I Do Whatever Rob Brezsny Tells Me to Do

ARIES (March 21-April 19): "In recent years, groups of students at Yale and other Ivy League universities have pioneered a unique cultural trend: naked parties. Those in attendance at one of these invitation-only affairs agree to spend the evening in their birthday suits. "The dynamic is completely different from a clothed party," reports Yale coed Megan Crandell, quoted in The Scotsman. "People are so conscious of how they're coming across that conversations end up being more sophisticated." Your assignment, Aries — should you choose to accept it — is to bring the phenomenon of the naked party to your own locale. According to my reading of the astrological omens, you're meant to be a social catalyst who inspires people to strip away their defenses and practice the art of radical authenticity."


So, nu, who's up for a naked party?

Get your Free Will Astrology horoscope here.

Gossip Contest

Which singer/songwriter known for their folksy manner and warm, heartfelt tunes — such as the ones selected for a popular kids movie — is in reality a sanctimonious jerk who considers all their fans to be psychotic stalkers? Who, for example, "snuck away, complaining the kid was crazy" when a handicapped Make-a-Wish kid whose sole desire was to meet said singer/songwriter made the trip to the asshat's hometown?

Who do you think buys your damn records, douche? What, you think you can have fame and money, have your music appreciated but screw all those dumbshits who finance your lifestyle?

Send your guesses here. Prizes TBD.

Which reminds me, I still owe the Sloth some beer!

My Hero

When I grow up I want to be the Stig.

Will someone out there please, Please, PLEASE record Sunday's Top Gear (BBC-2) for me?

There'll be an animation of the Hamster's jet-car crash that I cannot wait to see.

Newsies

Bonus points if you actually saw that movie!

Anyway, wanted you to know that I taped my demo last night at Reuters. It was so much fun, and I did so well, that I can hardly stand myself today. *preen*

Video commentary coming soon to this here blog!

Feel free to offer suggestions on topics, ok?

In other news, here's an enterprising felon who got bitchslapped by his own attorney.

Morning again?

From Wikipedia:

“Hibernation is a state of inactivity and metabolic depression in animals, characterized by lower body temperature, slower breathing, and lower metabolic rate. Hibernation conserves energy, especially during winter. Hibernation may last several days or weeks depending on species, ambient temperature, and time of year. The typical winter season for a hibernator is characterized by periods of hibernation interrupted by sporadic euthermic arousals wherein body temperature is restored to typical values. Hibernation allows animals to conserve energy during the winter when food is short. During hibernation, animals drastically lower their metabolism so as to tap energy reserves stored as body fat at a slower rate.”

That pretty much sums it up for me, how about you?

Vrooooom!

Check my work website for big stories this week and next.

This week I tape my demo reel. "This is Trouble, reporting from the scene. Back to you, Jack."

Off to Maryland this weekend for some Aloha spirit.

Stay tuned for the transformation from this blog to a vlog-o-rama.

This summer? High-Speed Performance Driving School for yours truly.

A Bright Spot and a Tiny Failure

Remember I told you about a book, an anthology, for which I wrote a story that was pulverized by a Publisher's Weekly hack reviewer? Yeah, well, one of the other authors, Ayun Halliday, probably never received a bad review in her life. In fact, I feel like she has sailed through life on a rainbow of adoration and love, bouncing along clouds of compliments and praise all the way. Know why? Because she's an amazing writer. She's also gorgeous, a great mom, a devoted friend (so I hear), and the coolest person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

You know what I mean? A woman who just oozes style, grace and intelligence? Oh, yeah. She's my idol, folks, and I think you ought to check out her blog, buy her books, and subscribe to her 'zine, The East Village Inky.

And the tiny failure? My team was rejected for the World Series of Pop Culture.

Lips Like Sugar

You know you want to: Become an M&M

Have you seen the commercial? Besides being cute, the song you hear in the background is by (...drumroll, please...)

the The "This is the Day"

Look at my sassy candy self! Suck it up, Miss Green M&M.

The Open Road

I got your "zoom zoom" right here, baby.


Ah, joy. There's really nothing quite like the rush of an empty stretch of curvy turnpike, a full tank of gas and not fighting the delicious urge to push that pedal floor-ward and sweet-talk your ride into burning some hot asphalt.

Superfly won't be pleased to hear it, but his little-old-lady-car responded enthusiastically when I revved her horses and asked her nicely if she wouldn't mind terribly if I rocketed down the highway for a hot minute. We both had a mighty fine time of it and no harm, no foul.

I love cars, I love driving and I love driving cars really fast. In an interview with a Formula One racer back in the early '90s, I picked up some exceptionally valuable tips on driving fast in any car, in any kind of traffic or road condition. Just this week I interviewed a racing instructor for Corvette. He invited me to the next sold-out course in Bowling Green, Ky. All together now: "HELL YES!"

Hours later I'm still flush with the restorative power of an adrenalized 90 mph burst of speed and muscle at the wheel of my Superfly boyfriend's middle-aged Nissan Sentra. She is a distance driver, never letting us down when we trek up-and-down the eastern seaboard, but her 150 hp is rarely tested by Mr. Cruise Control at 60 mph.

C'mon now, even the primest and sturdiest of girls needs to cut loose once in awhile!

People, treat your cars with respect. Change the oil and take it for scheduled maintenance. Keep it clean, inside and out. Don't drink and drive. And for the love of MOPAR holiness, take that baby out on the open road once in awhile and cut her loose!

Weird Things

Marty tagged me with this one. Since I'm looking for something to take my mind off the Eagles loss, I'll bite:

Six Weird Things About Me (Trouble):

1. I am deformed in the same way as Jimi Hendrix.
2. I have a bad case of coulrophobia.
3. I used to be a ballerina. Really.
4. I cannot clean (and I like to clean) without disco music accompaniment
5. I am obsessed with something right now, but it will pass.
6. When people sneeze I do not say, "Bless you." I say, "Shut up!" Number one, I am not a member of the clergy; Number two, they usually laugh or are otherwise surprised and stop sneezing, and so cease spreading their damn germs all over the place.

People Who Are Now Tagged to Complete this Survey and Repost it on Their Blog:

A Tiny Sip of Absinthe
Bobulah
K-Money
Mr. Oogie Boogie
Superfly
The Three-Toed Sloth

E-A-G-L-E-S

Tell you what, Garcia, Westbrook and the boys: You fight the 'Aints and I'll fight breast cancer. Deal?

Go Eagles!

Post-Playoff Loss Update: That's alright, that's OK, there's always next year anyway. E-A-G-L-E-S

Slugging it Out

We brought out our toughest, most dangerous weapon: the Exterminator. Risking my mortal health and the well-being of our cats, we allowed a man with a canister full of poison and a reckless disregard for the delicate nature of cashmere sweaters full access to our apartment. Again.

You see, the last time didn't take. The insecticide must have really hulked them out, because they bit us up with a vengeance and took no pains to hide their gross presence in the light of day. I count 36 bites. And because I am allergic to insect venom, they are big, splashy red welts. Because bedbugs offer pitiful amounts of venom, it's just enough to make me miserable, without warranting any Epi-Pen action or trips to the ER.

So he was back today. If our super-aggro efforts to rid ourselves of this pestilence fails we will have little choice but to move.

Please, New Yorkers, do NOT imagine yourself immune from this scourge. It has nothing to do with cleanliness or the right address. If they can't get to you to feed, they won't bother infesting your place.

Here's what you must do:

1. Buy a bed with a metal or plastic frame. They cannot fly or jump, and they can't crawl up slick materials. Also, they adore nesting in miniscule cracks and crannies in wooden beds.

2. Keep your bed well away from walls and other furniture, so that it is an island of cool, clean, bug-free goodness.

3. Don't allow your bed linens to drape all the way to the floor.

4. VACUUM

5. Caulk or tape up cracks in the moulding, floors, windows, and pipe fittings.

6. Rid your home of clutter, especially in closets. Invest in space bags. Dry cleaning bags are useless at keeping out bugs, especially carpet beetles, which find them delicious.

7. Don't necessarily kill spiders or centipedes: they eat the little nasties and leave you the hell alone.

That is all. Keep your fingers crossed that a second round of poison didn't render our bedbugs super bedbugs.

Boob News

Surgeon says it's a cyst of impressive size that likely isn't cancerous, they won't know for sure until they dig it out on Feb. 8 and look at it under a microscope. That's the good news. The bad news is that if any eensy bit of the cyst is nasty, I'm in deep doo-doo. Because the cyst is wedged into what she described as the Lincoln Tunnel of ducts and the cancer would zoom through like Jersey kids on a Friday night.

I joked to my very pretty surgeon about her taking a bribe to remove both my breasts in their entirety and she said, nonplussed "That shouldn't be hard to arrange, provided your insurance company accepts the volume criteria. No bribe necessary."

How about that? Life without gi-knockers. Woot! Woot! Maybe this time the fuckers won't grow back even bigger and eventually spring a leak!

*squirt!*

I'm With the Band, Man

I hate concerts. Standing around a smoky bar or concert hall, surrounded by a bunch of drunk idiots who invariably block my view of the band (ok, so I'm short) and scream and blabber loud enough so I cannot hear the band, on top of most bands not being as good live, make up the main reasons for my hatred of live music.

During my high school years in Denver, there was nothing to do but go to the Rainbow, or Red Rocks, or Cricket on the Hill, the Atzlan, and any other number of impromptu punk venues. My first concert was the Ramones at the Rainbow, followed a week later by Joe "King" Carasco. I saw every band I loved and more that I really thought of as just an acquaintance, but most of the live shows were a massive turnoff. Seeing how much New Order (who were awesome, by the way) hated us was devastating, and seeing Anthony Kiedis slovenly hit on a pre-teen girl ruined me as a Red Hot Chili Peppers fan for life. I mean, I wasn't a Cure fan anyway, but seeing a bloated, slurring Robert Smith stumbling around stage is sure as fuck not worth my $20. Thusly jaded and cynical, I stopped going to concerts unless I was paid to be there.

Later, I covered music for an entertainment magazine and got more than my fill of shitty publicists, diabolical bookers, and, of course, the "artists" themselves: if you got them on the phone or persuaded them to speak to you one-on-one (lucky you!) they were usually drunk, stoned and or nasty, rendering your whole interview useless. But somehow you are wasting their time.

So you can how when a friend says, "Trouble, you have got to hear this band live!" I roll my eyes so hard, I pull a muscle. Why bother? If I like music, I download it to my Ipod.

However, my friends in Lancaster were relentless, so I went to the Symposium — a more-than-decent Mediterranean restaurant that also hosts live music on the weekends — to hear Sight Unseen.

Right away, guitarist Rich, bassist Ray, and drummer/vocalist Matt launched into an energetic set of re-worked covers. I know, I know: not only a local band but a cover band? Just bear with me here. Each cover is a clever re-do, such as giving Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)" the ska treatment, and Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" a classic rock makeover. It helps that they are superb musicians. Something tells me my friend Marty would really like this band, though I don't know why.

As enormously entertaining as this concert was (and yes, even I had a good time, and even danced a little), I kept waiting for some original stuff — which I predict will be outstanding. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of novelty acts, but I think a group of musicians as talented as this band could be big. Myspace big? Bigger.

Speaking of which, the band is on Myspace here. The clips are not (and I can't believe I'm saying this) as good as the live show. Hopefully, one of these A&R types trolling the internet will find them and see their potential.

Until then, I'm going to do something heretofore underheard of: I will go to a concert of my own volition! Sight Unseen, you've restored my faith in live music.

*insert chorus*

Oh, Hell Yes!

Guess what?

I'm going video. I'll probably start on this blog (once I figure out how the hell to do it) and eventually I'll get my own show. Mark my words.

No, I'm not a cutie-pie Couric, gossipy celeb-drooler, talk show maven, hipster doofus scenester or a psuedo-serious political reporting talking bobble-head. What I see, what I want, what I will have is my own irreverant Trouble show, wherein I wax poetic or rant spectacularly about stuff. Cars, mostly, and sports, rock 'n roll, sex, and bedbugs, of course.

But first I must be trained. Look for video Trouble in February!

Pestilence (warning: gross)

Bedbugs. Here's proof positive that even clean-living, Ikea-lovin', elfa-shelving urban dwellers are easy victims to the scourge of bedbugs.

We thought we did everything right. We tsk-tsk'd at Maya Rudolph suing her landlord over an infestation and went to sleep every night with self-satisfied smiles, knowing our cleanliness and organization would keep us safe from all little piece of shit bugs.

Except...we live in a mulit-unit apartment building in New York City, populated with all kinds of people who may or may not know that used mattresses are a spectacularly bad idea. Except our super tells us stories of our neighbors slovenliness, i.e. the chicken in the bathtub.

We went online after the first bites, hoping it was just fleas from the new kitten. A trip to the vet discounted that idea. We started each day with an inventory: "Any new bites today?" They are itchy, gigantic red blotches. Worse than the bites, even, is the constant "creepy-crawly" sensation and the shame. We wear long-sleeved shirts and try not to scratch at the dozens of itchy fucking welts. We consider setting fire to the place.

We tore the apartment apart, vacuuming every inch of everything, taping down cracks, zipping the bed into protective bags, setting out double-stick tape traps to confirm the presence of little johnny appleseed fuckers. Over the weekend, we hit pay dirt. Three blood-filled bedbugs made their ugly appearance and were promptly introduced into (separate, as to discourage breeding) ziploc bags for evidentiary purposes.

Now, if your home becomes infested with bedbugs you have exactly three choices:
1. Do nothing,
2. Take extremely aggressive measures, or
3. Move and start over from scratch — take nothing with you.

Our landlord went ballistic when I called. There's clearly been a big problem in the building and she decided it was all my fault. You see, we don't let the exterminator in to the apartment when we're here because I am extremely allergic to insecticide -- two terrifying trips to the ER after previous exposures convinced me not to press my luck anymore. But they are welcome to come on in when we're gone for the weekend, and we are frequently gone for the weekend. Anyway, this management company representative was quick to assign blame to me for the infestation. Nice! I think we'll skip right to option #3.

Maybe, instead of chemical insecticides that will potentially kill me along with the bedbugs, we should go out in search of more house centipedes. They apparently feast on roaches and bedbugs, I've learned. They can, but don't, bite humans. I can stand the grotesquely undulating sight of multiple centipedes zooming around the apartment if it means no more bedbugs, you know?

Ah, fuck. Maybe it's a just sign that it's time to move the fuck out of New York City.