That's Terrible......Let's Write a Song About It!

I am a big fan of things that are demented, especially if the thing in question is demented in a very nyuck-nyuck juvenile way.

Example 1. I never missed a Dr. Demento show on the radio. My ritual was to curl up with my radio and a bag of pretzel goldfish, recording the show on my tape recorder (held up to the tiny radio speaker) so that I could learn every word to every Rick Dees or Spike Jonyz song, and sing "Ahab the Arab" on the way to school. Of course, I am a big--although secret--Weird Al fan. Something about turning pretentious popstar music on its head appeals to me. Because I am weird, growing up I ignored my sister Drew's disco and early rap obsession and my sister Holly's Frampton-and-roach clips in your hair tendencies in favor of my mother's Edith Piaf, Nina Simone, and Billie Holliday records. Which explains why I became a dirty, disaffected, and excruciatingly condescending punk chick, perfectly.

Furthermore, my reading choices tended toward the sardonic and absurd. Mad magazine, of course, but also Roald Dahl, Rabelais, and Shaw. When Spy magazine arrived, I sent my dough for a subscription that I carried with me until their last gasp. Now it's all online stuff, some high-brow, some decidedly low. There are some awesome blogs happening, although they do appear to be less interesting the more popular they become, always a sad state of affairs for cool stuff. Bottom line, it's hard to find obnoxious, demented, and/or juvenile cool stuff anymore. Please don't even mention "Jackass" or Bam Margera or Fear Factor. Garbage.

Example 2. Many, many years ago, there was what was arguably the very first email-forwarded nugget of demented joy: "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee" or "Gonads and Strife" a short and loud video of a mad squirrel. I was slackjawed with glee when I watched it, and didn't hesitate to send it to everyone I knew.

Anyway, this site, home of the original "Wheeeeeee!" video, hosts a "rock video" that Superfly boyfriend and I adore. It is seriously demented, riding that fine line of offense, making you digusted and fulfilled simultaneously. Enjoy!

Here's me wondering what your specifically-demented guilty pleasure might be. Do tell!

Due to underwhelming response...

The get-together planning will resume after Labor Day weekend. Feh!

Superfly boyfriend and I suffered a bout of the nasty flu this week, but luckily not at the same time. All the hugs and kisses he gave me must have garnered him his round of fever/chills, and I made up to him by making Vegetarian Matzoh Ball Soup.

Life is a struggle, as always, but I am Happy Trouble.

And away we go!

Ok crumpets, let's do this thing:

Dinner? Cocktails? Brunch?

Manhattan? Brooklyn?

Friday night? Saturday day/night? Sunday day/night? Other?

Try for August? Labor Day weekend? September before High Holidays?

Please weigh in with your preferences and/or ideas, and I'll make it so, spaghettio!

Hey Tovah-licious: thanks for your comment, and WELCOME to my world!

What the...?

Superfly replied to my email, telling me he'd be delayed getting back to the apartment tonight. "Ok," I thought, "This is an excellent opportunity for me to stop by Macy's and look for some placemats for his new table." Luckily, Macy's was having an End of Summer Clearance sale. I got placemats, napkins, napkin holders, and coasters, all for $33. Woot! Woot!

Hopped on the subway and headed for Brooklyn, pit-stopping at Rite Aid for some water bottles and a craving-satiating Haagen-Daz bar. Which I was munching on when I walked into the apartment building and saw Superfly coming down the stairs. "What did you buy?" He asked, to which I replied, "You'll see."

I dumped the Macy's bag on the bed and noticed a bulging Century 21 bag sitting there. I started pulling out placemats and stuff, crowing about my money-saving. He pulled out placemats, napkins, and coasters from his Century 21 bag. All items were in complementary color schemes, of course. We are goofy like minds.

Now we're ready to invite you over to dinner!

Psych!

Siblings and Beach town living

Superfly boyfriend, Trouble Jr., and I all zipped off to Rhode Island to visit with one of my sisters this past weekend. Well, first I accepted a new job, met SFB at Penn Sta, met Trouble Jr. from her train, gave her a quick tour of midtown Manhattan, and cabbed down to Canal St. to open her eyes and mind to the wonders that are available at each corner. Equipped with snazzy Faux-Chanel sunglasses and a remarkable knockoff of this season's new Chanel handbag, Trouble Jr. had NO problem fitting in to the downtown scene.

The Friday night New England drive up I-95 is a fresh torture best slept through (unless you are the one driving). Still, we made it in pretty good time and arrived in high style. My older sister is a personal trainer to this beach town's wealthy and vain. She's smart, funny, and incredibly gorgeous. When we get together we revert to our old childhood roles, which I guess is a common habit amongst siblings. She's bossy as hell and I like to bait her into a frothy rant. When we were teenagers, we fought like hungry pit bulls, but now we stick to comments about each other's hair, clothing, and moustaches.

Her husband is a real guys'-guy: an Italian from New Jersey. She has three sons, so that is one spectacularly testosteronic home. Having Trouble Jr. and I there was a welcome respite from the constant farting and omnipresent sports equipment she normally faces, each weekend. Plus, Trouble Jr.'s always been her aunt's surrogate little girl. What's really scary is that my daughter and my older sister have THE EXACT SAME PERSONALITY! So, I can tell her something 50 times, but she hears it the first time her aunt says it. Example: Trouble Jr. starts coughing. I mention that she should probably quit smoking, since she has asthma. Her Aunt promptly screams and bosses and generally has a giant hissyfit about her smoking. My daughter then hisses at me that she's pissed off I told her aunt that she smokes. Oy.

Superfly definitely bonded with the boys when he went Boogie Boarding with them. Judging by the enormous grin on his face, I'd say SF had a great time. But that was nothing compared to the fun bonding experience he had with my Brother-in-Law, clamming. Something about double-plungers and mud holes...I don't know, I was shopping with my sister. Anyway, SF is totally IN with that sister + family. Only two more to go! :)

I'll have you know that I marinated in sunscreen and came away from a scorching day at the beach with not a spot of sunburn. I romped around in the surf and tried my hand at Boogie Boarding. I suck at that, but it's ok: I can't rule at EVERYTHING. SF took lots of pics, but I won't allow them posted here, so don't ask. I look very fat in them. And pulling a face that makes it look like I have more chins than a Chinese phonebook. So, hell no.

But, just so you know, Naragansett Beach in Rhode Island is fab-u-lous!

Kung Fu Hustle

Ok, yeah, I know I'm late to be giving the two-thumbs-up to this movie, seeing as it's been out on DVD for ages and so on, but DAY-AM! I laughed so hard, I nearly fell off Superfly's bed. A laff riot! Get yourself off to Blockbuster and rent it, if you haven't already. Really, the chop-socky stuff is mindbending, thanks to special effects that make the Matrix look like a waste of good wires. Violence is more toward the comic side, i.e. people throwing knives or axes and having them bounce off something and clock themselves in the head. For once, there is a female fighter who isn't shy, pretty, and well-behaved. This foul-mouted lady kicks some serious ass with curlers in her hair, wearing a nightgown, with an ever-present cigarette dangling from her lips. Now there's a heroine I can root for!

Enough already. Just see the movie?

Trouble Car Trouble

Da Rollerskate 

Dammit! I love my car. It looks like an oversized rollerskate and feels like you're driving a pepsi can, but for two and half years, this baby drove like a bat out of hell for me. She fills up for under $20, and is easy to maintain and fix. Street racers love this car because it lends itself well to tricking out and pimping. I've crammed 5 adults into this clown car, believe it or not. Fondly I'll remember the many road trips I took to New York in the Skate, rocketing down the turnpike at 80mph+, eating Swedish Fish and sunflower seeds and singing along to the classic rock station. *sigh*

Because Daewoo no longer makes cars, finding parts is nigh impossible. I think this smoking, steaming, leaking, overheating mess is the Skate's death spiral. My dad's advice consists of, "eh, what do you need a car in New York for, anyway?" Superfly boyfriend is in VA and I am in PA, but he was supportive and helpful as always, coming up with several ideas to get me, the laundry, and the heap of grocery bags back to Brooklyn tonight.

Oh, yeah, and I missed the Shore party because of this, and that was the whole reason for trekking down to PA in the Skate. Rackie, I hope you can forgive me, I really, really wanted to be there. Instead of having fun in the sun with my friends, I watched a lot of cable TV, and putzed around Lancaster. Phooey.

Weighing In

wheeee! 

The Dove girls. Extremely normal-looking non-models schilling for Dove firming cream, or some other nonsense. You cannot take your eyes off them...look! That one has a tattoo! Are those stretch marks? Hooray for Dove! I've long lamented the crackpot idea that a stick-insect with lipstick is the epitome of feminine beauty, so you bet I joined the choir of "At Last! Some marketing department FINALLY gets it!"

The laziest of internet research on this campaign will turn up Unilever's (parent company of Dove and other brands) earnest desire to change society's views of women's bodies, and women's self-image. And not just through this advertising campaign: an impressive show of we-really-mean-it is revealed in their targeted programs to teen girls about positive body image and, even better, money poured into programs run in communities to bolster self-image and fight the growing trends of anorexia and bulimia in increasingly younger girls. Hell fucking yeah.

So, when I read this assmuncher on Slate mewling about how fat women are suddenly going to stop being motivated to lose weight because of this campaign featuring fat girls, I startled my co-workers with a What the Fuck? Um, excuse me? Those women on every billboard, bus, and magazine are not fat. If you think they are fat, brother, you are perfectly exemplifying the problem! He also worries, for Dove/Lever's sake, that Dove will be branded the "fat girl's product". He can't be serious. Obviously, Sethiepoo doesn't understand the first thing about women and brand loyalty. Feh! We spend gangster wads of cash at frigging Body Shop because they are Eco-friendly, and that shit smells bad and doesn't work! I'm wracking my brain to think of a fat girl's product, and all I can come up with is Ring-Dings.

I'm pleased to read today that Dove has no intention of stopping this ad campaign. To test my theory that men love normal girls and fantasize about the personal-trainer/nutritionist/cocaine/airbrushing others only abstractly, I will hold up the Dove ad and the Victoria Secret ad side-by-side and observe Superfly's reaction. Although, I should point out (full disclosure!) he's already said the barista in the Dove ad is hot. I'll report my findings in the comments section.



So, what do you hot pieces of ass think about Dove, etc?

Absolutely love this RANT

love it when I find like minds

As you might expect, this guy isn't politically correct, either. So if you are shocked by strong opinions being shouted from the blogtop, don't click.

Celebrate good times, c'mon! Waaahoo!

Biopsy came back with the answer, "No, sorry, we've never heard of a Mr. Cancer. You must have the wrong number."

Woot! Woot!

Oy

Like my sunburn? 

Superfly and I spent a somewhat-tortuous weekend in the Hamptons. I know, that's hard to believe, isn't it? Suffice to say it wasn't what we expected, we were often miserable, and arriving home was Heaven.

Speaking of Heaven and Hell, I got the mother of all sunburns while sitting on Haven's Beach in Sag Harbor. Let me just say that it was so overcast, I thought it would rain any second. It didn't occur to me to put on sunscreen until a passerby told me I was pink. Oh, to be pink again. I am fire engine, lobster, hot Mustang Cobra red, scalp to toenails. All I need is horns and a tail to send people fleeing in mortal terror. Indeed, usually grim-faced strangers on the street are staring at me, even slowing their Death March to take a good look. I am not a monster! Er, well, I guess that depends upon whom you ask.

Anyway, I went to the deli at lunchtime to load up on green beans and sesame tofu and was chagrined to see people shrinking over to the opposite side of the sneeze guard from me. Went to the counter with my steaming plastic box and a 20oz. Dr. Brown's (Black Cherry) and, for the love of Elvis, came up short by $1.29. Before I could ask the Korean lady to subtract the soda, a man handed her $2 and smiled very sweetly at me. I thanked him and he wished me a nice day. Yes, this happened in New York City, folks.

Of course, on my return to the office, my co-workers pointed out that I was redder than when I left. As if that's possible!

So if you see the ocean of pedestrians parting like the red sea, and hear lots of gasping, look for a girl whose skin is redder than her hair. That smell you're trying to place is Aloe Vera gel. I'm encased in cool green jelly.

I'd love to hear your worst/best sunburn story. Especially if it's worse than mine. Do tell!