January 24, 2012

10 Things Steven Tyler Ruined For Me

OK, OK, he butchered the national anthem last weekend before the Patriots/Ravens game, but Steven Tyler has been mucking up a lot of bizness for everyone for quite a while.

All that said, as he rambled up to the song’s albeit gritty, screeching climax, lest we forget that most rock singers really can’t sing to begin with…to sound remotely good they typically rely on their sideman’s ax (cue Joe Perry), an extravagant light show and the fact that their middle-aged audience has been pounding Jager bombs since the babysitter showed up.

This is what Insane Clown Posse fans grow up to be.

Also, Tyler is on another little shitshow we like to call “American Idol,” which also launched last week, squashing the hopes and dreams of thousands of mediocre to completely untalented teens who think that this may be a real career path for them, can I get a ‘Mer-Kuh, fuck yeah?

Here’s a quick recap of 10 things that Steven Tyler has ruined for me:

1. Last month, “O” the Oprah Mag, featured a very special interview with Oprah and Tyler. In it, the two strolled hand in hand next to his home in the New Hampshire woods, talking about drugs, getting off drugs, being bored, being bored on the road, finding redemption, and getting on “A.I.” Thanks for ruining my February issue of “O.” I was looking forward to another 3,000 word cliched expose on finding my true spirit, not a print recap of your “Behind the Music” special.

I am always amazed when worlds collide like this, like Stephen Hawking meeting Pamela Anderson, or Bill Gates having coffee with a Kardashian.

2.Once upon a time, before I started developing decent taste in music, there was a land. A land next to Omaha, Neb., where Aerosmith was a-coming to town with Jackyl (remember those idiots with a chainsaw?) opening. I had to go. It was the concert experience of the season!

And so, we purchased our tickets with our meager minimum-wage salaries, and I duly requested the night off work weeks in advance of the protocol. Even though I was attending school full-time and pretty much pulling close to 35-40 hours per week in work, my manager gave me shit about this. I had to swallow a ton of shit, in fact. For one lousy night off, I had to hear about my uppity need to go see Aerosmith. “Ooo, I guess someone has no work ethic…instead they need to go see Aerosmith..” And on and on this went.

I thought, this better be one hell of a fucking show.

No matter. A small amount of shit to take from a small-town, SuperValu cokehead, non-deoderant-wearing manager is a tiny sacrifice to go see the rock ‘n’ roll. We drove to Omaha. We sat up in the nosebleeds. We pretended to like the Jackyl guy swinging his chain saw around. Then Aerosmith came on. It was Ok. The End.

Which was probably one of my first lessons in overhyped, expensive, shit-eating things that you are told will be the Ultimate Experience Ever (see also Disney World; Nascar events; Super Bowl) you will want to do, and when you get there, you realize that you really need not ever do that again, a la David Foster Wallace style.

3. Dodge Truck Commercials (see No. 4).

4. Steven Tyler ruined Vegas Whores for me. Years later, I was reviewing the Aerosmith show in Las Vegas. Now this was some sort of re-re-invented Aerosmith. You know, past the drugged-out, spacy ’70s, past the whole Run D.M.C. ’80s resurrection, past the ’90s party jams for dumb boys resurrection. You know. Resurrected.

The entire show, I shit you not, was a commercial for Dodge trucks. Aerosmith signed some big sponsorship deal, and although I’d seen Microsoft banners and the like plastered all over the backstage at Rolling Stones, etc., never before had I seen the commercial become the actual concert. Dodge was everywhere, dripping from the ceiling, dripping from the stage. At one point, Aerosmith even busted out the song they wrote specially for a Dodge commercial while the ACTUAL DODGE COMMERCIAL played on a large screen behind them.

But the worst? The gave out these little glowy red keychains with the Dodge insignia on them and people were fighting tooth and nail to get a hold of them… the bathroom was a frenzied scene of botoxed Orange Co. moms and former strippers scraping their two-inch talons toward one another to grasp them. Women who were once enthralled to score some free stale coke and a nearly expired condom in the bathroom were now clamoring for Dodge glow-in-the-dark keychains. It was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

Also a testament to how easy it is to dazzle the idiot eye of American consumers.

5. Scarves.

6. Liv Tyler. I think I could have possibly enjoyed you somewhat as an actor-thingy. But your dad’s molesty-type use of you in his rock videos put the kabosh on all that.

Two careers jettisoned by a creepy old man's idea of a roadtrip. RIP Alicia Silverstone's career.

7. Run D.M.C. (Just kidding! Nothing will ruin “It’s Tricky” for me. Nothing!)

8. My dream of becoming a grayed-out, drugged-up version of a crazy old rich person. Yep, you’ve ruined that completely for the rest of us.

9. Man boobs. Man boobs on fat bloke? Pure comedy. Man boobs on scrawny bloke? Tragedy.

10. Love in an elevator. You just try doing it now without hearing that song in your head.

What to do? What to do? Count my piles of money?

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January 2, 2012

2012! Let’s Do This Shit!

It’s Jan. 2. Have you scraped your hangover off yet? No? Good, let’s get started.

This is it*. The year before the end of the world on Dec. 21. Or just a major shift in universal powers that be—or, What Will Oprah Do Next?

A friend G-chatted me the other day: “What a change for you from last year… no ‘he’s really smart, I want to go home with him…,’ yelling at Eurotrash, etc.” Yes, dear reader, last New Year’s Eve was my third and final breakdown over the course of two months in New York City, the first of which started with Halloween and a very intense fight with a cab driver over whether he could have me arrested or not.

I spent this year’s NY’s Eve on a road trip to Elma, Wash., to buy a rebuilt motor for a Datsun. We ate delicious cheeseburgers and milk shakes bought from a roadside stand, then casually hung out with some fine Templeton Rye whiskey (Iowa made!) until I made it until, oh, all of around 11 p.m. I can barely stay awake past 10:30 anymore. I like to still blame the Mono, but really I just like sleeping a lot.

This suits me just fine.

I haven’t given you a recap of my year, so here goes the abbreviated version. Like that SOB Kim Jong Il, let’s put 2011 to rest:

• January: Sucked. Cold. Did a lot of sobering soul-searching.

• February: Went to Nicaragua. Introduced to Sponch. Learned best saying every, “Thank you for you.”

• March: Nothing happened this month.

• April: Nothing happened. Again.

• May: Begin massive move planning mode—book flight, make apartment-seeking calls, begin purging of shit not moving cross-country.

• June: More move shit…Go to beach houses a few times. Realize that this is probably only one of two things I will miss about East Coast, the other being people. Something about summer demands feeling hot by an ocean or bay in a bikini, drinking margaritas and listening to stories of how hot MILFs in the Hamptons try to hit on pool boys…

• July: Fly to Seattle to look for place to live. Have mini-breakdown on first day. Then buck up and find space. Fly back…Spend rest of month suffering through record, sweltering heat but enjoy last few stellar hockey games with Mega Touch and score a goal during my last game. Spend week at beach house, working in my swimsuit. Do not miss city.

• August: Fly to Seattle for reals! Sit in empty apartment for a few days, but like a woman possessed to make it, I have a very aggressive list of Doing Shit and proceed to Get Shit Done. Apartment is furnished, several Meet-Up groups are joined, Mt. Rainier hiking excursion completed, searching and finding of a bicycle is also finished.

• September: Days are gorgeous. Work early, get done early, go outside hiking or biking for three hours or more every day. New apartment is great—no noisy neighbors. “Like being on vacation…” I tell a friend. Begin and conclude dating: Meet the Man**. Could not have created a better one—smart, funny, creative, fixes and makes shit with his hands. Has the cutest fucking dog on Earth, too, so it’s like I got a two-for-one: Man + Dog.

Gizmo!

• October: Good times are continued…Having fun biking around town, eating at new restaurants (food is awesome and fresh here), among other activities. Slammed by Mono at End of Month.

• November: See Mono.

• December: Finally over the Mono, but getting caught up on other stuff that was put aside in November. Also, go home to Iowa to see family. Get ready for New Year and new goals: Write more and pay more attention to this here blog; get some bigger project(s) off the ground; spend more time outdoors; learn how to scuba dive; go to Alaska; find a house. Realize that I haven’t seen a rat since I left NYC and how much it fucked with my psyche. Sigh. Relax. Realize that I am happy.

The End. Every happiness to you as well in 2012.

*I don’t believe this is really it, much like the aforementioned Rapture. For the sake of this entire blog, however, let’s pretend that it is.

** I haven’t mentioned much about him, because despite the over-sharey nature of this here blog, that is something I prefer to keep fairly private and respectful. But here are three things I learned during my short-term dating life in Seattle: No. 1: Ladies of the East Coast, men are plentiful, educated, nice and considerate for the most part here—they will take you out for a proper date, talk to you like a person (not a one-night conquest) and then ask you out properly for another… No. 2: Did I mention they’re hot? No. 3: Oh, fuck it. See No. 1. I was man-less in NYC for six years. I met my man in six weeks here.

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December 30, 2011

’Mer-Kuh! It Has Something to Do With Stephen G. Bloom’s Iowa…

Last week, I trekked homeward to Iowa, where I spent the better part of my first 24 years of life and couldn’t wait to get the hell out the entire fucking time.

I’m still the hell out.

This is Iowa, for those of you who think it's "Idaho." Christ, you'd think East Coast Elites would know their geography by now.

In case you hadn’t heard, Stephen G. Bloom is the University of Iowa J-School prof (full disclosure: I went to U of I, took some journo classes. I think I even had this guy, but I forget) who wrote the article in the Atlantic that caused quite the stir across the state—enough to warrant death threats and hiding out for the holidays.

It also warranted this pussy-ass apology from the University’s president—I mean, you gotta keep bodies coming thru the school, right?—and a heap of articles, this one a pretty fair assessment of what’s going on by my writer friend Jen Wilson.

Seeing’s how I just spent a week in Iowa during what is one of its least attractive months of the year—like catching Gwyneth Paltrow the day after the Oscars stuffing her face with Big Macs and farting like mad—I thought I’d comment on a few of Bloom’s observations.

And, of course, add a few of my own:

1. “…potluck dinners (casseroles are the thing to bring)”: I can’t remember the last time I ate a casserole. In Iowa. This is probably my biggest problem with the article.

2. “The state is 91 percent white…”: True. And Scary. One of the biggest arguments against Iowa not leading the political presidential pickin’ charge is that it’s hardly representative of the United States. Walking around Iowa is like visiting an Aryan Nation convention—if an Aryan Nation was moderately to severely obese and considered a new sweatshirt its “good” outfit.

This was just too funny to pass up. Also, if you enter 'white people' into Google images, Ashton Kutcher is one of the first images to crop up. And, uhum, also from Iowa.

3. “Not much travels along the muddy and polluted Mississippi these days except rusty-bucket barges of grain and an occasional kayaker circumnavigating garbage, beer cans, and assorted debris…and today, Keokuk, is a depressed, crime-infested slum town. Almost every other Mississippi River town is the same; they’re some of the skuzziest cities I’ve ever been to, and that’s saying something.” The degeneration and abuse of the Mighty Mississippi is a tearjerkin’ sight indeed. One of the most majestic, jaw-droppingly gorgeous rivers in the world has been beaten, abused and put out. It’s a lot of farm run-off, agri-business dumping its chemicals, etc. And those river towns. Christ. The signs should read: “Come for the Meth. Stay for the Unplanned Pregnancy and Domestic Abuse.”

No explanation needed...

4. Iowa’s pretty fucked up politically. (paraphrased…I’m tired of quoting here): Yep. You got the same old politicians, to use a regional phrase, older than dirt; “rabid” Republicans to the West (where I grew up); Liberals to the East (where I went to University); and a bunch of religious idiots fighting tooth and nail to oust the justices who legalized gay marriage—probably the one and only decent thing the state has done in the past decade. Show me an Iowa Republican, and I’ll show you a redneck who can barely read. At least where I’m from, most of these so-called Conservatives don’t read the paper or follow events, and Obama is still referred to using the “N” word. I’m not kidding, people.

5. Here’s a bunch of other shit about Iowa that Bloom mentions that makes me sad: “economically depressed,” “culturally challenged,” “few minorities,” “no sizable cities,” “almost all the corn Iowa farmers grow is feed corn…it’s meant for pigs, not humans,” “empty storefronts,” “flourishing Wal-Marts,” etc.

6. “So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations…” Granted, this is Obama’s famed quote from a speech in San Fran, and it’s argued he’s talking about western Pennsylvania, but here’s the truth, whether Iowa, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Kentucky, or anywhere outside a major metropolitan area: It’s easy to get your ire up if you don’t understand something; or if something confuses you; or if you just don’t want to open up your mind and take a listen and maybe learn something. Republicans paint this as “Being American.” It’s just being Plain Stupid.

7. And this takes us to…. “Coastal elites love to dump on Iowa…” Look, I’ve lived all over, and now on both coasts. Really, except for election time, coastal elites don’t spend much time discussing Iowa—or any other state. It’s also about the time I figure you all get ruffled about us coastal elites getting married after our gay sex orgies and Free Abortion Wine and Botox Parties. (Actually, those both sound pretty fun…). Also, I can tell you that I’ve witnessed more than my fair share of idiots, morons and the clueless wandering around New York City, Chicago and elsewhere’s, spreading their ignorance and hate. You can have a smart conversation and good meal with good people just about anywhere. Just try. No place is all shit—or a fucking bed of roses. Just ask Bon Jovi.

8. Religion. Oooo, boy. This is the BIG one. I’ve touched on this a bit, and man, do I not have time for someone if they bust this out as reasoning in a discussion about politics, government or rights. Separation of Church and State, remember that? Iowa is pretty damn religious, but like most shit, it’s dying with the old folks. Most of the younger folk aren’t into the fire-and-brimstone—Iowa did legalize gay marriage after all—so there’s hope yet. My mom kept bitching about all the right-wing assholes she goes to church with, and I said, “Maybe I should buy an ad in the local paper, offering free abortions for anyone who needs one?”

Abortion, God, Murder. Goddamn, if that isn't a great band name.

9. “Those who stay in Iowa are often the elderly waiting to die, those too timid (or lacking in education) to peer around the bend for better opportunities, an assortment of waste-toids and meth addicts with pale skin and rotted teeth…” Just watching a waste-toid walk from his house to his truck to grab a half-drunk bottle of Mt. Dew in my parents’ once-sweet little hometown made me want to cry. While there are hardworking folk in rural communities, the scourge of meth and unemployment has left an army of resource-sucking mouth breathers in its wake. Ask anyone. It’s a sad, difficult, complicated state of affairs that has to do with economics, policies, government, education, ambition…

10. Oh, and I’m not moving back either.

All told, it was a fair article. But the truth is hard. It’s like all those messy little lies we tell each other—and ourselves—every single day to get by instead of getting at the crux of the problem because getting off our asses and fixing problems is hard. Also, nearly impossible in many cases (see: recent documentary Gas Land if you want a good dose of hardworking, honest Americans getting fucked by Big Business and Government. Side note: Dick Cheney has to be the biggest dick on earth…and why is it that most guys named “Dick” are actual dicks? Ever wonder about that?).

What a dick.

Iowans have a hard time staring at their state through all the hog crap and corporate corn because, damnit, it ain’t Grant Wood’s Iowa any more. But, really, nowhere in America is…those images of little pink houses for you and me? Bull. Shit.

Thought I'd end this on a nice note...Go Green!

Happy voting!

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December 9, 2011

Is it Possible to be Too Nice? (Aka Vegans Suck)

Last night I attended a holiday party. Now this shindig wasn’t fancy, everyone was supposed to contribute something, which is no big deal. The economy’s still in the shitter, and there hasn’t been a decent crab puff since 2006, so expectations are not that high.

So I show up with my bottle of wine (food and drink were assigned by alphabet), and I was STARVING. This party started at 6 p.m., so there really wasn’t proper time to get dinner before, hence I was relying on this to feed my face for the evening. Or at least until I could leave.

Lest I sit my bottle of wine down and survey the offerings: And dear readers, let me tell you, I have never seen the likes of this before… Practically everything on the table—and I mean everything—was labeled. And labeled “Vegan: Beans, carrots, celery, some MSG-free sauce” or “Vegan: No dairy, eggs, or sugar! Enjoy!” I frantically searched the deli-bought salads, the trays of apps, the home-baked platters “Mac and Cheese—No Cheese. Vegan Friendly!” for anything that looked remotely appetizing.

Smear this on your crackers. De-lish!

Nothing. But someone deigned to bring a plate of brie and crackers and, man, I dug into that like there was no tomorrow. But woman cannot live on brie and crackers alone.

When did this happen? When did being fucking Vegan rule the Earth? What’s next? We all move to Oregon and start a farm collective/tattoo artist academy? I mean, vegetarians I get, but this spread was an affront to eaters everywhere. I’ve been to parties with plenty of folks flashing their V cards before, but certainly nothing is labeled like that—and it certainly doesn’t rule the table. These asshats need to be tied down and forced to watch an Anthony Bourdain marathon.

Mmm...De-lish!

Look, people, here are the rules of the party potluck. There must be at least three or four serious foodies in attendance who will praise and celebrate a delicious meat-n-cheese sampler. Slider sandwiches—turkey, mini-hamburgers, pulled pork—of any kind are always winners.

Also, enough with the labeling. We aren’t 5 years old. Let’s have some dignity here. Make a Vegan section or Veggie section, but I’ve never been to a party before where shit is labeled to the nth degree. That’s the fun of the potluck—stick it in your mouth and see what it is! It also spurs on conversation around the table among awkward strangers—“ Do you know if this has meat in it?” Etc.

That said, enjoy your holiday parties. Just don’t label your shit like an idiot. And for God’s sake, factor in that there will be some Non-Vegans at your party, whether you like it or not.

I drink my own urine.

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December 1, 2011

‘Mer-Kuh: WTF?

I don’t need to go on huge diatribes all the time. Once in a while, I want to post just some brief, tasteless thoughts. This continuing series will be called ‘Mer-Kuh: WTF? from now on.

Today, we will focus on that trainwreck of a human being, Herman Cain. I can’t believe this guy is still around–he’s like the kid caught with the cookie dough all over his face in the kitchen at 2 a.m. who’s like, “What cookie dough?”

'If you come back to my campaign bus, I'll show you what this finger can do.'

I, for one, have had enough of “Sticky Fingers” Cain and his antics. I don’t even know where to begin, so let’s begin with this:

I think the number of women who claim to have been harassed or boned by Cain is up to five. According to the New York Times, the latest is a 13-year affair. Note to Cain: 13 years. Dude, why? Maintaining long-term partners defeats the purpose of having an affair to me, which is all about The Strange.

Anyway, the Times Go-To Republican on the matter is none other than my home state’s idiot governor, Terry Braindead. Really, Times? No one else picked up their phone? I don’t care if Iowa does its thing first, do we really care what this guy thinks?

Moving on, why anyone would vote for someone who ran such a substandard, disgusting pizza franchise for a decade is beyond me. I’m in the camp of I Don’t Care Who You Do, but you better have done something cool with your life before you run for the big gig of running the free world.

And to close ‘Mer-Kuh, WTF?, I have a question: The fact that black Republicans, and female Republicans, and gay Republicans exist…hell, any Republican who isn’t a middle- to upper-class, well-off white man, is beyond me. Will someone explain?

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November 29, 2011

Fuck the Kardashians (And Other Revelations I Had While I Had Mono)

Hey, you there! Yes, I’m back after a few months. There are many reasons I’ve been gone so long, but perhaps the most recent—and worst—is the fact that I had mono.

Yes, mononucleosis.

Now, there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who have had mono. And those who haven’t. The ones who have commiserate appropriately, for it is truly one of the most vile, hateful viruses on the planet. The ones who haven’t say stupid shit like, “Ooooo, who have you been kissing?” It is those people I would like to punch in the face.

Mono is the fucking worst. The. Worst. Well, the worst of the stuff that eventually goes away. I’m not saying it comes close to anything considered serious, but work with me, people. After weathering the worst physical breakdown I’ve ever had—chills, wild temperature swings, fevers and night sweats, vomiting, a sore throat that felt like swallowing razor blades, not sleeping more than an hour at a time, etc., for weeks on end—I had a few revelations while I was down and out.

Here they are:

  • I was in line at the Walgreen’s with my basket filled with Worthless Over the Counter Shit That Doesn’t Work when, in my misery, I looked up and saw every magazine cover plastered with Kim Kardashian’s face—the “just married” face, the “oversized sunglasses in the airport face” and, of course, just her standard dull-eyed, blow-up doll face, asking inane questions like “Fake or Real?” “Kim K. Files for Divorce from Kris…What went wrong?” and so forth and I found myself enraged. Not just annoyed, full-on rage. First off, WTF? Didn’t this bitch just spend $2 million and like 67 hours of E! programming getting fucking married? Is this all an orchestrated publicity stunt to further pull in the American public into the dumbed-down world of shopping for platform heels, slathering on Mac lip gloss and doing cheesy paid appearances in Las Vegas? (Uh, I’m firmly in the “yes” camp).

I'm at a loss as to who would wear the "I'm with Stupid" T-shirt.

  • Like 3.2 million other viewers, I, too, succumbed and watched the “Kourtney & Kim Take New York” premiere last night. And like 3.2 million other people I saw such gems as “Oh, my God! You just fucked up my pedicure!” and Kris Humphries constantly whine about getting to the gym by 8 a.m. Has anyone been seen reading a book or newspaper on this show? Ever? I really would like to know.
  • After being housebound for a month, I would like to cancel my cable subscription.
  • If you are ever seriously ill and in need of going to a hospital, may I ballpark what an overnight stay and a few IVs will cost you? Seven grand. And if you still think universal health care is a bad idea, may I say, Fuck You.
  • I believe the newest intelligence test comes in the form of that slapped together celebrity shitshow called “New Year’s Eve.” Once upon a time, some Hollywood asshole figured out that if you smashed enough A-Listers into one incredibly trite, pull-at-the-old-heartstrings, Rom-Com-A-Roma, aka “Valentine’s Day,” you’d make millions of dollars off the poor, sad, pathetic lives of middle-aged cat women and sorority girls everywhere. They were correct. And now, they’ve packaged that into that most loathsome of holidays, New Year’s Eve. If you go to see this movie—hell, if this movie even appeals to you—you are a fucking moron. Plain and simple. You should not be allowed to vote, have children or work anyplace but the DMV. Oh, and get another cat, why don’t you.
  • Speaking of morons, even if he is the biggest male bimbo in the world, why is Ashton Kutcher just continually getting hotter?
  • Those fucking Muppets. I mean, when Miss Piggy is featured in a fashion spread in InStyle magazine, someone should really lose their fucking job.
  • I wanted to do this one while I was probably face down in my own Campbell’s chicken soup puke, but Penn State football fans who were protesting the ousting of Joe Paterno over the sex abuse scandal, you guys get a double-triple fuck you. It’s truly a sad day when a sports empire takes precedence over the abuse of children. Then again, you’re probably the same kind of folks who don’t think that everyone should have health care.

Hey, I’m better, bitter as ever and hungry for some more trash talk. It’s good to be back.

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September 18, 2011

This is Why I Despise Live Rock Shows…

Once upon a time, I used to like going to live rock shows. A lot. Small bars, theaters, arenas—you name it, I’d go. I feel like I’ve seen almost everyone I’ve ever wanted to see (except Radiohead) and, quite frankly, it would take a lot to get my butt out of a comfortable place to go see someone in this day and age.

You would have to pay me One Million Dollars to be in the same room as these jackasses.

However, I decided that I need to go out more. And I need to do things I like. And, as I used to enjoy going to rock shows once upon a time—and haven’t done so for years—I figured I’d take a little trip down memory lane and go see a live rock show.

It did not take long to remind me why I despise going to see live rock shows.

The artist I saw, who shall remain nameless out of respect, is someone I really like—like I listen to their music probably at least once or twice a month and am always pleasantly delighted when it pops up on my iPod shuffle. He’s good. Like insanely good. This is the type of artist who is so talented it blows your mind that he’s playing some tiny dive bar for $12. Let’s just say he’s the spawn of Nashville royalty, writes kickass songs, has the voice and cojones to deliver them himself, and carries a few generations of genuine heartache to go with it. If this guy decided to cash out and write songs for other crappy Nashville artists, he’d probably be comfortably wealthy by now, driving a Cadillac and sipping prime tequila with Miranda Lambert wannabes.

As it is, this guy is kind of tragic. The kind of artist who is so above and beyond talented, he’d never stoop to writing a crappy song for a Rascal Flatt or sit in a session band. Think Townes Van Zandt talented. However, he is also past his prime years, fading into obscurity and arguably (and the only reason I say “arguably” is so I won’t get sued) battling a pretty hefty addiction to alcohol.

Respect.

All told, what was once rock’n’roll greatness—wearing a powder-puff blue polyester prom suit, peeing with a bottle of Jack Daniels in hand before commanding the stage at Stubb’s at SXSW—is now helping set up his own merch table at a shitty dive bar in North Seattle. I about cried.

Perhaps it’s cause I’m dealing with a lot of questions of my own mortality and how I spend my time and trying to claw my way toward a useful, purposeful life—you know, one that isn’t filled with superficial events, interactions and people.

I’ve seen enough rock shows to note all the clichés: The group of hardcore alcoholic party boys who are past 30 but still doing whiskey shots at 9 p.m. trying to prove something (I’ve been there). The too-skinny blond who shows up overdressed in a tight black cocktail dress, fancy necklace and cowboy boots with the uglier wing woman in tow. This one’s a staple, the girl who obviously fucked the star once or twice upon a time and makes a point of showing up at every show to “say hello and support the band” even though it’s clear she wants another go—and the star does not (sadly, I’ve been there too, sigh). To the 6-foot-plus linebackers who show up late, drunk, to only shove their way to stand directly in front of myself and another short, small girl who had been camped out in our spots forever. One of them even had “Asshole” printed on his hoodie.

And so the battle begins...

Oh, hell no.

“You do know that you’re standing directly in front of us and blocking our view,” I said.

“What? Well, move…it’s a rock show,” one guy says.

“No, how about you move to the side or the back and not block half a dozen people’s views cause you’re taller than everybody else,” I say.

“What the fuck? Have you ever been to a rock show before?” he says.

This is where I lost it.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I used to write about this shit for a living! Do not fuck with me!” I was yelling and the dudes started to look a little freaked out. One moved. One did not.

But I really think it was toward the end of the show, when our bloated, beloved star—who did put on one helluva show, btw, the night’s only saving grace—mentioned that there was an after-party and shouted out the address. I guess back in the day I would’ve been tempted to go, but I’ve seen that scene before. Some 23-year-old’s shitty apartment, overflowing dirty ashtrays, cheap, barely cold beer and a strong possibility of getting crabs from just sitting on the couch. Oh, and watching a 40-something man with kids get drunk with those 23-year-olds who enable him. It was all too sad to bear.

They're like rats, aren't they?

So, after the show, I promptly took my sober, tired ass home. And remembered a line one of my friends recently delivered about his band friends still living the dream and touring and crashing at strangers’ pads, “Man, you’re what, 32, 33?…Time to get off the floor.”

After that experience, I bought tickets to the symphony’s opening night. It was terrific. Everyone was clean and civilized, the music was spectacular, no one was drunk or rude. The Seattle Symphony Orchestra’s lead percussionist is a total fox. And I got to wear a fancy outfit.

See, maybe I am getting older but fuck it. These days, I want to read my book, screw my man, drink my tea and go to bed at a reasonable hour.

And that is why I despise going to live rock shows.

The End.

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September 13, 2011

10 Things I Hate About Bradley Cooper

Last weekend, as I was killing time before a show, I wandered into a local joint called the Lock and Keel, I believe, that is like half regular people and have locals. And when I say “locals” I mean guys who work down by the docks. Literally. The docks are just down the fucking street.

See, I like, no I lovesss me some blue-collar action, but I knew upon walking into this bar that there were at least three or four Deadbeat Dads who would try to hit on me. Not the kind of Blue Collars I dig.

I sit down with plenty of space on either side of me. This dude sits right down next to me.

“Fuuuuccckkkk…he’s gonna try to talk to me,” was my immediate thought. The second was, “Fuuuuccckkk, I just ordered this beer.” And so I was going nowhere fast.

“What’s the last movie you saw?” he asked me.

“I dunno,” I said. “Bridesmaids?”

“I like the Hangover,” he said. “Hangover part one and two. Ever seen that Avatar? That’s a damn good movie.”

As Alabama Slammer (that’s what I’m calling him ’cause that’s where he was from) kept yapping on and on about how the government shouldn’t be telling people that they have to wear helmets while riding a motorcycle and how he was earning his doctorate in business on Phoenix Online, I wondered just how fast I could suck down that Dos Equis to get the fuck out of there.

Pretty fast.

Anyhoo, I turned on the Internets this a.m. to find out that…TADA…J-Lo, like every Princess Survivor from the Bronx has gotten back on the Six, no, I mean the Sex, to hook up with Hollywood’s Rebound Guy, Bradley Cooper. This guy has more secondhand A-lister jizz on him than Jenna Jameson.

But I digress. Something about him just bothers me. So I present:

10 Things I Hate About Bradley Cooper:

1. His jaw.

Now, if only there was a Brooklyn band named Crooked Jaw...

2. J-Lo.

3. Renee Zellweger.

4. The A-Team. Valentine’s Day. All About Steve?!? In fact, I can’t name one movie you’ve been in that hasn’t been crap.

5. You have one speed: Schmarmy.

6. Jen Aniston. In fact, let’s just say that I hate you because of every one of these trumped-up Hollywood relationships you’ve ever had. You social climb on successful stars like Jolie adopts adorable Third World orphans. Stop it.

7. The Hangover One. And Two.

8. You’re a wannabe Owen Wilson without the charm. The Wedding Crashers also sucked.

9. This hat:

The Douche. Can't wait for The Douche Two to come out.

10. The fact that I’d probably have an irrepressible, overwhelming, innate urge to hate fuck you if I ever met you in real life.

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September 8, 2011

Mandals and Other Thoughts on Men

Last night we were having dinner with a couple who just got married (Yeah! Congrats, Joe and Beth!) from New York City, when we started talking about the whole Seattle element of the granola/tweaker/homeless look that so many folks out here are rocking, spurred on by the middle-aged hippie on guitar across the street.

Something tells me his breath isn't minty fresh.

“How do you guys take it?” my friend asked. “I passed a guy on the street downtown, and I just wanted to punch him.”

As former New Yorkers all, we sat there and went, Mmmmm…Yes, while this is an emotion we are deeply familiar with, somehow people are not as annoying out here.

“That shit used to really bother me,” I said. “But now I’m just kinda like, ‘Oh, you…’ ”

“Yeah, it starts to fade,” another person said. “It bothers you less and less once you get out here…”

However, the culmination of three key events is bringing the ire out in me: The new Fall Fashion Season is on, but you wouldn’t know it here; the overabundance of gray, stringy, “sensitive-ponytail guys” as Campbell Scott, aka “Steve,” in “Singles” so adequately dubbed them (a great Seattle movie btw); and the fact that I’m actively back in the dating scene.

Here are a few more thoughts on Men and Style and the lack thereof. Take note: Life is not a fucking Kashi ad.

Men in little fucking bike-racing outfits. Seriously, asshole, you’re not training for the Tour de France or trying to bang an Olsen Twin. If I see one more dickbag narrowly blowing by me on the Burke-Gilman Trail with his fancy little expensive padded pants and stripedy-striped aerodymanic shirt, I’m gonna explode into fits of rage. If I was dating a guy and he busted one of these outfits out, I would beat him about the head with his own Shimano cycling shoes.

"I have the smallest penis." "No, I have the smallest penis!"

Shorts in Semi-Casual Social Situations. Are you biking? Boating? Headed for the beach? Hiking? Fine, put on your baggy khakis. But that’s it. I saw a group of middle-aged douchebag dads wine-tasting last weekend—all wearing the baggy, saggy, sad-looking shorts. You know what? Yep. You know better.

Mandals. I once picked up a former boyfriend for a weekend in Long Island. He had just moved from Madison, Wisc. (another worthless hippie town). When he answered the door in Tevas, it totally killed my lady boner. In fact, I was half horrified and half ready to laugh my ass off. Seriously, what grown-ass man puts on sandals that require fucking VELCRO to stick together and thinks that’s acceptable footwear to go to the Hamptons? If you’re wearing mandals of any kind, you better be fucking ankle-deep and fording a stream. Case closed.

Wrong...

Wrong...

Wrong!

Flip-flops, however, are sometimes acceptable if you’re scruffy, hot and on your way to your first post-coital coffee of the day.

While we’re on the mandals, men, take care of your feet. Wash them. Trim your toenails. That’s it. Basic maintenance. It blows my mind how gross most men’s feet are. Another big lady boner kill.

Gray-hair, Sensitive Ponytail Man. Soul patches, or anything else that you think makes you look “young” or “hip” past the age of 40.

Just...no.

Let’s just cut all the long hair, right? Unless you can rock this sorta-medium, scraggly Sawyer-hot look, your hair needs a trimmin’.

While we're at it, that whole wet look, shirt undone thing won't work for you unless you're Sawyer either.

Mom Jeans. If Obama can’t make ‘em look hot, what hope do you have?

"But...they were on sale at Kohl's."

Wash your clothes. Please?

Sports sunglasses for everyday wear. Translation to the ladies? I’m gonna slip you a roofie later and fingerbang you to Jimmy Buffett.

Not good for anyone, anyone at all.

Wash yourself. Please?

Ladies, what are your greatest Man Fashion Peeves? And for the Gents, feel free to let the criticisms fly…

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August 18, 2011

Hello, Seattle

So, there it is—I’ve left Gotham, the Big Apple, the Empire State of Mind, to move Westward Ho. Like many other poor, struggling immigrants before me, I spent some time there, living in some squalor, tugging my laundry to and fro, surrounded by feces and other bodily fluids, and finally said, “Fuck it. There has to be something better out there.”

And, like my forefathers and foremothers and second cousins and other idiots before me, I decided to Go West.

grapes of wrath

I don't have a goat.

Oh, I had my doubts about doing it. After all, in America, from the day we spew out, we’re inundated with images of New York City as the ultimate in living, the platinum standard, the cherry on top of that Cold Stone Creamery indulgent creation of all life as we know it! Kids flock there left and right from the Midwest, Northeast and the South—and, of course, Brooklyn West, San Francisco—to begin anew.

jay-z empire state of mind

These streets will make you feel brand new!

I know. I was one of those dipshits. But this isn’t about New York. This is about Seattle.

Let's get some fucking coffee already.

Upon landing here whilst looking for apartments in July, within a day, I think I had a panic attack. In a Starbucks no less (hey, I had to pee). I’d been looking at apartments, and coming from New York, figured that finding good real estate here would be like taking cocaine from a hipster. Alas, no. Apartments here were way tinier and more expensive than I’d imagined. Not New York tiny and expensive, but still.

I called my friend. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I think I’m too New York for this place,” I huddled in the corner, lest the Starbucks minions hear my pleas and tell me to take my pathetic cell-phone whining outside.

“How long have you been there? A day?” she says. “Get it together. You’ll find something.”

Smack. New York in your face.

Admittedly, leaving New York is like coming down from a horribly addicting drug habit. You hate it after a while, and you despise it, but you need it—you need the buzz to feel viable and to keep going. I could physically feel my body freak out at Seattle during that visit.

paula abdul, american idol

NYC makes you feel a bit like Paula Abdul, the wacked-out American Idol Years.

“Too quiet. Where’re the people? Is this all the talent out on Friday night? How come I can get a table here? Why is everyone so fucking nice?”

Then I had a fantastic crab-cake dinner and Columbia Valley wine and settled the fuck down.

See, leaving New York for ’Mer-Kuh at any time can be highly disconcerting. I always experience it when I go home for holidays—the big-box stores, the driving, the obesity, the shitty food, the lines for the latest “Meet the Fockers” movie…it all freaks me out.

Cities, like Seattle, are not technically ’Mer-Kuh—it’s not like I moved to Little Rock, Ark.—but they do contain some very ’Mer-Kuh type parts. Here’s what I’ve observed about Seattle in the short week I’ve been here:

Everyone is so fucking nice. A guy almost hit me with his car the other day. Apparently, living in New York impairs one’s ability to cross the street in real towns that depend on the automobile as the primary mode of transportation. Anyway, he was pissed, but instead of going, “Hey, fuck you, Bitch!” He pulled over and started politely trying to explain to me how to cross the street, like I just wandered off the short bus. Seriously. Nice. I just ignored him and ambled away. Hey, he was lucky I didn’t tell him to fuck off. See? I’m changing already.

The short bus. Maybe it’s because the population’s lower. Maybe it’s my neighborhood. Maybe it’s because I live above a store that sells Rascal mobility carts for the elderly and overweight and the lazy, but holy shit, there’s a real short-bus element going on here. I look around and think, “New York would eat you alive.” Granted, these folks were in New York, too, I was just so desensitized for my own self-preservation that I didn’t notice anyone else around me at any given time to retain my sanity. Did that make sense? If you live in New York, it does.

Ditto on crazy drug addicts.

Hot guys. Here’s my week: hot guys at beach, hot guys on trails, hot guys at bars, hot guys in cars, hot guys in grocery stores buying sausages and Rainier beer. Swoon…Holy shit, more hot guys in part of town where men “build things with metal and ride motorcycles,” according to my friend. Good, Lord, one guy rolled up in his Ford F150 with a fucking dog in the front seat and I about came in my pants. “You’re like one of five single straight women who live here now,” my friend said. “I know,” I said. “I’m so gonna get crazy laid.”

Lesbian or Man. Due to the heavy lesbian and nerd population in town, I’ve developed a game over the past week that I call, “Lesbian or Man?” I still don’t think I’m batting .500 yet.

no explanation necessary. moving on...

The Hippy Way. I live here now. I can’t fight it. I gotta embrace the kinder, gentler, free-wheelin’ me. So, now I’m shopping at the local organic market. And I’m buying local produce. And I’m composting. And I’m drinking smoothies. And I fucking like it.

Douchebag Condos! I’ll admit it, after looking at a few shitholes that were a little too reminiscent of NYC, I looked at a new “luxury” condo-like building and I was like, “Sold!” Washer? Dryer? Patio? Amenities? Rooftop Deck? Dishwasher? Hell, yes. Bring it. After living with no amenities for six fucking years, I was ready for a whole shit-ton of amenities. My apartment is still a work in progress and represents an Ikea showroom at this point, but it will get there. Also, I have not heard one fucking noise from a next-door neighbor since I’ve been here. So, suck on that Ahktards.

And it’s so fucking pretty here. Start anywhere. Go any direction. Trees, trees, water, mountains. Oh, there’s a beach? Oh, yeah. We got that too.

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