesbah?" Let some tricked out Stacy buy him some shit. His hands are dirty, and you are not responsible for his situation. Someone experiencing Yuppie guilt will undoubtedly come to his rescue.

Thanks again for reading ya'll! Let's eat some hot dogs this weekend UNTIL WE BARF!!!


P.S. Someone get me one of these for my birthday(March 18th)

P.P.S. Unrelated in every way! This made me laugh it up chuckles