NEW HOOTERS OUTFITS

Well I am just beside myself.
It used to be that in this world of uncertainty, there were still a few precious things you could count on to remain unchanged:

1. That gross liquid discharge on the top layer of yogurt

2. Acoustic guitarists in Hawaiian shirts playing Jimmy Buffet songs at Florida beach resorts

3. The Hooters Outfits

The original Hooters outfits are the gold standard: Orange, camel toe-inducing shorts, tight tank top with the owl eyes stretched out over pendulous/surgically enhanced tits and of course, the shiny beige pantyhose. This sublime workplace attire was a source of national pride. Now they've gone and changed it to the monstrosity pictured above. Why camouflage? These women do not need to hide in a Vietnamese jungle. They need to serve me fucking hot wings and beer!
Damn. Another piece of iconic American fashion history is relegated to the dusty recesses of our collective consciousness...

ANNE GEDDES, MOVE OVER

So-
Several months ago, I wrote a couple of posts about my friend who arranged to have a tank of top grade sperm transported across the country...
Part 1: QUALITY EJACULATE SELECTION
She even did a bit of guest blogging...
Part 2: EJACULATE UPDATE

One of you recently asked what happened to my friend. It was a cliffhanger and you were left hanging, you said. Well, I'm glad you asked...
You see that glorious picture above?
That's what happened!
(For more info, check out my friend's blog: CONNOTATION AND DENOTATION)
But isn't that the greatest baby picture you've ever seen?

Anne Geddes and her creepy foliage-wrapped infants have been trumped.

The only thing this photo lacks is a good caption. If you've got one, lay it on us!

MARGE SIMPSON GRACES PLAYBOY MAGAZINE

I'm a collector of vintage Playboy magazines. The issues from 1960-1977 are fantastic.  While the standard joke used to be about "reading Playboy for the articles", the truth is that some of America's finest authors were published in Playboy's glossy pages:  John Updike, Joyce Carol Oates, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., George Plimpton, and Hunter S. Thompson all offered up their prose in between photos luscious naked women. The magazine was witty, urbane and stylish.

Then the late 1980's hit and it all went downhill. The magazine started to look cheap. The women looked trashy. The articles weren't as good. The whole enterprise seemed like an outdated, pathetic relic.

Even my father, who had always subscribed to Playboy (delivered to his clinic, no less) cancelled his subscription.

Things only got worse with the rise of internet porn. Charmless spankers just got on line to leer at women for free, and Playboy magazine languished at the newsstand.

Which is why for years I've said that Playboy should get back to its roots: top quality writing, humor and  tips on how to create a sophisticated bachelor den. Return to more stylized nudes and photo shoots. Give people something they're not getting on line.

So when I saw Marge Simpson in a rather 1960's pose on the cover, plus a new piece of fiction by Stephen King, I was impressed. This is an issue I will buy. It's a fresh new direction with a nod to the past. A perfect combination.

Keep it up Playboy! Now all you need is to hire me as a writer and you'll really have a sensational publication...

AN ELEGY FOR LITERARY ROCK STARS: FEUDS, BOOZE AND WIT

This may seem hard to believe today, but there was a time when writers had a starring role in the media circus. And they loved it. They put on a show, feuding with each other publicly, revealing professional jealousy and petty grievances, but still showcasing incredible charm and intelligence. 

People like Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer sparred over "intellectual pollution" on Dick Cavett's talk show. Truman Capote sniffed, "That's not writing, that's typing" about Jack Kerouac's book, "On the Road". Later, he kicked off a classic feud with Jacqueline Susann by proclaiming on the Tonight Show that she looked like "a truck driver in drag." Susann threatened to sue Capote and NBC. So Capote apologized, "to truck drivers everywhere."

But this was back when authors had big personalities and even bigger advances and didn't try to look like they were teenagers at age 35, shuffling around in ill-fitting t-shits, jeans and sneakers. They were witty, bitchy, well-dressed and went on talk shows, not just to promote their books, but because they were actually interesting. Audiences wanted to see them. At one point in the late 1970s, Truman Capote had the highest television Q rating of any celebrity around. Even more amazing, unlike today--these writers were famous for writing, not because they were celebrities who got book deals because of their fame. 
Authors of this era had style. George Plimpton threw incredible parties at his East 72nd street apartment, where only the sharpest, most articulate people were invited. Attendees were served plenty of booze--but his personal quirk was that he only offered cheap Dinty Moore stew to eat.

Norman Mailer, John Updike and Tom Wolfe had protracted arguments about literary merit versus popular success. This battle played out for years in publications like Harpers, The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books. One writer would posit a theory or make a criticism, the next would respond to it. They almost read like classic Rhythm and Blues answer songs.

Many writers in this era were urbane, occasionally pompous but always fun. It was proof that the literati could be raucous.
Now I don't even know if a literati exists.

I started my show, Mama D's Arts Bordello as an attempt to create a bawdy literary event. I had attended far too may of those dull, dry, bullshit readings in stale cafes and bookstores where pasty, nervous writers stammer over their prose. Writers can (and should) be lusty, witty, cruel and full of life. Books and book discussions should not be relegated to musty libraries and twee coffee shops. Nor should the literary world be separated from popular culture. It should be careening, crazy and succulent. 
So I'm on a crusade: bring back the literary rock star.
Oh.
And while we're at it--
Fuck those smug, masturbatory Book Clubs that are held on sober Saturday afternoons in some boring do-gooder's chintz-festooned, Thomas Kinkade-friendly living room too.

TONIGHT--MAMA D'S ARTS BORDELLO PRESENTS: ORGASMIC!

Your wait is finally over!
The big show is tonight!

Parkside Lounge.
8pm.
$5 cover.

It's a night of sex-fueled comedy, music, burlesque and trivia.

Don't miss out!

PARKSIDE LOUNGE