Check it, Peons: Your CNN Humiliation Compartmentalized

Friday, May 28, 2010



1. I heard through the grapevine that Bill McGillicutty's company is planning to transfer him to London where he will be living with his gorgeous wife in a multi-million dollar townhouse.

2. Yet here I am, unemployed, living in this shitbox with my mustachioed wife.

3. Bill McGillicutty is goin' down, fuckers.

4. That's better. Now, I'll put on my glasses and spy on the hot college girls next door.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010


One thing that I have always loved about working in news is that when people enter the newsroom to begin work for the day, they don't always greet you with the standard "How are you?" that you get in other corporate environments.
We newspeople are a little peculiar.
The most extreme example of this phenomenon can be found here: ASS ASSESSMENTS.

Years ago, a CNN co-worker of mine shuffled into the studio on an overnight shift and sighed, "My gynecologist completely humiliated me."
I raised an eyebrow and she continued with:
"He's an old guy. I just don't think he understands the art of chitchat with his patients. But there I was with my feet in the stirrups, my hoo hoo on display, he's digging in with the speculum and says, "So last weekend I went Largemouth Bass fishing with my buddy Joe."

P.S. Happy Birthday Eve Ensler!

Monday, May 24, 2010


First things first: tabouli isn't the best thing to eat for breakfast. Not sure why really. And I keep waiting for the day when I'll just magically get one of those fully-stocked, well-organized adult refrigerators packed with Tupperware and I won't have to eat weird shit for breakfast. I'll eat toast with delicious raspberry jam or maybe chocolate chip pancakes. But somehow, I still wind up eating tabouli, a pickle and a hunk of stale cheese.

I just read this headline: "Man Sucked into Sausage Seasoning Machine".

Now, I hasten to add that this man from Danvers, Massachusetts is okay. And he probably ate a better, less tabouli-centric breakfast than me today.

It's just that...I don't think it's possible to live that down. The Sausage Seasoning Machine Incident will be incorporated into wedding toasts, bar stories, family lore and each time someone introduces him to someone new, it will be followed up with "He was sucked into a sausage seasoning machine once."

He might as well just get the t-shirt printed up and embrace it.

Thursday, May 20, 2010


This morning I took the trash out and found this note attached to the garbage chute:
Whoever on this floor dumps cat litter down the chute and sprays poop on the floor should be very ashamed.

I'm watching you!


I wonder how it feels to be the Sherlock Holmes of cat poop.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010


Fresh from Photoshop: Mama D's newest, coolest flyer yet. Click to enlarge your bloody enjoyment...

Friday, May 14, 2010


I am sweeping up the cigarette butts and deflated balloons, recycling the beer cans, taking down the limp streamers and unclogging the toilet because my pity party of the past two weeks is over. I even deleted a couple of pathetic posts.
See, that's the dangerous thing about pity parties today.
It used to be that when you threw yourself one, it was a small affair. You'd mope around the house, watch bad TV, eat fattening food, kill a bottle of wine.
But now, we send out invitations to our pity parties, through our blogs, Facebook and Twitter. Look at me! I'm miserable! Boo hoo!
I can't believe I succumbed to it.
It's embarrassing.

The point is, I'm back.
The ridiculous, curiously attired, peculiar person you've come to love (okay...barely tolerate) has returned and I've sent the glum bitch packing.

I've never been so happy to see a party end.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010


I was carousing with a friend over the weekend, and we passed by what used to be infamous Limelight club on 6th Avenue. Built between 1844-46, this Gothic structure began as The Holy Communion Episcopal Church. In 1983, nightclub impresario Peter Gatien turned it into a throbbing shrine to decadence. Early on it was a place to hear New Wave music and later, a stage for 90s club kids to show off their sartorial creations. In 2001 the Limelight shut its doors and briefly reopened as Avalon.

It's now the Limelight Marketplace, with over 60 shops to rummage through. We popped inside this Church of Commerce out of curiosity and vague disgust. You can buy a dress for your dog now and pose for your free commemorative photo. The sign by the photo area says, "Get your 15 minutes of fame!"

As shocked as people were about the initial de-sanctification, this desecration seems worse. While I never danced at The Limelight, (I moved to New York after it had closed) I used to read about it in Spy Magazine as a bored teenager on Whidbey Island. I dreamt of crazy parties, outrageous behavior and creative, glamorous creatures of the night.

Now this hallowed club ground is filled with dull, boring, unoriginal motherfuckers who would never have set foot in there before. It's wholesome family entertainment now, because shopping has become an American religion. Perhaps this Church of Commerce will become the new consumerist Mecca.

Here's what I don't get:

What the hell happened to New York club culture?

Why is it no one wants to dance in NYC anymore? And don't tell me it's because people have no money. They seem to have oceans of cash to buy stupid, usless shit.

Why is it no one wants to put on ridiculous clothes and let loose underneath some flashing lights? Doesn't anyone need the DJ to save their life anymore? Or is it just that credit cards and air conditioned malls are fulfilling that fantasy now? How did we get to a point where we'd rather spend money purchasing clutter over an evening of getting sweaty on the dancefloor? What's the point of having a closet full of shoes if you never dance in them?

Wednesday, May 05, 2010


I've lived in New York for eight years now, and there are times you catch yourself in the process of becoming a real New Yorker. Like the first time I stuck my head out the window and shouted "SHUT UUUUUUUUUP!" at the dogs barking in the next apartment. Or the first time I began a traditional New York conversation with a stranger at Duane Reade while waiting forever (which in New York is 5 minutes) at the checkout. This conversation always starts with, "Can you believe this?" accompanied by a slight shrug and an outstretched palm. And of course there's the first time I banged on the hood of a taxi because it was too far into the crosswalk. As if on cue, the pedestrian next to me yelled at the driver, "Hey! We're walkin' here!"

So when I read the following story, I tried to put it into NYC context:
COPENHAGEN (AFP) – A Copenhagen bus company has put "love seats" on 103 of its vehicles for people looking to make a new friend ... or even something more.
"Even love at first sight is possible on the bus," said a spokesman for the British owned Arriva company to explain the two seats on each bus that are covered in red cloth and a "love seat" sign.
"You never know what will happen," spokesman Martin Wex told AFP. "We cannot guarantee that you will find the person of your dreams. We are just offering the possibility for people to communicate, to smile a bit more and possibly, to win someone's heart."
The experiment, which according to driver testimony has lightened the mood on buses, is to last two weeks, Wex said. "Some drivers have noticed smiling girls sitting in these seats," hoping for interesting company, he said.

Love seats? On public transportation?
Holy shit.
I cannot imagine getting on a stinky, crowded NYC bus to find cute little love seats with signs. Nor can I imagine smiling girls in those seats, waiting for interesting company.
Here's what would happen if this concept were exported to my city:

Girl gets on bus. She's late for work. She's checking her Blackberry and sits down, not realizing it's a "Love Seat". Horrible, fat ogre in stained sweatpants gets on bus and sits next to her. He smells bad. She cringes. He leans in. She plasters herself against the side of the bus in a desperate effort not to touch him. He can't distract her from the Blackberry so finally he says, "Look at this!" and whips out his penis. She shrieks, "What the fuck are you doing?" A college kid pulls out his iPhone and snaps a picture of the pervert. It's sent directly to the NYPD. An old lady points her finger and says, "You're a pig! That's what you are. A pig!"
The horrible, fat ogre in stained sweat pants makes a hasty getaway at the next stop.
The old lady turns and says to the college kid, "Can you believe this?"

Monday, May 03, 2010


I think it's pretty fitting that the Rolling Stones 1972 album, "Exile on Main Street" has been re-released now.
We're wallowing in the pop cultural after-effects of the American Idol hype machine, with reality TV rendering the bulk of the populace into fake celebrities. We're realizing that our major food sources are flavored with high fructose corn syrup and it's making us fat and stupid. People pretend to fight for justice but they can't even spell the words correctly on their protest signs.

So damn it, we need this filthy, muddy, messy album to remind us of what honesty sounds like.

This album is authentic and unwieldy. There's no autotune. This is real music with intelligent lyrics. When they recorded it, The Rolling Stones had already gone through their shiny pop star era and were now rich, druggy, debauched and had probably been exposed to every STD known to man. This album reflects that state of malaise. It's a sonic lens flare; gorgeous, hazy and self-indulgent. I bet the recording studio smelled like B.O., pot and just a touch of expensive cologne.

If you've never heard "Exile on Main Street" before, don't you dare just download one song. This is an album, not a collection of singles. Listen to the whole thing. Don't watch TV or get on the computer. Crank it up, turn out the lights and listen. Hear that? That's the sound of rock n' roll louche life.