Check it, Peons: Your CNN Humiliation Compartmentalized

Tuesday, December 28, 2010


So check out this incredibly beautiful Mama D stocking that our Arts Bordello cohort Mary Bess made!
Isn't it fantastic?
I wish you could all see it in person. The artistic craftsmanship is so intricate.
It got here a little late (just got it today) due to a postal system mishap.
But you know what's funny?
I'm glad it did.
It's nice to get a couple of belated gifts. You get to treasure them more than the ones you ripped open in a frenzied Christmas fever.
Thank you Mary Bess!
You're a great artist and a lovely friend.

Monday, December 27, 2010


It's a snow day!
As you can see from the photo above, my Manhattan-style tiki hut has been winterized.
Heading out to enjoy the winter wonderland. It's really magical when a snowy silence falls over this chaotic town.
It's proof that no matter how important we think we are, human beings will never have power over mother nature.

Monday, December 20, 2010


I've noticed that a lot of channels I used to love (such as A&E and the History Channel) have drastically changed their programming. They are nothing at all like what they once were. A&E used to have all those wonderful English murder mysteries and Masterpiece Theatre adaptations of classic novels. They were pleasant to watch and great background TV for napping. Now it's filled with shit like "Dog the Bounty Hunter" and "Billy The Exterminator". I doubt their current audience even knows that A&E once stood for "Arts and Entertainment", seeing as how they offer neither now.

Same goes for The History Channel. It used to be my go-to channel for historical mysteries and political documentaries. Now it's jam packed with crap like "Ice Road Truckers" and "Pawn Stars".

Now, I understand these channels need ratings. And perhaps the dull stuff I liked wasn't bringing in the numbers. So, I can't fault them for making these changes.

But it seems to me that TV is so niche oriented these days that there ought to be enough of an audience to sustain The Boring Elitist Channel.
Are you out there TV moguls?
Then check this:
You know all those tedious costume dramas, historical accounts and documentaries? Put 'em all on The Boring Elitist Channel. Make it known that this channel is for uncool, literature/history loving assholes like me. Be unabashed about it. Be loud and proud about your highbrow, elitist TV content. Call it TV for people who like polysyllabic words.

It just might be successful.

Thursday, December 09, 2010


I woke up a little melancholy this morning.
I always wonder how that happens. How can we wake up sad? Is it the remnants of depressing dreams? After all, nothing has happened yet today. I haven't been rejected by a publisher or been yelled at by some loon on the subway. I did not wake up to a fresh new pimple on my nose.

So I poured myself a cup of coffee, put on the Christmas lights and some music.
Vince Guaraldi's "A Charlie Brown Christmas" soundtrack came on, and I smiled. A tiny smile. But it still counts.

One of the reasons I love "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is because of the way the music and tone perfectly capture the strange melancholy of the holiday season.
Most people talk about the joy of Christmas; the festive parties, shiny presents, and loud family gatherings.
And that's part of it.
But it's also the end of the year; the most introspective time of the year. During the long, dark nights, you reflect upon who you are, what you've accomplished. It's oddly lonely, in that you realize no matter how many people you have in your life, whether you have a wife, husband, partner, kids, friends, dogs, cats...everyone still travels through this life alone. Even if you have people along for the ride, there are secret detours that only you can take.

In some ways, that's why I love to write. It's fascinating to see how an idea that belonged to me alone when it was floating around in my head changes once it's translated for you to read. An idea that was so beautiful when it only belonged to me often becomes misshapen and odd once I've offered it up to you. I don't know why that is. (It probably means I'm a shitty writer, now that I think about it.)

But that's also why even if I feel lonely sometimes, I'm glad there are certain parts of our inner selves that we don't share with anyone. And during this season of giving, I'm more aware than ever that there are some things I'll always keep to myself...

Monday, December 06, 2010


So, I like watching sex on TV.
It's a lot less messy than sex in real life and there's less laundry involved.
But it seems to me that they get a lot of things wrong.
I'll start with these:


1. People wake up in the morning, turn over and start making out with the person next to them...without brushing their teeth! Who does this? I don't care how good the sex is, nobody is accosting me with their foul, early morning halitosis.

2. People pull their covers up just over their tits. This way, you know they're naked, but you don't actually see anything. (Judith Light in "Who's the Boss?")

3. People wrap the sheet around them to get a glass of water. They don't do what I do, which is leap out of the bed and run out of eyesight with lightning speed so my thighs are on display for as minimal time as possible.

4. People slip the condom on with no fumbling or swearing...actually, condoms are rarely mentioned. If they are, it's just a sly glance at the condom still in the packet.

5. People fuck in their bras. (Sarah Jessica Parker in "Sex and the City")

6. People thrust three times and magically orgasm in tandem.

7. People are very serious about sex. Unlike me, there is no laughing or Ethel Merman imitations. Also, when it's over, (unlike me) people don't announce, "Well, I'm gonna go scrub my box." (Yeah. I'm a sexual dynamo, skilled in the sensual art of love.)

8. People know it's time to get laid when they hear saxophone music. (Actually, this only happens when I catch reruns of "Magnum P.I.")

9. People fuck on cold hard marble floors or the beach and never complain about the side effects.

10. People use the terms, "let's make love" or "make love to me" with a straight face.

Thursday, December 02, 2010


We haven't done a CNN Peon post in a while, and I think we're due for one.
After all, that's why I began this crazy ass blog.

Question to all you CNN Peons past and present: take a good look at the above photo.
Now be honest. How many of you did this?
And by "this" I mean grab a pal with a camera, peer around to make sure no one was looking, hop on the set and pretend for one brief, shining moment that you were not some lowly peon. For one glorious second you were not a turd dangling from CNN's ass; referred to by your function instead of your name. ("PROMPTER!")
Nay, you were a real professional. With a real name and a real salary.

And short of doing this, how many of you called your friends and told them to turn on CNN to watch as you walked behind the set?
One night I walked behind Bill Hemmer three times in five minutes. I was about to go for my fourth lap when the floor director made fun of me during the commercial break.

Okay. Now 'fess up. Who else pulled stupid shit like this?

Monday, November 29, 2010


The man in the photo above is Carlos Flores of East Harlem. Yesterday, he jumped onto the subway tracks at a busy 103rd street station to rescue a man who had a seizure and fell off the platform. When asked about saving a man from being crushed to death by the 6 train, he did not babble on about being a good-hearted person. He did not offer up some bullshit about caring for his fellow man. No. According to the New York Daily News he said,

"I was thinking, if he gets hit I can't go to work. It's Sunday. I can't miss out. It's a time-and-a-half day."

Here's to you, Carlos Flores!
You're my kind of hero.

Friday, November 26, 2010


It's the first official day of the holiday shopping season, so you'll start seeing lots of "Toys For Tots" donation boxes in various places: your office, your gym...and Rupert Murdoch's News Corp Building on 6th avenue. But remember: donate wisely.

Now, the above photo is from about three years ago. I snapped it around this time of year at the News Corp lobby, while waiting for a friend who works at Fox News Channel. Bored and looking for amusement, I peered into the "Toys For Tots" donation area. I was shocked at what I found. As you can see, nestled among the board games, stuffed animals and other treats was a “Talking George W. Bush Doll”. (Click photo to enlarge.) Not only does this doll spout several of Dubya’s catch phrases, but he also comes complete with “Presidential boots”. What more could a needy child want?

I stood there in awe, deciding that only one of three possibilities could explain this situation:

A) Despite Fox News rhetoric, some News Corp employee is waging their personal “War on Christmas”.

B) Some News Corp employee truly hates children, and is grinning like the Grinch at the thought of a soon-to-be disillusioned child who asked Santa for a Barbie but instead finds a talking George W. Bush doll under the tree.

C) Some News Corp employee misread the sign for “Toys for Tots” and thought it said, “Depository for Useless Gag Gifts”

Welcome to the holidays!

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


This is a call to arms!
Due to some arcane, Daconian rule dating back to the 1800s, newly elected Florida representative Frederica Wilson will have to forsake her glorious hat collection while on the House floor!

This fashionable lawmaker has over 300 hats. In fact, she has a room in her house devoted to them. If these hats are all as sublime as the one pictured here, how can we the American people be deprived of seeing them? Imagine how much more stimulating CSPAN would be with Frederica Wilson's colorful hats; festooned with rhinestones, feathers and sequins. I know I'd be proud to obey any laws passed while Frederica Wilson was wearing one of her divine hats.

Sure, Ms. Wilson will be pressing House Speaker John Boehner to overturn this cruel rule. But we can't afford to sit back and do nothing.

Fellow Americans, stand tall. Write your local Congressman. Demand the right to enjoy Frederica Wilson's hat collection!

Saturday, November 20, 2010


The last cell phone hold out.
That's me.
Yeah, you heard me. I don't have a cell phone.
I ain't lyin'!
People think I'm completely insane. And, they're right. I'm a loon.
But the reactions I get when I reveal this shocking bit of info are pretty funny. I might as well follow it up by explaining that I get to work each day in a covered wagon.

It's just that I don't want to be so...available. I don't want people thinking they can reach me whenever they want.
While you probably can't imagine not being able to negotiate a night out or call your pals at any given moment, I can't imagine being tethered to a phone. The very notion sends a chill down my spine.

Plus, I like chance encounters. Cell phones tend to ensure more certainty. Happenstance is hard to come by these days, when you know exactly where someone is going to be at any given moment.
Think about it: If Romeo and Juliet had cell phones, nobody would have died.

(Huh. That doesn't really illustrate my point too well, does it? In fact, that could be an ad campaign, now that I think about it. Famous fictional tragedies that could have been avoided with cell phones. Nokia, are you listening?)

But of course I have a landline. And check this out--
With a little help from Pottery Barn, I made a replica of Salvador Dali's Lobster Phone:

And here's the original Dali Lobster phone, created in 1936:

And here's my dad eating lobster in Honolulu, circa 1977:

Yeah, I know.
Not the most coherent post.
But if you came to Peon Confidential for clarity, you're in the wrong place.
The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be...

Thursday, November 18, 2010


Behold, the definitive Mama D's Arts Bordello Creed.

I'm laying this creed down...
For anyone who hasn't been to a Mama D's show.
For anyone who has and didn't know what the fuck was going on.
For anyone who wants to ride this artistic revolution with me.

Inside the Arts Bordello and beyond, we hold these tenets to be true.

We believe in the power of gorgeous words and elegant prose.
We believe in savvy bitches and bold motherfuckers.
We believe in the glory of music, film, sexual freedom and dance.
We believe in effortless charm and calculated risks, high quality pens and cheap booze, hustlers, raw talent and rare intelligence, rock n' roll rebellion, painters, sculptors and plumbers.

We believe in God. All Gods. Whichever God you pray to can be found in the Arts Bordello. We believe in the sanctity of the sinner. We believe that the creation of art is a form of prayer.

We believe in the art of selling art; making a profit from your talent is no crime. We do not believe in the false nobility of starving for your art. Without commerce, art has no audience. And art without an audience is just masturbation. We'd rather fuck with an audience than masturbate.

We do not believe in franchise. There is only one Mama D's Arts Bordello. We are a New York institution for the disenfranchised. If you are awkward, strange, weird or broken-welcome to the Arts Bordello. We will find something to love about you.

If you want therapy, call your psychiatrist.
If you want artistic salvation, come to Mama D's Arts Bordello.

Thursday, November 11, 2010


Fellow Peons, I was not prepared for this news. No, I never thought I'd be penning an ode to the Tuberous Bushcricket. Yet here I am, clacking away. You see, according to the AFP, this little species of bushcricket has the biggest balls of any creature in the whole world!

Now, some of you out there might be thinking, "No fucking way, man. My goolies are way bigger than that little fucker's nutsack."

But you'd be wrong. Dead wrong. Because this Testicle Titan drags around a set of stones that are 13.8 percent of his body mass. That's like your sorry cock nestled in between two tires weighing 22 pounds each.

So today when you're stuck in traffic or an elevator in which Ned from Accounting just unleashed a toxic fart, remember the Tuberous Bushcricket, and realize your troubles are very small in comparison.

Tuesday, November 09, 2010


I've decided that the next Mama D's Arts Bordello theme is: "Rock n' Roll Salvation".

Description? A lyric from David Bowie, "Until there was rock you only had God."

Thus, today we pay our respects to rock n' roll goddess Debbie Harry.

I have always loved this woman, from the minute I knew what rock n' roll was.
Her icy beauty; frozen between a slap and a kiss is legendary.
Her incredibly marketable voice; sometimes bitchy, sometimes cooing was the bridge between punk and new wave.

And more than anything-that mouth. That gorgeous sneer that says come worship me...but not too close.
It says fuck you if you don't take me seriously.
It says I am an icon, whether you like it or not.

Let's give it up for trailblazer Debbie Harry.
Her glorious mix of punk credo and Hollywood glamour; all wrapped up in a bleached blonde cartoon will never be topped:


P.S. Kudos to Mama D's cohort Mike Ser for putting together the cool split screen for this post.

Wednesday, November 03, 2010


Get ready fellow Peons!
I'm letting you in on a glorious new fashion accessory...waaaay before anyone else knows about it.

Check it:
It's the one-of-a kind Bun Hole Hat!
Designed by yours truly and knitted by a good pal of mine in Brooklyn, this hat is a delight.
With the Bun Hole Hat, you don't have to choose between wearing your hair in a bun or wearing a hat. No sir! There's a built in hole for your bun. Just pull your hair through, adjust the hat and you're one hot tamale; ready to take on the world!

You'll be the belle of the ball, the cock of the walk, the coolest bitch in town.

That's right ladies and gentlemen--prepare for the conquest of Bun Hole Hat!
Soon to be seen on the heads of stylish motherfuckers everywhere...

Saturday, October 30, 2010


Happy Halloween weekend everyone! I hope you all have a deliciously spooky time, and that no one in your neighborhood gives out "nature's candy" (i.e. raisins) as Halloween treats.
Check it out--here's my costume. Guess which one is the real Andy Warhol?

Thursday, October 28, 2010


Patti Stanger, I’ve noticed that you and your two Goth love wranglers have descended upon NYC for a new season of “The Millionaire Matchmaker”.
You’ve proclaimed that us New Yorkers are in dire need of your dating advice.
Well, that may be.
But when you had the nerve to say that New York women aren’t as stylish as L.A. women, that’s when I say: back it up, bitch.
It’s the East Coast -West Coast style divide and I’m here to represent.

Let's kick this off with a few defining factors about New York Style:

1. Unlike L.A., most of us live without a car here in New York. So our style is both fashionable and functional. We actually walk in this town. A lot. You might have a business meeting in Midtown, a lunch date in TriBeCa and then cheer on a friend doing a poetry reading in the Bowery. Moreover, we run up and down the stairs to our walk-up apartments, chase down the hot guy who just crossed the street and sprint for the bus in our cute shoes. We navigate sidewalk grates, subway steps, and those clanging metal doors that shield underground caverns below restaurants and delis.

2. Walking more than you do, we battle things you L.A. women don’t have to worry about—like mud puddles, dripping AC window units and gusts of hot air whooshing up from subway grates. We can handle the unexpected with flair. As a result, New York women are savvy, smart and capable. A New York woman can hail a cab, text her boyfriend and tell the jackass on the stoop to fuck off—all at the same time.

3. We're on display more than you. You can go to a restaurant, show off your revealing outfit then retreat to your car. We can't. The sidewalks here are perpetual runways.

4. Unlike L.A, New York has real seasons. So we have more diverse ways of expressing our personal style than you do. We look adorable in our gloves and hats in the winter, our rain boots in the spring, our flirty dresses in the summer and our chic trench coats in the fall.

5. We believe in diversity of beauty. We don't have a cookie cutter, botoxed, plastic surgery-sculpted definition of what a woman should look like. We appreciate women of all sizes, ethnic backgrounds and fashion perspectives.

6. This is reflected in our after hours style too. In L.A., it seems like you just wear as little as possible and that’s considered stylish club attire. And sure—L.A. is full of beautiful women. You’ve got tanned skin and toned thighs and you look great. You’re very sexy. But we're sexy in New York too. The difference is, when we head out for the night, we take the opportunity to try out outrageous looks, unique styles. If you look around a New York club or bar, you might find a sexy librarian, a retro 60s seductress, a motorcycle hellion, a glamazon. It’s not just about showing flesh. It’s about showcasing style.

And while we’re on the subject of clubbing--when New York women go out, we go out. We’ve got stamina. That defines us too. There’s no finer sight than coming home as the sun is rising over the East River.

Now, I visit L.A. on a regular basis. And I love your town. It's great. But your bars and clubs shut down absurdly early. People are booted out on the street at 1:30 am. What’s worse…many of them actually go home. Like, to sleep.

This is totally uncivilized.

New York women are just getting started at 1:30. On a Thursday. When there’s a sales presentation scheduled for 10am the next morning.

In conclusion:
Patti Stanger, alias Millionaire Matchmaker, I wouldn’t dream of speaking on behalf of my city.
New Yorkers are quite capable of doing that for themselves.
It’s what we do best.
But from me to you: Patti, you don’t know shit about true style.

New York women kick ass…and look damn good doing it.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010


It has been well-established that I love author Jackie Collins. So when I heard she opened up an on-line Jackie Collins store, I was excited:

Now, the keychains and notebooks are nice enough. But I have a few ideas to spice things up a bit.
Jackie, if you're reading this, I think your hardcore fans like me might appreciate some of these items:

1. Jackie Collins brand condoms: "The Cock Sock of Rock Stars"

2. The Jackie Collins Database Management System: "The Only Software Application That Gets You Hard"

3. The patented two-in-one Jackie Collins Pooper Scooper/Bedazzler: "Tired of ordinary dog shit? Bedazzle it!"

4. Jackie Collins brand Feminine Deodorant Spray. Comes in three scents: The Movie Mogul Magnet, The Washed Up Actor Repellent, and The Sweet Smell of Success

5. The Jackie Collins brand Potato Harvester: "For all your Potato Farming Needs"

I'm not sure if it was really her, but "Jackie Collins" left a message on my voicemail: "What the hell is going on around here? A Jackie Collins Potato Harvester? Whose idea of a joke is this? How many of these did we order? You're fired!"

Tuesday, October 26, 2010


This year, I've decided to dress up as Andy Warhol for Halloween. I figure this is a safer bet than some of the costumes I've worn in the past.

When I went as feisty "Valley of the Dolls" author Jacqueline Susann, I got into a cat fight, lost one fake eyelash and spilled a martini all over my fake Pucci outfit.
(But for the record, I treated guitar hero Slash with the utmost respect.)

When I went as perpetually intoxicated gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson, I became a belligerent drunk for the evening; chomping down on my cigarette holder and spewing obscenities at anyone who crossed my path.
(Including the mild-mannered Scooby Doo you see in this photo.)

Now, from what I've read about Andy Warhol, he was a quiet man who liked to watch the circus around him with an impassive gaze. Surely this is a great way to stay out of trouble for the evening.

Eh, who am I kidding? I'll find some way to make a nuisance of myself. I always do. Even in a fancy lobster restaurant.

Sunday, October 17, 2010


Hello there pals and cohorts!
Just letting you know that I've been compiling all the Mama D's Arts Bordello videos in one convenient spot.
I have a Youtube channel now, which you can find here:


At some point, as soon as I've figured out how to light myself properly so I don't look like I'm locked up in a dungeon, I'll be doing a video blog there too. (Yes, I know it's called a "vlog". But that sounds slightly menacing to me. Like a cyborg or a blood clot.)

In fact, that was the reason I created the fucking channel in the first place. Hence the channel title.

But stay tuned! Subscribe if you like. By the power of Thomas Edison, I'll be vlogging before you know it...

Saturday, October 16, 2010


We had a great, zany show on Friday. Thanks to all you passengers who climbed aboard our sinking cruise ship. Mama D's Arts Bordello is growing and we're happy to keep adding new members to our wacky family.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


Today is a watershed moment in Mama D's Arts Bordello history...
We got a beautiful red check next to our "Shipwreck" show in Time Out New York magazine!
That's right--we're an "Own This City" critic's pick for this week:


Hooray--critics and audiences agree...Mama D's Arts Bordello is an ass-kickin' good show.
Come check us out on Friday the 15th!

Friday, October 08, 2010


As a curly haired person, I have wondered something for a long time: why aren't curly haired women allowed to anchor the news?

If you just plug in "news anchor" to Google images, you will not find a single curly haired woman in the bunch. Not one! While there is more ethnic diversity than there used to be, that diversity stops when it comes to hairstyle. All women must submit to the stereotypical, straightened, laquered news helmet. (See Megyn Kelly above.)

So I want to know: what the hell is wrong with curly hair?

Are curly haired women viewed as untrustworthy? Unprofessional? Crazy? Unkempt?

Who decided that a woman with curly hair can't read a TelePrompter? News organizations will occasionally let a curly haired woman report from a war zone, but she tends to be wearing a flack jacket too. So I guess the curly hair is a prop, conveying the message that, "I'm a serious journalist. You can tell because I have no time to flat iron my hair as the bullets whizz past my ears."

So I say enough with this shameful ban on curly haired women at the anchor desk.
It's time to show some Curly Pride.

Monday, October 04, 2010


So Halloween is creeping up on us, as gourds and skeletons take their place in October's seasonal showcase. (Actually, gourds get to savor the spotlight longer than skeletons, as their fame lasts all through November. Lap it up gourds! Shine on you misshapen motherfuckers!)

The point is, I've been trying to figure out what I'd like to be for Halloween this year, and found myself perusing the Buy Costumes website.

I examined the Fetching Fraulein ensemble, the Sexy Scallywag attire, and the noble homage to our Native American ancestors, the "Pocahottie" getup. Then I found this:

90s Grunge Guy Costume.

Now this just cracked me up. It appears that Grunge, once a backlash against hair metal theatricality, has become a defined costume; complete with the "grunge hair" attached to the skull cap...available for $24.99.

Even the shield of 90s irony couldn't change the fact that time makes Halloween spectacles of us all.

What would Kurt Cobain say?

Friday, October 01, 2010


That's me.
I've been under the weather for the past three days: snot flowing, vomit spewing and Theraflu swilling.
On Monday night I decided to paint the living room wall red, and I think the fumes combined with the rude fucker who coughed all over me at the supermarket are what did me in.
I suspect my Peon Pal who refuses to cook would be the first to tell me that this is an excellent reason to stay out of the supermarket. But I'll still take my chances.
Anyway, the photo above showcases what the wall looks like now.
I think it was worth the aggravation.
What do you think?

Wednesday, September 22, 2010


We've got some news to report direct from the United Kingdom's most venerable, high-brow, elite newspaper, The Sun. According to their sources, hard-working semen was instrumental in covert MI6 operations:


That's right.
James Bond didn't waste all his spunk on slinky dames. Some of it was used to defend The Empire.

I'm not sure if this story is even true. This is from The Sun, after all. (Which I shamefully loved reading when I lived in London. It's a bit like the NY Post: odious yet very addictive.)
But I can tell this journalist had an excellent time writing this jizz-filled historical account:

Walter Kirke wrote in June 1915 that Mansfield Cumming, the first chief of the SIS, was "making enquiries for invisible inks at the London University". In October he noted that he "heard from C that the best invisible ink is semen", which did not react to usual methods of detection.

It also had the advantage of being easily available.

One member of staff close to Cumming, Frank Stagg, said he would never forget his bosses' delight when the Deputy Chief Censor said one of his staff had discovered that "semen would not react to iodine vapour".

Close to Cumming, indeed.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010


There's nothing like a high quality insult. Delivering them is an art form that seems to be disappearing in a sea of unoriginal expletives and tired hand gestures.
So here are a few of my favorite verbal assaults throughout the ages. And if you've got a good one, add it to this steaming pot of bitchery.

1. "Don't be so humble, you're not that great." -Golda Meir to Moshe Dayan

2. "He looks like a female llama who has been surprised in the bath." -Winston Churchill on Charles De Gaulle

3. "It is only too easy to catch people's attention by doing something worse than anyone else has dared to do it before."
- Charivari on Claude Monet

4. “He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”
-William Faulkner on Ernest Hemingway

5. “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”
-Ernest Hemingway on William Faulkner

6. "He couldn't ad-lib a fart after a baked-bean dinner."- Johnny Carson on Chevy Chase

7. "Nixon's motto was: If two wrongs don't make a right, try three." -Norman Cousins

8. "He is suffering from halitosis of the intellect." -Harold Ickes on Huey Long

9. "So, you're the man who can't spell 'fuck." -Dorothy Parker to Norman Mailer after publishers had convinced Mailer to replace the word with a euphemism, 'fug,' in his 1948 book, "The Naked and the Dead."

10. "He was born with a silver foot in his mouth." - Ann Richards on George Bush

Monday, September 20, 2010


At Mama D's Arts Bordello, you'll find incredible musicians, storytellers, burlesque dancers, comics and magicians.
Not enough for ya?
Well don't forget about our World Famous Trivia Contest!
And for the first time ever we're giving you a sneak peek of a few of the wondrous prizes you could win.
Now, this trivia contest is all Love Boat related, so all of these prizes are "Things We Found When We Raided The Love Boat Costume Department".

Pictured above: Captain Stubing's knee socks, Charo's Realistic Looking Foam Falsies, and Isaac Washington's cocktail shaker.

And remember...there are still two more prizes that will remain a surprise until our cruise sets sail on October 15th!

Friday, September 17, 2010


Color me sad.
After 31 years, the Liberace Museum in Las Vegas will be shutting its glamorous doors for good in exactly one month.
I went there a few years ago (see above photo) and was dazzled by the array of costumes, the glittering gift shop (I bought my pal a dishtowel) and the enthusiasm of the docents.
So you can imagine just how shocked I was to find that this fabulous museum was rife with corruption!

The Las Vegas Review-Journal reports:
One former musician at the museum claims internal factors inflicted damage on the institution. "It was like a rotten onion, layer after layer after layer," says Wes Winters, who performed at the museum from 2003 to 2008 after winning the Liberace Play-Alike Competition.

He cites a staff meeting [where] "everyone was threatened that if you questioned anything, questioned authority, you would be terminated. They're threatening these 80-year-old women, employees and volunteers."

Now there's a headline:
Liberace Impersonators and 80-year-old Devotees Threatened By Domineering Liberace Museum Overlords

These are bleak days indeed.

Thursday, September 16, 2010


Mama D's tech guru Danny Figueroa just created this fantastic Love Boat open for our Shipwreck show.
With such a stellar talent pool, you can't miss this boat!

Wednesday, September 15, 2010


Ahoy there, we're a month away from our big show!

S.O.S motherfuckers!

Get ready for a night of nautical mayhem; be prepared for choppy waters and an iceberg or two. Come hear some stormy stories from Coree Spencer and Michael Maiello, see a tragic magic show by Nick Ignazzi and listen to doomed tunes from Jason Trachtenburg and The Pendulum Swings before our cruise ship sinks to the ocean floor.

Plus: We've got The Love Boat Trivia Contest, where you can win prizes we found when we raided the Love Boat Costume Department!

Make sure you're on the cruise ship when we set sail into oblivion.

TIME: 8pm
DATE: Friday, October 15th
PLACE: Parkside Lounge
ADDRESS: 317 E. Houston
COVER: $5.00

Friday, September 10, 2010


I used to work with this crazy guy from New Jersey. But this was before "Jersey Shore". So I didn't know that he wasn't quite the original character I thought he was. Far from it. In fact, he wore the full stereotypical uniform: spikey hair molded into place with copious amounts of gel, orange tanning booth tan, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a huge gold cross.

He used the terms "Bro" and "herb".
(For the uninitiated, here's how you use them in a sentence: "Yo Bro! Nah nah nah Bro, don't be such a fuckin' herb!")

We called him The Hurricane, because that's how it felt when he swept into the room. I have to say, he always livened up the afternoon.

Anyway, to make a little extra cash, he also worked at a gas station on the weekends. He really seemed to dig his job at the gas station. He claimed that "bangin' babes" often came in. Plus, he helped himself to free cigarettes. It was a dream gig, really.

Then one day, tragedy struck.

He stumbled into work in an uncharacteristically glum mood. He slumped into his seat and muttered, "Bro."

(Yes, even though I'm a woman, he still referred to me as "Bro".)

"Bro, I got fired from the fuckin' gas station."

"What happened?" I asked with vague concern.

"So, this fuckin' herb comes in with his dog of a daughter. Guy was such an asshole. Givin' me shit for nothin'. So I said to him, 'Get outta here. Get the fuck outta here. You're an asshole and your daughter looks like she ain't been fucked right in 10 years!'"

"Wow." I said. "That's some customer service."

"Yeah," he sighed. "How was I supposed to know she was only 15?"

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

LAGNIAPPE: A Choose Your Own Adventure Story

Last year Mama D's Arts Bordello did a "Choose Your Own Adventure" night, where four writers offered up four stories with multiple endings. The audience got to select the ending they wanted with the help of Myles the Applause-o-Meter Vixen. We had a lot of fun and Time Out Magazine gave us a great write up: CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE.
Today I'm posting the story I offered up at the show, with all possible endings. The ending the audience selected was B. Which one would YOU choose?


Standing in the heart of the French Quarter, you see New Orleans as a slightly over-ripe mango: juicy, succulent, but just on the verge of becoming rancid. The buildings are alive, weeds growing lazily from crumbling bricks. Roaches, slow moving and fat eat yesterday’s forgotten crumbs. The air is hot, damp and gluey. It feels used, as if it came from a balloon that someone deflated days after the birthday party.

You look at your girlfriend through bleary eyes. A slow stream of sweat trickles down her collarbone. A recycled breeze blows, carrying the perfumed scent of a famous psychic at a filthy sidewalk café; the health inspector long since bribed away.

Your stomach grumbles. A low, nasty growl. You feel a slow, hot, wet fart steam through your butt cheeks. It dissipates into the muggy heat of New Orleans. You glance down at the sidewalk and notice a crawfish head, a broken string of Mardi Gras beads, dirty Band-Aid and a tarot card.

You are thirsty, and remember the plastic milk jug filled with Mexican Holy water you have at home. A friend of yours moved out of a big dusty house on St. John’s Bayou, and needed to get rid of a few things. So in addition to the Mexican Holy water, you got half a set of encyclopedias, a tiny crystal vase, and a broken TV tray.

As you wander around, typical French Quarter scenes are unfolding:

Wisconsin tourists on Bourbon Street look bewildered as a man with his head inside of a plastic barrel starts to sing a Louis Armstrong tune. His baritone voice is beautiful and the acoustics in the barrel are excellent.

United Cab drivers smoke cigarette after cigarette, lined up in front of the Monteleone Hotel on Royal Street. They talk about their ungrateful kids in college. You see a middle-aged conventioneer walking two steps in front of a pimply hooker in scuffed white heels. She frowns and checks her watch. The conventioneer does not open the hotel door for her. Neither does the bellboy.

On Decatur Street, a skinny clown stops to re-affix his nose as a child complains that his balloon animal just doesn’t look like a dinosaur.

You hear a clap of thunder and rain begins to pour, crushing flowers on the hats of carriage-pulling horses who clip clop past Jackson Square.

You and your girlfriend take shelter in your favorite bar on Toulouse Street. It’s not your favorite bar because of the atmosphere (to be honest it’s disgusting and they can’t put locks on the bathroom doors because too many people were doing coke) but because of your favorite bartender.

Her name is Libby and she has a mysterious scar above her lips, which are always painted shade of vermillion that the tube calls Flirt. She wears flowing sundresses, and her bra strap is always showing. She smells of chicory, jasmine and sex.

While you and your girlfriend drink Abita Amber and Ruthie the Duck Lady’s duck waddles behind the bar, you listen to Libby tell everyone about last night’s crowd;

“Conrad Bourgeois came in here-you know, the butcher from Schweggemans. Said he had the money to pay for his drinks, but he’d have to tip with beef jerky. I’m not kidding. So at 1am he leaves. Then 4am rolls around and the strippers from Big Daddy’s come over. They all have plastic bags stuffed with beef jerky.”

Suddenly Ruthie the Duck Lady shouts, “Look out!” You turn around to see the skinny clown from Decatur Street pointing a .44 Magnum at Libby.

“Baby, you can’t leave me,” he pleads. “I love you. But if I can’t have you, no one can.”

Just then, the Wisconsin tourists pop their heads inside. The fanny packed wife says, “Look at this Bob, isn’t this cute. It’s a real old fashioned New Orleans bar. Oh no--Bob! That clown has a gun!”

“Nobody move a fuckin’ muscle!” snarls the skinny clown. “Except you two. Get over there.”

The Wisconsin tourists shuffle over to the corner.

The door bursts open again and the conventioneer from the Monteleone hotel runs in. He’s naked, chased by the pimply hooker. She’s wielding a knife. “Gimme my money you asshole!” she snaps. “I don’t care if you couldn’t get it up, a deal’s a deal!”

Libby pulls out a bow and arrow from behind the bar and points it at the pimply hooker. “Drop the knife. It’s bad for tourism when conventioneers get killed in this town and since the locals tip in beef jerky, I need the tourists.”

You look at the bow and arrow, the gun and the knife. Do you:

A. Jump over the bar and grab Libby’s bow and arrow, copping a feel in the process.

B. Kick the skinny clown in the nuts.

C. Offer to pay off the pimply hooker.

Think carefully now. Have you made your decision? Then read on...

ANSWER A: You leap over the bar, grab Libby’s bow and arrow with the right hand and grab one of her tits with the left. The skinny clown shrieks: “You filthy bastard! Get your hands off her!” He starts firing randomly. One bullet hits the conventioneer in the bare ass, giving him a heart attack. He dies instantly. Another bullet dislodges the chipped chandelier, killing the tourists from Wisconsin, shattering their cameras and squashing their fanny packs. The next three bullets manage to kill Ruthie the Duck lady, your girlfriend and the pimply hooker. Libby leaps back, accidentally drops the bow and arrow and slams into the cabinet behind the bar. It topples over onto her as bottles of booze come crashing all around. You dodge the cabinet, grab the bow and arrow and aim it at the clown. He shoots you right between the eyes. You’re dead. The clown hoofs it out into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by Ruthie’s duck, the sound of Zydeco music filling the air.

ANSWER B: You kick the skinny clown square in the nuts. He drops the gun, which slides over to the tourists from Wisconsin. The wife picks it up. “Look Bob, a real New Orleans gun!” she says. The gun accidentally goes off, going straight through Libby’s throat, ricocheting off the bar, boomeranging back and killing the Wisconsin wife. Just before dying, Libby releases the bow and arrow, killing the clown. The clown slumps over onto the naked conventioneer, giving him a heart attack. He dies instantly. The Wisconsin husband grabs the gun, which goes off again, killing Ruthie the Duck Lady. The pimply hooker leaps up and stabs the Wisconsin husband 12 times and says, “That’s for killing Ruthie the Duck Lady, you piece of shit!” You’re about to grab your girlfriend and get out of there when she gasps, “Honey, I think the beer was poisoned.” You both die a horrible beer-related death. The pimply hooker surmises the bloody scene, scrambles over to the cash register, grabs a fistful of cash and tucks it into her purse. She saunters into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by Ruthie’s duck, the sound of jazz and laughter filling the air.

ANSWER C: You make a grab for your wallet to pay off the hooker. The skinny clown says, “I said nobody move!” and shoots you dead. Libby raises her bow and arrow and the pimply hooker leaps at her, slitting her throat. “Don’t you touch him! His balloon animals are works of art!” Libby slumps to the floor. The clown shrieks, “You killed my Libby!” and starts shooting up the joint. He shoots the pimply hooker, then your girlfriend and moves on to the Wisconsin couple bellowing, “I fucking hate fanny packs!” Another bullet ricochets off the bar and hits the naked conventioneer in the penis. “Not my penis!” he cries. The pimply hooker looks up from her pool of blood and gurgles, “What do you care, it doesn’t work anyway,” before dying. The conventioneer grabs her knife from her dead hands and says, “Life isn’t worth living without my penis,” and stabs himself in the chest. Ruthie the Duck Lady ambushes the clown with the bow and arrow, spearing him in the right temple. She rips it out and spears him in the left one too, just to make sure he’s dead. Dropping the bow and arrow, she grabs her Mint Julep and wanders out into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by her duck, the sound of a brass band filling the air.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010


Some people collect decorative spoons or thimbles from their trips to foreign lands.
Me, I collect toilet paper.
Actually, I don't even collect it personally.
No. Since I have the best friends a girl could ask for, I am able to wipe my ass with toilet paper from lands I've never visited.
In the photo above, you'll see a roll of toilet paper all the way from Amsterdam.
That's right.
When I wipe my ass with this toilet paper, I can almost see the beautiful tulips and smell the hash smoke wafting out of a quaint cafe on the Leidseplein.

So, if any of you are planning any overseas trips, I urge you to think of me and my International House of Toilet Paper. You'll be helping this broke writer travel the world in my own special way.

Much obliged.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010


An excellent way to tell that you're not living in a deluxe apartment building is when you go to take out your trash and find that one of your neighbors has disposed of their BONGZILLA box.

I hasten to add that I do not live in a dorm or frat house.

I really cannot imagine what one of my neighbors is doing with BONGZILLA, a.k.a "The Ultimate Party Fixture!" This is Midtown Manhattan, not Daytona Beach. I can't even buy more than 4 rolls of toilet paper at a time (which is why I'm always running out and stealing it from bars) because there isn't enough room. Yet this thirsty party animal has ample space in their urban abode for BONGZILLA.

Somewhere in this building it's perpetually Spring Break and I need to find out why.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010


By now, JetBlue flight attendant Steven Slater has become a symbol of fighting bullshit with a flourish:


This guy is a crusader in an era of overbooked flights, rude passengers and uncomfortable seats. Plus he has panache. But it got me to thinking how much cooler any resignation would be if you could exit stage left by zooming down an inflatable slide:

Imagine Richard Nixon resigning as President by shouting, "Fuck you America! You won't have Richard Nixon to kick around anymore" grabbing Pat by the hand and slipping out of the White House on an inflatable slide. Or if David Lee Roth quit Van Halen by packing up all his Aqua Net shrieking, "Fuck you Eddie! I'm out of here" and releasing an inflatable slide tucked away in his lycra pants.

The bottom line is:
If this shitty economy has taught us anything it's that there is no job security. We're all adrift, and you've got to sort out your path in a unique way. So if you're going to quit, take a lesson from Steven Slater and do it up right. Burn that fucking bridge down with a monogramed Zippo.

Thursday, August 05, 2010


For years I've described a certain kind of plain woman simply as "WOMAN".
She's the kind of woman who is fit, has good clear skin, healthy teeth, nice hair.
She is a nice physical specimen.
But she has no style and is duller than a non-alcoholic wedding reception.

I use this term because they remind me of Biology textbook illustrations like the one above.
There's nothing wrong with this woman. But no one, not even a horny 17-year-old is going to get a boner by looking at her.

The funny thing is, I've noticed over the years that a lot of men wind up marrying "WOMAN".
Sure, they'll date the gorgeous TV producer, the hot model, the sexy actress/waitress. But somehow they hit the age of 35 and marry "WOMAN".

I actually asked a sampling of men in the Wall Street area about this phenomenon. I asked them if they'd noticed that a lot of men tend to date the hot ones and marry the dull ones. I wondered if they'd even know what I was talking about. Or if they'd pretend not to get it. But to my surprise, they all knew exactly what I meant. And you know what most of them said?

"Because we're tired."

Wednesday, July 28, 2010