THE DOG HOUSE TAVERN ON WHIDBEY ISLAND

The Dog House Tavern is a weathered, red wooden structure built by the Olympic Game Club in 1908. Over the years it has hosted vaudeville shows, prize fights, silent movie screenings, proms, basketball games, temperance meetings, and all night gambling events. Boozy gamblers would sleep on cots in the upstairs room to avoid the "dog house" status awaiting them with their wives at home. During prohibition in 1933 it officially became The Dog House Tavern.

Being such an old, rickety looking building, many Whidbey Islanders wondered if The Dog House would collapse under the weight of history and rain, sliding into the Puget Sound one dark night. But The Dog was built tough. It could withstand generations of poker faced cheaters, rustlers, hustlers and midnight floozies.

Now this historic building might disappear in a different way. It's up for auction on April 23rd, and its fate remains uncertain. [UPDATE: The auction has been postponed for a week.] If someone buys The Dog House just to tear it down, I'll be heartbroken...even if the food there often gave me heartburn.

The Dog House Tavern played a central role in my teenage years. Nobody there gave a shit if we sat in the restaurant area; singing sitcom theme songs, annoying the paying customers while we drank water or nursed one cup of coffee. They never complained if someone sat by the totem pole at the backdoor, practicing three chords on a guitar. Occasionally, someone would put a quarter in the player piano and we'd ironically dance until tourists would want to take our picture. Then we'd sneer at them and leave.

They hired teenagers too. One of my friends worked in the kitchen, and rumor had it he would spit in the Principal's chili when he came in. (This may have actually improved the flavor of the chili.)

Underneath The Dog House was a cave called "The Pleasure Dome". Admittedly, whoever named it this either had a fanciful imagination or very low standards. Because all you'd find inside were a stained mattress, some empty beer cans and a couple of used condoms.

But The Dog House deserves to be saved. It's an iconic piece of Pacific Northwest history. Families ate there, actors performed there, tourists boozed up there, and once I saw my dentist dressed in a devil's costume darting in there.

Of course, when I lived on Whidbey Island, I was never old enough to sit in the saloon area. So I'd love to go back there, stride through those swinging doors and take my seat at the bar where so many other misbehaved ramblers came before me.

AN ASSAULT ON MY TOILET SENSIBILITIES

I'm not sure how it happened exactly, but I have the dubious distinction of being the go-to person for all of your toilet related issues. This includes breaking news updates, jokes and the above photo. One of you sent it to me yesterday with the note, "This would look great in your bathroom, next to the porn pole."

SIDE NOTE: For those of you who have never seen my bathroom, I made lemonade out of lemons by decorating a particularly ugly pole with a collage of pictures from a 1980s Playboy magazine I found on St. Mark's Place. The best part? Joan Collins is the main attraction.

While I'm grateful for this bit of decorating advice, I have to say that this item is one of the most appalling things I've ever seen. I actually flinched when I looked at it. It's truly offensive. I was so disgusted that I asked myself these questions:

1. Who decided that wiping one's ass should be whimsical jaunt to Jolly Olde England?

2. What the hell is this butler wearing? Is that a half shirt? What's going on with his stomach?

3. Why is his finger so damn long?

4. When did it become acceptable for a butler to hold his nose with his freakishly long finger, thereby insinuating that my shit stinks?

5. How did I get to a point in my life where someone sees this repugnant item and automatically thinks of me?

ALL THAT GLITTERS: NEW YORK'S DIAMOND DISTRICT

A detour through Forty-seventh Street between 5th and 6th Avenues is an extraordinary assault on the senses. Flanked by two huge Diamond-tipped pillars on either end, stumbling upon The Diamond District is like finding a bazaar amidst all the midtown media conglomerates and office buildings.

Business is conducted in several languages; Russian, Spanish, Chinese. Each doorstep reveals merchants on cell phones or smoking a cigarette. Men wearing heavy gold chains hand out flyers as they bellow monotonously, “We buy diamonds, we buy gold.” Wildly different architectural styles stand side by side: Beaux Arts, Art Deco, International Style. Armored vehicles with precious cargo lumber in and out. Couples walk hand in hand, oblivious to the chaos. The women eye the rings while the men eye the pretty girls, peering out from shop windows as they arrange the sparkling goods. Hasidic men dressed in black stride past tourists wearing I LOVE NY t-shirts. If rumors are true, the brown paper sacks tucked under the arms of men dressed in understated suits may be hiding a glittering cache of gems or just a pastrami sandwich.

And at the end of the street a Pomeranian dog named Pepe is perched on a chest by a kiosk. But only on sunny days. “Pepe don’t like the cold,” his owner explains.

I have been fascinated by this block for years, and never seemed to find much historical information about it, apart from a few lurid headlines and some facts and figures about diamond sales. But talking with two dealers from Rick Shatz Inc. who have been in the diamond business for 30 years provided some insight. In an office filled with black velvet lined boxes of “Fancy Yellow” diamonds, photos of family on the walls and stacks of paperwork, Rick and “Uncle Fish” talked about the industry, past and present. They explained how diamond-cutting techniques were traditionally passed down from father to son. As they spoke, they cut each other off and filled in each other’s blanks with the type of familiarity that long-term friendship inspires.

They both agreed that the internet is the greatest catalyst of change in the diamond industry.
“It used to be that there was a personal connection,” said Rick. “A guy would travel all over the world, carrying his diamonds for sale. Now there’s no need. You can get on the internet, put in an order, and in a day get what you want. It’s good for the consumers, who are more educated about diamonds than ever. But there is a loss of personal connection. It used to be that a son would buy an engagement ring from the same man that his father did. There was a sense of tradition. That has faded a little.”

After leaving their office, I took Steve Kilnisan’s Diamond District tour, the only one-hour, one-block tour in the City. Turns out that the Diamond District is a true rags to riches tale. According to Mr. Kilnisan, in the late 1800’s it was a rag district, where rags were cut, washed and sold. By the 1920’s publishing houses had moved in. Playwright Eugene O’Neill used to have a working studio there, where he’d make last minute revisions and rush back to the theatre district. Diamond shops began springing up by the mid-1950’s. The area nearly shifted again in the 1990s. After 42nd street had been revamped into a family-friendly center, the adult entertainment industry tried to set up shop on 47th street. This was avoided by registering the synagogues in the area, like the tiny Radio City Synagogue. By invoking a zoning law that states no adult oriented business can be within 500 feet of a house of worship, the Diamond District was spared an influx of peep shows.

After the tour I popped into the National Jewelers Exchange. On the second floor there is a kosher restaurant called "The Diamond Dairy of New York". Deals are made over tuna fish sandwiches and noodle pudding. A seat by the window overlooks the diamond exchange below. Jewels shine as they are brought out from behind glass cases. Customers in all manner of clothes; fatigues, heels and suits come in and examine the goods. There is laughter in one stall and serious discussion in the next. Angie the waitress, wearing a big red flower in her hair and matching lipstick surveyed the scene with me. With a little sigh she said,

“Beautiful aren’t they? All those jewels. I come in here to work every day. Sometimes I succumb and buy something. I got the prettiest garnets the other day. How they sparkle! I figure, you can’t put it all in the bank, right?”

DEAD MEN MAKE BAD TRAVEL PARTNERS

File this one under, "People Who Have No Fucking Common Sense And Deserve What They Get".
Just woke up and read this little tidbit:

LONDON (Reuters) – Two women were arrested at a British airport on suspicion of trying to smuggle a dead relative onto a flight bound for Germany, police said on Tuesday.
The 91-year-old deceased man was pushed in a wheelchair through Liverpool's John Lennon airport wearing sunglasses before check-in staff became suspicious and he was prevented from boarding the plane.

Yeah.
You read that right.
They put sunglasses on a 91-year-old corpse and wheeled him though the airport. Now I realize that most 91-year-old men aren't terribly spry. But there's a difference between not sprinting to catch your flight and slumping over while turning blue.

But beyond that, it seems to me that the sunglasses are really what gave them away. This was an airport in Liverpool. Not a city known for it's bright, sunshiny weather. I suspect anyone wearing sunglasses would look suspicious.

GLOBE TROTTING TOILET PAPER

It has been well-documented that I am a heinous toilet paper thief.
Evidence of my crimes can be found right here: EXHIBIT A.
When I steal these paper goods from restaurants, bars and quaint bistros, my friends usually just shake their heads sadly. Sometimes they sigh and mutter, "Oh, Saara." I can tell they're wondering how their lives got so far off track that they're stuck with the likes of an unrepentant asswipe criminal rather than an esteemed Astrophysicist or a witty Pulitzer prize winning author.

But I have one friend who doesn't seem to mind. He just came back from Italy. I saw him Saturday night and he presented me with a beautiful gift...a stolen roll of toilet paper from his hotel in Rome. As you can see, I even took a photo of this treasure. This toilet paper traveled across the Atlantic just to be in my bathroom. This toilet paper was packed and carried through customs. Then it was carried into a nice Upper West Side restaurant and presented with a flourish.

Just in time too. I was on my last stolen roll and was preparing for the hunt.

THE FAMILY DOCTOR: IT'S TIME FOR A REVIVAL

As the health care debate rages on and TV pundits froth at the mouth, one thing remains clear to me:

It's time to wake up and realize what an incredibly vital resource General Practitioners are. These Family Doctors not the bad guys. They don’t make a ton of money. They work hard. They live modestly. And they’ve been screwed over by insurance companies for years. It’s no wonder most med students have chosen to specialize rather than become GPs.

I'm not a medical professional, but take this issue personally. The doctor in the photo above, calling his patients back with their results? That's my dad. The funny looking girl in velour pants standing in front of the sign for his clinic? That's me.

Whenever I had a cold as a little kid, my neighbors on Whidbey Island would say to me,
“But your dad’s a doctor!” as though this connection alone would keep the sniffles away. People trusted my father to do everything, since he was a General Practitioner. And he did. He treated Strep throat and head lice, stitched up construction men, lanced moles, and served as a friendly person to talk to for old ladies with no real complaints except loneliness.

His patients loved him like a relative, and our house would always be filled with homemade cookies, fresh vegetables from gardens, and hand knit sweaters from people who wanted to express their gratitude. I think they felt closer to him than I did. Even now when people ask if he’s a good dad, I always say, “he’s a great doctor.” I have never had the privilege of seeing a doctor with as much genuine concern as my father had for his patients. Nor have I met one so willing to explain medications, side effects or just listen as you ramble on about disturbing nightmares that rob you of sleep.

My dad didn’t practice on Whidbey Island for his entire career. His first solo practice was in the rural town of LaMoure in North Dakota. It was here that a teenaged boy was rushed into his clinic with severe head injuries from motorcycle accident. The closest hospital with proper facilities was two hours away, and he would have died. With no other options, my father performed brain surgery with a drill from the local hardware store. The boy survived, experienced no subsequent mental problems and after a few months got back on a motorcycle.

From LaMoure, North Dakota he moved to Honolulu, Hawaii. These were the heady days of the late 1970’s, and he practiced in a clinic ensconced in a Waikiki hotel that looked like a cross between a bordello and a disco. It was here that he diagnosed his first AIDS patient, back when it was called GRID.

But I was far too young to understand what it meant to be a doctor until he started his practice on Whidbey Island. It was a real mom and pop business. I worked there after school sometimes, filing charts and moodily answering the phone in the front as my mother took x-rays and did lab work in the back.

I’m not going to lie. I hated being there. I hated most things when I was a teenager. But I loved his office, lined with hardback books ranging from Tropical Medicine to Somerset Maugham. On the right wall was a chalkboard where he would draw diagrams for his patients to fully explain their medical issues. The wall behind his desk showcased his degrees. There was also a hockey stick, a Lucite plaque with a hemorrhoid encased in it (a joke from the doctor who removed it from his butt a day before my Dad ran the Honolulu marathon) and pictures of me.

Doctors like my father are nearly as extinct as carhops or paying for groceries with a check. For the majority of his career, he went on house calls with a beat up leather medical bag, traveling down winding, Douglass fir-lined roads in a Chevy Blazer. As he drove, he’d blast Willie Nelson or Puccini’s La Boheme, whichever suited his mood at the time. He’d knock on the doors of cabins, trailers and mansions overlooking Puget Sound. In these diverse homes, he’d soothe allergic reactions and calm colicky babies.

Every year he gave free physicals to all the kids doing high school sports. He was also the high school football team doctor, running up and down the length of the field in a ratty trench coat, cheering the loudest of anybody for the South Whidbey Falcons, and cringing when a kid would get hurt.

He worked on the barter system when people couldn’t afford to pay. So in exchange for medical treatment he’d accept window washing, lawn mowing, fresh salmon and sock eye fish, and (since we lived in Washington State) chainsaw carved totem poles.

He was on call 24 hours a day, and many nights was awakened at 2am, 3am, or 4am to stitch someone up at his office. He’d grumble a little, pull on a sweat suit and a University of Washington Huskies cap over his balding head and head out.

He was entrenched in the community; invited to graduations, weddings and family potlucks. He truly loved his patients, and they loved him back.

All these years later, I wish I had that beat up old doctor's bag of his. It amazes me that the contents of that bag and the man who carried it used to save lives. Me, I'm not that noble. I'd use it as a fashion accessory. But no matter what side of the health care debate you're on, that bag is a symbol of a medical era that really should return to style.

THE SOUND OF MAMA D'S ARTS BORDELLO

Sometimes when I have to explain Mama D's Arts Bordello to someone who has never experienced it, they get a little perplexed. This was particularly problematic when I accepted a position at a Business News Network and we had Orientation Day. They asked us to introduce ourselves and provide some personal information.
For whatever reason, I brought up Mama D's Arts Bordello...This did not go over well. You've never seen more uncomfortable, confused-looking assholes in sad suits.

(P.S. I barely lasted 2 months at that dismal place. I did manage to steal a stapler though, which I still use to staple the famed Mama D's Trivia Contest quizzes together.)

But I digress.

The point is, there really isn't anything else like our show, so it's tough to describe. It's a live show that's bawdy, literary, spontaneous, cinematic, weird, funny and loud. You just have to get your ass to the bordello to understand.

But as a public service today, I thought I'd present you with a list of songs that sonically define Mama D's Arts Bordello. Our show is authentic. It's not rehearsed. It's a party. These songs reflect Mama D's joyously rude and raucous vibe.

So take a listen to this set list. Play it loud. Dance in your underpants and you'll see the murky bordello light:

1. Bad Reputation-Joan Jett

2. Rocks Off-The Rolling Stones

3. Orgasm Addict-The Buzzcocks

4. Fuck You-Lily Allen

5. Rebel Rebel-David Bowie

6. Mixed Bizness-Beck

7. How You Like Me Now?-The Heavy

8. All Day And All Of The Night-The Kinks

9. Get It On (Bang A Gong)-T. Rex

10. Gimme Danger-Iggy Pop

5 THINGS THAT ONLY MAKE SENSE IN THEIR OWN ENVIRONMENT

So-
I recently stumbled across this picture of SPAM flavored macadamia nuts.
To anyone outside of Hawaii, this concept sounds appalling. Criminal, even.
But if you've ever lived in Hawaii, it makes perfect sense. Military personnel stationed in Hawaii during World War II introduced the locals to the canned delight that is SPAM. It was an instant hit and remains so to this day. I think it's because the salty flavor blends well with some of their traditional foods.
Then I started to think about other concepts that only make sense in their own environment.
I came up with this list:

1. The Prytania Movie Theatre in New Orleans. I'd take my seat and notice other patrons would bring in their dogs, parrots, massive plates of spaghetti from home, and daiquiris from the drive-thu daiquiri place around the corner.

2. Young couples in Rome. It's tough to find a parking spot in Rome, so you tend to circle around and around the city until you find one. The first time around, you'll see a couple screaming and yelling at each other. You'll go around again and see the same couple, except one of them is crying. The next time you see them, they're practically fucking in the street. All of this happens within 15 minutes.

3. English men and their profound need to get naked for no apparent reason: "Let's have a naked race down the High Street! Let's ride motorbikes naked! I took a photo of my penis during your wedding reception! Look at me and my mates--we're naked in the pub!"

4. The nonchalant Washington State attitude towards rain.

5. St. Urho's Day. I keep trying to spread the good news on the East Coast. But no one's buying it.

MAMA D's ARTS BORDELLO: SLAUGHTERING SACRED COWS

Greetings all you Icon Butchers and Slaughterhouse Champions!
We have an official date set for the next Mama D's Arts Bordello show at Parkside Lounge.

It's Friday, June 18th.

Save the date you ruthless bastards. Book your flights. Cancel your previous engagements. Patch up your front bicycle wheel.
You can't miss this stellar event.

There will be blood in the aisles as we slaughter some of culture's most Sacred Cows.
We'll be taking down these hallowed heroes in prose, song, burlesque and film.
We're talking about people beyond reproach--like Shakespeare and Bono.
No fucking mercy!
But that's not all--whole segments of the populace will be massacred!
No one, not even Martin Scorsese will be spared.

Correction:
One mystery Sacred Cow just might be spared. That will be up to you. We're putting this famous person on trial, with two capable lawyers arguing for the Defense and the Prosecution. You the jury will decide if this Sacred Cow will face the chopping block or roam free.

Plus...there's gonna be a meat raffle.

You read right.

A MEAT RAFFLE.

Prepare for a night of bloodthirsty entertainment on Friday, June 18th.

Stay tuned into Peon Confidential for more details.

TOP 5 THINGS YOU SHOULDN'T DO IN A MINIVAN

So-
I woke up this morning, poured myself a cup of coffee in my favorite pink Moomintroll mug and sat down to read this article:

CORPSE DISAPPEARS WHEN MINIVAN IS TOWED

Now that's pretty disturbing.
But why doesn't this funeral director have a proper hearse? There's no respect for tradition these days. It seems completely inappropriate that you can just cart corpses around in any old vehicle with a laminated sign stuck to the windshield. Especially a minivan for fuck's sake. I'd even back a new law preventing this from shit from happening again.

Then I started to think about other activities that are best not done in a minivan. I came up with this list:

1. Going to the Oscars with Jack Nicholson

2. Tantric Yoga Sex

3. Transporting Promiscuous Koalas

4. Fleeing the Law and Gunning it Across the State Line

5. Pulling Up to the Playboy Mansion

Any others?

MY LOW-TECH HELL

Still no home computer.
My miserable Little House On The Prairie life continues, unabated.
Hence a photo of me with a bonnet perched on my head, churning butter with a pal. Later, we'll get water from the well with a wooden bucket. Then we'll light the kerosene lamp and Pa will play his fiddle.

Yeah, yeah. Okay. I have no idea who these kids are.

Life is bleak and lonely out here on the Prairie.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO YOU, PEON CONFIDENTIAL READERS!

Hello young lovers! (And you old fuckers too, of course.)
Just wanted to wish you all a happy Valentine's Day weekend.
I also wanted to thank you for taking the time to read this blog. As we're all painfully aware, there are so many distractions, obligations and time thieves out there today, so I'm really grateful to those of you who manage to find room in your busy lives for this ridiculous blog.
So consider this a virtual box of chocolates. But without any of the crappy ones that you take a bite of and put back in the box for some other sorry bastard to find.

Lots of love to you!

P.S. On Monday, I'll assault you with the opening paragraph of my novel and maybe you can tell me what you think.

NEW ORLEANS RETROSPECTIVE

I was pretty excited about last night's Super Bowl win, because I went to school in New Orleans.

Correction: I finally completed my undergraduate degree in New Orleans. I started off at Richmond College in London, transferred to NYU and finished up my B.A. in Political Science at University of New Orleans.
(Don't ask about the logic behind any of this because it takes too long to explain. Besides which, those of you who know me know that logic rarely factors into any of my decisions.)

The point is, I spent an extraordinary year and a half in a city I knew nothing about before moving there. It was a totally different cultural experience than what I was used to. This shocked me, since at the time I didn't realize how different the various regions of our country can be. But I've never had a single regret. New Orleans is magical, beautiful and sometimes scary. It's the birthplace of some of this country's finest music, food and literature. I feel honored that I had the pleasure of living there for a while, and will always have a special love for New Orleans.

So today, since I am over-flowing with New Orleans nostalgia, I'm sharing some photos I took while living there. None of them are particularly well shot. I had a shitty camera. And I'm a lousy photographer. But you can click on all the photos to enlarge them (if you're reading this on the actual blog spot and not Facebook.) Plus I'll try to make up for the lack of photographic skills by explaining the pictures in detail...

This above photo is my cool Bachelorette Pad on Royal Street in the French Quarter. It was a converted stable. As you can see, this is the mid-90s, because there is a framed poster of Gustav Klimt's The Kiss on the wall. There must have been some law passed that everyone needed to display some Klimt in that era; whether it be a journal, a poster or a coffee mug. But the apartment was great. Upstairs was my loft area. The only issue was that at one point, I was up there watching some TV when I noticed some weird insects flying around. I didn't pay too much attention until I noticed that they appeared to be coming from my closet. I finally worked up the courage to open the closet and was swarmed by flying termites. It was downright Biblical. I ran screaming to my landlady. She rescued me and told me I could stay in the owner's multi-million dollar apartment, since they were living in France at the time.
I wound up staying there for the rest of my stint in New Orleans. This apartment was incredible:

I interned at WDSU, the local NBC affiliate, which at the time had their headquarters in the French Quarter. They'd send me out to cover music festivals, sporting events and block parties. But once I had to interview a woman who had just lost 4 members of her family in a fire. I was so worried walking into her house, fearing she'd be huddled in a corner, crying. But no. She was wearing her finest clothes, her hair and nails were done, and she asked if the lighting in her home was good enough. That was the biggest lesson I learned in my internship: the excitement of being on TV trumps all other emotions. This was the WDSU courtyard:

Of course, I didn't always go to my internship after school. Sometimes, my pals and I would head straight for the bars. It was usually The Napoleon House. I'd belly up to the bar, take my seat, throw my bookbag on the floor and order a Sazerac at 3:30 in the afternoon:

New Orleans is a Catholic city, which gives it a different flavor than other Southern cities. It was the first place I'd seen where people actually have altars in their homes; rows and rows of candles set up on TV trays or small side tables, flickering in the hot afternoon sun. While I was there, I went to Catholic services at St. Louis Cathedral almost every Sunday. I didn't do this to repent for my boozy ways. I went because they had the most incredible singer there. Plus, I'm a Lutheran, and I have to say, I loved all the Pomp and Circumstance. We don't have all that incense and the pageantry. It was like getting a great show for a couple bucks. Amazing:

One thing I never did while I was there was eat a famous Lucky Dog. I think this is a good enough reason to head back for a visit soon...

MAMA D'S JET SET SHOW IS TONIGHT!

The night has arrived! Get ready for an incredible night of high quality entertainment at high altitude!
Passengers include: Best-Selling author Sally Koslow, Outrageous Comic Abbi Crutchfield, Kentucky Literary Sensation Randi Skaggs, V.I.P Masseuse Myles Goldin, Mama D's Rollicking House Band and the Frequent Flyer Trivia Contest.
Prepare for take-off!

TIME: 8pm
DATE: Friday, February 5th
PLACE: Parkside Lounge
ADDRESS: 317 E. Houston
COVER: $5.00

EVIDENCE OF THE MADNESS

Our talented cinematographer Kristyn Martin sent me a clip from the Mama D's ORGASMIC! show and I just had to share its beauty with you. This is The Bukkake Klatch enthralling the crowd with their take on a classic love song, "Smell Yo Dick".
Enjoy!

P.S. As usual, those of you who read this blog on Facebook will have to click on "Original Post".

RECYCLED SLOGANS FOR OUR CORPORATE RUN AMERICAN GOVERNMENT

For those of you who missed it, the U.S. Supreme Court just served up our 50 States on a silver platter to corporate interests yesterday. Corporations are now free to influence our political system and can conceivably dictate who wins and who gets stuck on the shitter without toilet paper or reading materials.

So it occurred to me that many of these corporations really wouldn't have to change their slogans much for their new role as political strongmen. Many of these famous slogans can be recycled. I just made a few subtle tweaks and presto! They're perfect for campaign ads. See for yourself:

Sprite: Obey Your Government

Smuckers: With A Name Like Joe Lieberman, It Has To Be Good

Energizer: Nothing outlasts The Schwarzenegger. He Keeps Going and Going

State Farm: Like A Good Neighbor, Newt Gingrich Is There

GEICO: So Easy Even Sarah Palin Can Do It

L'Oreal: Senator Mike Crapo--Because You're Worth It

THE JET SET PROMO

Our big Jet Set Mama D's Arts Bordello show is coming up on February 5th, and our visionary tech guru Daniel Figueroa just created this glamorous promo. Check it out and make sure you're a part of The Jet Set on February 5th!

Mama D's Arts Bordello Presents: The Jet Set from Daniel Figueroa on Vimeo.

Note: Those of you who read this blog on Facebook will have to click on "original post" to see it, since Facebook won't import videos.

FREELANCE GURUS

I found a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love " in the laundry room of my building. It was resting next to a stray tube sock and a stack of Chinese restaurant menus. I needed something to read on the plane ride to Florida, so I picked it up.
What an insufferable book. I should have just read the Chinese restaurant menus instead.
This smug, annoying woman is privileged enough to travel to exotic locales to find Universal Truth. Then she yammers on and on about what she's learned in the most self-indulgent way.

She may have mastered esoteric chants in Sanskrit, but she sure never figured out when to shut up and let truth reveal itself without editorializing it.

Maybe I'm just lucky, but I've never needed one particular guru. And while I've both visited and lived in many places, I've never thought getting one's passport stamped is the key to Universal Truth. I found both gurus and truth this past weekend, and I wasn't even looking for them.

Then again, my gurus have always been freelance. A freelance guru will fulfill their duties and move on, never knowing they've been a guru at all. New Years Eve in the funky, beautiful little beachfront district of Gulfport, Florida was filled with them:

A Blue Moon peers through the clouds and the trees are lit with little blue lights as people walk their dogs, smoke cigars and hug their neighbors. We're staying at the Peninsula Inn, where the bartender also runs to the front desk when someone rings the bell and the waiter also vacuums your room. Somehow the waiter even knows which room we're in, despite never having met us before. Fat house cats lounge in the lobby.

Outside, tunes from the piano bar mingle with the techno thump of dance music from the gay bar down the street. A drunken Cuban woman at Peg's Brewery tells me how much she loves her 9-year-old daughter and gives me a kiss. We meet my parents at La Cote Basque, a crazy little family-run restaurant decorated with a mix of 70's wood paneling, Rococo and Victorian decor and a music box in the bathroom perpetually playing Beethoven's 9th. My parents are smiling. They've been married, divorced, and married again. They've been through treatment centers, rough times and illness. And here they are, laughing at jokes they've both told 100 times over, wearing the Christmas clothes I've given them.

After dinner, we go watch couples ballroom dance at the Gulfport Casino. Grandmothers and grandfathers, newly married couples, gay and lesbian couples. They glide along, fluidly executing moves that have always eluded me. There's something so reassuring about people wearing sequins and drinking cheap champagne on December 31st. I laugh as some woman in a sparkly pantsuit picks at the vat of free ziti with her fingers, spits a piece out and puts it back before heading out into the night.

Well past midnight, we spill out onto the beach and greet the New Year by putting our feet in the chilly Boca Ciega Bay...

CNN FLASHBACK

This one's for special, long-time reader we'll call Serm:

Picture it, CNNI Master Control. 1999. A hapless, hungry employee comes back from a disappointing expedition to the atrium to rustle up some vittles.
Employee #1 says incredulously: "I can't believe it. Arby's ran out of roast beef!"
To which Employee #2 says in a stupid, nasally voice: "Arby's ran out of roast beef? Why, that's like CNN runnin' outta news!"

And thus, an endlessly repeated techie catch phrase was born.

Happy New Year everyone!

MORE PROOF OF TRUTH IN CLICHES

Surely you've all heard the cliche, "One man's trash is another man's treasure."
Well, I was just reading through some of the top odd news stories of 2009 when I came across this:

A British academic who spent seven years collecting the dung of rare lizards in the Philippines was devastated when a clean-up team threw it out of his laboratory with the trash. "To some people it might have been just lizard shit... but to me it represented years of painstaking work," he said.

You see that? Cliches really are rooted in reality.
Now if I could just find concrete evidence of someone actually blowing smoke up another person's ass, I'd be happy.

REAL NEW YORK APARTMENT #5: THE HOLIDAY EDITION!

Incredible Real Estate Opportunity: just in time for Christmas!
Spacious snow hut in the middle of Manhattan's beautiful Dag Hammarskjold Plaza.
Unique floor plan, close to public transportation. Pet friendly.
NO FEE! RENT FREE!
Hurry! This offer won't last...

Merry Christmas everyone!

CHOICE NUGGETS OF WISDOM FROM MOM

Since Christmas is almost here, I'm giving you Peon Confidential readers a lovely gift...
Those of you who know me are aware that my mom is a crazy Finnish woman. She came to North America with 217 bucks in her back pocket, speaking three words of English. Over the years, she's managed to explore both her adopted home and the English language in fascinating ways. This woman doles out advice and opinions with a special flair.
I'm sharing some of her greatest hits with you today:

1. ON GROCERY SHOPPING: I don't understand people who buy those big cans of things in bulk. Why do they do it? A gallon of cling peaches is such a big commitment.

2. ON AIRPLANES: I hate that airplane smell. You know what that smell is? I tell you. People fart on the plane and it goes into the ventilator system and zooms around and around. It has no place to go! It's trapped. The whole flight people are smelling the same fart. So that's what airplane smell is: recycled fart.

3. ON GETTING ME MY FIRST BRA: (Giving my 12-year-old, unicorn t-shirted chest a stern once over) Yeeech. Saara, you've got the little fat man titties. We're getting you a bra.

4. ON SEX: Hey Saara. Come here. Sit down. You know about the penis? You know about the vagina? You know about the penis going into the vagina? Well, don't do it. It is so boring.

5. TO MY FATHER'S FRIEND WHO TRIED TO GET HIM TO INVEST IN A PYRAMID SCHEME: You touch my savings, I slit your throat!

6. TO A WOMAN AT A PARTY WITH EXTREMELY LONG FAKE NAILS: How do you wipe yourself with those things?

7. TO MY FATHER AFTER HE PULLED HER AWAY FROM THE WOMAN WITH EXTREMELY LONG FAKE NAILS: Don't eat that casserole. I think she brought it.

8. ON THE NEIGHBOR: She's a loosey. What? Okay fine. Floozy, Loosey. I don't care what the English word is! She spread her legs for a fat man.

9. ON THE LOCAL SHERIF: He has a herpes. What? No a hair-peez! You know, a wig. Looks like shit too.

10. ON THE SMELL OF A CERTAIN CAFE IN ATLANTA: (Sniffing loudly) This place...This place...it stinks like unwashed vagina.

TOP 10 WORST SCRATCH N' SNIFF STICKER SCENTS

Don't ask why, but I went down a winding path of nostalgia yesterday that wound up at Scratch n' Sniff stickers.
Then I found the above photo. It surprised me. Because I don't recall them making Scratch n' Sniff stickers scented like crabs, footballs and smelly sneakers. Must have blocked that out.
So-
In case these stickers are revived for a new generation, might I suggest the top 10 worst potential scents for Scratch n' Sniff stickers. Avoid these aromas at all costs:

1. Any communal phone in any newsroom. No amount of antiseptic wipes can knock out that nasty funk.

2. Rolling Stone Keith Richards' morning breath

3. A fart on an airplane

4. Microwaved tuna

5. The hallway in my building on a Thursday night. Some neighbor has decided that's the night to explore culinary treats plagued with waaaaay too many onions.

6. Port Authority, NYC

7. The third bathroom stall at my gym

8. An Irish pub just after last call and the lights come on

9. CNN's Hard News Cafe Brunswick Stew

10. Flop sweat during the 3rd hour of the Academy Awards broadcast. It has to smell in the Kodak Theatre at that point, right? With a roomful of losers? (Yeah yeah, it's an honor just to be nominated...)

AN ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY ORGASM

Have I got news for you today!
I'd like to preface this post by telling you that I try to do my part for the environment.
I recycle my bottles, cans and newspapers. I re-use the plastic containers from my take-out meals. I use the subway.
But I am deeply excited to take it to the next level...

An Irish company has created the world's first green vibrator!

DUBLIN (AFP) – When world leaders in Copenhagen argue for days in knife-edge talks to save the planet, what more fitting way to relieve the tension than an environmentally-friendly vibrator?
The global sex toy industry is worth an annual 15 billion dollars (22 billion euros), and uses up a mountain of batteries in the process, many of which end up as toxic waste.
But now one Irish company reckons they've got the solution to shake up the market: a vibrator they are calling the world's first-ever "green technology sex toy".
The Earth Angel, described as "eight inches (20 centimetres) with a sleek white finish", is a wind-up vibrator which comes with a handle built into the bottom.
"You just flip out the handle, grab a hold of it there, and you just wind it," said Janice O'Connor, the co-founder with her husband Chris, of Caden Enterprises which makes the gadget.
"So for four minutes of doing that, you should generate enough power to give you 30 minutes of full-on, right-to-the top vibrations," she told AFP.
She added: "I've only used it a couple of times, and it's fantastic. It's very intense, and sometimes, at the top level, depending on the person that's using it, it can actually be too intense sometimes.
"That's why we have four different levels on it."
The vibrator is made of 100 percent recyclable materials and the couple hope it will encourage sex toy fans around the globe to do their bit for the environment.

Three cheers for mother earth and good vibrations.

5 NEW YORK SKILLS I'VE NEVER MASTERED

Despite having lived in New York since 2001, I continually fail in all these areas:

1. Walking briskly while drinking a cup of coffee and not spilling it all over myself. Not once have I ever achieved this feat. Yet I keep trying.

2. Hailing a cab with efficiency in the pissing down rain. I'm always completely drenched and annoyed by the time I've managed to score one.

3. Swiping my Metrocard and getting though the turnstile on the first try.

4. Coming up with an appropriate response to, "Hey Blondie" or "Yo Shawty" or "Hola Mamacita" or "I like your shoes. Are you Puerto Rican?"

5. Not being seated at the shitty table by the kitchen/bathroom/bussing station at a chic restaurant.

Not sure how I survive in this town, really.

THE FRAUDULENT DECADE

As we reach the bitter embers of this tumultuous decade, no two figures embody it better than White House gatecrashers Tareq and Michaele Salahi. They mirror everything we became in this decade: greedy, fame-hungry frauds. It’s the “fake it till you make it” adage personified. Even in an era where the internet makes it easier than ever to double check backgrounds, facts and figures, this attractive couple looked the part and that was enough. Whether it was a White House party, or in Michaele’s case, performing routines with the Washington Redskins cheerleaders.
 
These two are fitting symbols of this decade’s deceitful behavior; reflected in inflated real estate values, fraudulent Enron projections, fictional memoirs and the desert mirage that is Dubai,with its indoor skiing rinks, man made lakes and 60 billion dollar debt that won’t be repaid anytime soon. Not only was fabrication rampant during this decade, it was profitable. Just ask Bernie Madoff.

We went to war in Iraq over phantom weapons of mass destruction and went to concerts by singers who don’t actually sing. We tuned into scripted “reality” shows and breathlessly watched manufactured news about the Balloon Boy.

We willfully ignored the truth when it didn’t suit our needs. We lied to ourselves as well as others. We spent more money than we had and we knew it. We demanded destination weddings we couldn’t afford and tried to keep up with the fake celebrity lifestyle we saw in glossy magazines. Then when it all collapsed, we pulled ourselves away from our flat screen TVs in utter surprise. The truth quite literally hurt.

So as we raise a toast on New Year’s Eve, let’s try to make resolutions we can actually keep. No reason to start the next decade with unrealistic expectations. 
We’ve had plenty of that already.

10 WOMEN WHO HAVE PROBABLY NOT HAD SEX WITH TIGER WOODS

I present you with a list of women that I'm reasonably sure Tiger Woods has not slept with.
It's not a long list.
But it's what I came up with.
And of course, I could be mistaken...

1. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg
2. TV Personality Barbara Walters
3. That Duggar woman in Arkansas with 18 going on 19 kids whose vagina is probably so cavernous that it: a) has an echo and b) could provide a safe haven for illegal immigrants.  Alert Lou Dobbs.
4. Me
5. Rae Dawn Chong (Because he'd have to find her first. Honestly. Where has she been?)
6. French Canadian power balladeer Celine Dion
7. Dog the Bounty Hunter's Buxom Ex-wife
8. Famed CNN Cafeteria Hashslinger Roz
9.  Judge Judy
10. Southern Cooking Personality/Flying Ham Victim Paula Deen

Did I miss anyone? Raise your hands.

MAMA D'S ARTS BORDELLO PRESENTS: THE JET SET

Mark your calendars! Prepare for take off and high flying hijinks at the next Mama D's Arts Bordello on February 5th.

TRENDS OF THE DECADE

With just under a month before the start of a sparkling, new decade, I think it's time for a round up of the trends we've lived through over the past 10 years. I'll even admit to the ones I participated in, and the ones I managed to avoid:

A List of Trends I Managed to Avoid:

1. Crocs
2. Uggs
3. Freedom Fries
4. Wearing copious amounts of red white and blue clothing, pins, and other flag-related paraphernalia during the first 3 months after 9/11
5. Flipping over homes for profit
6. Foreclosure
7. Making a sex tape that was "accidentally" leaked/emailing naughty photos of myself that wound up online
8. Making videos of babies/kittens/dogs and posting them on YouTube
9. Sending said videos to cube mates,  hoping they'd experience a "cutegasm"
10. Doing a "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)" homage
11. Carrying around a yoga mat
12. Ridiculously large/expensive handbags
13. Having a Destination Wedding
14. Showcasing "whale tail" with super low rise jeans
15. Twitter

A List of Trends that I Participated in Willfully:

1. Big, stupid sunglasses
2. Sequins in the daytime
3. The ironic t-shirt
4. Being shut out of/annoyed by the status quo and carving out my own niche as a result
5. Being a Permalance employee
6. Sneering at the plight of the uber-wealthy (post-financial collapse)
7. Over using the prefix "uber"
8. Celebrity schadenfreude
9. Writing a blog
10. Canceling my newspaper subscription because I get my news on line (plus someone was stealing it)
11. Bitching about Reality TV but still watching it
12. Obama mania
13. Palin mockery
14. Hanging out at NY restaurants/clubs with lame one word names (Town, Butter, Sway, Salt,)
15. Facebook

What about you?

TOP TEN ALBUMS OF THE DECADE

Since most people purchase music by cherrypicking singles now, the album is becoming a dinosaur. The idea of actually listening to an entire album as a cohesive piece of art instead of a collection of singles is antiquated. Who knows, this may be the last decade in which a Top 10 Albums List is even attempted. So I'm taking the opportunity while I can.
Obviously, I'm no professional music critic. If you hate this list, or think I've missed something or added something absurd, go ahead and call me a jackass. It won't sting much.
But make sure you tell me what you'd have chosen instead.
I came up with this list through an unscientific process of looking through my i-tunes play counts,  personal preference, and pure whimsy.
Have at it, Peon Confidential readers:

1. Is This It? -The Strokes
I had just moved to New York when this album came out. I remember standing in the Virgin Record Store in Union Square (which, sadly, like Foxy Lady is no longer there) listening to the whole album, start to finish, wearing those smelly public headphones. I must have looked like a moron, grinning, nodding and closing my eyes for the length of the album. And I'm glad I bought the import CD. The English album cover on the top is a million times more iconic than the American cover:

 

2. Chutes Too Narrow-The Shins
"Garden State" is to "The Graduate" as The Shins are to Simon and Garfunkle. Discuss.

3. The White Stripes-Elephant
Shrieking, sexy vocals, bluesy riffs, strange lyrics, red, white and black outfits. Plus, the Led Zeppelin influences are a treat for a Pacific Northwestern girl like me, where Gettin' The Led Out is a regional obsession.

4. Funeral-Arcade Fire

For the sheer number of instruments per song, people on stage and misty eyed hipsters in the audience.

5. Girls Can Tell-Spoon
This band manages to turn a song about dad's fitted shirt into a rock anthem. Now that's cool.

6. Speakerboxxx/The Love Below-Outkast
Incredible mix of styles from Andre 3000 and Big Boi. "Hey Ya" is perhaps the best single of the decade. I can't picture any other song that could have moved a roomful of dull, pasty CNBC employees at a boring holiday party in a New Jersey hotel to get up and "shake it like a Polaroid picture". Yes, this happened. I witnessed it with my own eyes. Plus, if you never saw this Peanuts remix, do yourself a favor and check it out: 


7. Back to Black-Amy Winehouse
Show me a woman who hasn't lived Amy's songs at least once and I'll show you a liar.

8. Alright, Still-Lily Allen
Yeah, yeah. I can hear the groans from you serious music fans. Well, to borrow the title of another Lily Allen song, Fuck You. This album is like candy. Every song is a delicious pop confection, and the sly lyrics are hilarious. Plus, Lily is my kind of pop star. She never hides behind any sweet, virginal facade. She misbehaves with rock stars on first class flights to Tokyo. She makes an ass of herself at awards shows. She talks shit about other famous people. What's not to love about Lily?

9. Franz Ferdinand-Franz Ferdinand-
Just because almost every song on here is a summons to the dancefloor. Which shouldn't really be a reason to put it on this list, except that I am a really fucking bad dancer. So this is an achievement. I'll hear the opening chords to "Take Me Out", and think, "Yep. I've been served. It's a sonic subpoena." Then off I'll go to embarrass myself in front of strangers. (See also: their follow up album "Tonight" which offers up sonic subpoenas "No You Girls" and "Ulysses".)

10. Music For Men-Gossip
Beth Ditto is the most original front person to emerge in years. Now that I think about it, this decade launched quite a few interesting female singers, and not in the tedious, yeast infected Lilith Fair way: Beth Ditto, Karen O, Lady Gaga.
Whether or not you like what they do, they're certainly doing it in a unique way.

Honorable Mention:

Less Sophistication-The Jessica Fletchers

Very few people have heard of this band. This album doesn't have a single review on i-tunes. But I love it. It's the sound of a sunny Midsummer Night festival. And how can you not love a band that takes its name from your granny's favorite mystery program?

RELIGIOUS VISIONS IN HOUSEHOLD ITEMS: THE TIMELINE

So-
Every so often, there will be a news report about some deluded individual who sees either The Virgin Mary or Jesus in a potato chip, a pizza pan or an egg sandwich. (For some reason, these people never see Moses or Elijah.) The blessed item will often be placed under a glass pie cover to respect and preserve it. Citizens of the hamlet where this miraculous sighting took place will gather 'round it, bearing witness to religious history. (These sightings rarely happen in large cities, presumably because people are too busy to notice such things.)

Well, it's happened again.

This time the lucky visionary is Mary Jo Coady of Methuen, Massachusetts, who discovered the face of Jesus on her iron. (See above photo)

Now, maybe I'm not as sophisticated as Mary Jo Coady, but I don't see it. And I've really tried. But all I see is a burnt iron, and I worry about what happened to the clothes she was ironing.

Then I tried to picture the timeline of this miraculous event. Since I wasn't there, I have to fill in the details from my imagination. So I figured the timeline might go something like this:

9:30am: Mary Jo Coady finishes a hearty breakfast, in which for a thrilling moment she thinks she's seen the Virgin Mary in her Eggo Waffle, but ultimately concludes that she was mistaken. She sighs.


9:45am: Mary Jo Coady goes to the laundry room, wearily piling up the clothes she has to iron. She puts on the Adult Contemporary radio station ("The Greatest Hits of Yesterday and Today!") to put a little kick in her step. 


10:00am: Mary Jo Coady begins ironing. 


10:15am: Mary Jo Coady gets distracted while reminiscing about her exciting and educational trip to Colonial Williamsburg two years ago. The result is that she burns her favorite Quaker Factory sweatshirt.


10:17am: After a brief moment of grief, Mary Jo Coady turns that frown upside down. Because she examines her iron which reveals...the face of Jesus. 


10:25am: Mary Jo Coady calls up some friends and tells them about the Heavenly Glory in her laundry room. 


11:00am: Mary Jo Coady's coffee klatch descends upon her house to inspect the Blessed Burnt Iron.


11:30am: Over a cup of Maxwell House and pie, one of her friends (the wacky, crazy, fun gal--she's a hoot!) throws out the idea that they should contact the local news station. 


11:40am: More coffee.


12:00pm: Amped up on Maxwell House, Mary Jo Coady calls the local news station. The Assignment Desk is enthralled by her tale of religious imagery in domestic drudgery, and they send a reporter to her house.


Thus, Mary Jo Coady has cemented her place in local news lore...


UPDATE: Here I thought my Eggo Waffle bit was sarcastic, but now I find that in Port St. Lucie, FL a woman just sold a pancake that she claims shows a vision of Jesus and Mary. She managed to make a 338.00 windfall from her Holy Pancake.

ADULT ENTERTAINMENT: MYSTERY SOLVED

The Peon Confidential hiatus is over, just in time for me to assist you with your Black Friday shopping questions.
And in particular, your porn shop questions...Okay, it's really just the answer to one porn shop question.
You see, I went out with some pals recently and learned the answer to a mystery that's been haunting me for far too long.

So, a couple years back a former CNN peon and myself had tickets to a concert at Madison Square Garden. We get there and find that it's been cancelled. Devasted but still in search of fun, we popped into a porn shop around the corner. Within this porn shop we found the usual merchandise: blow up dolls, DVDs, vibrators and those weird plastic pussies that truly creep me out.
You know what I'm talking about? They're just these cooters that come in a box. They aren't even attached to a plastic woman. I hate to think about tragic, lonely men pounding away at these things, then rinsing them out and putting them away in their Kmart dressers for use later.

I do not know what I would do if I were dating someone, opened their dresser drawer and found one of these pathetic fake snatches. I suspect the reaction would be the same as when I found a massive roach in my New Orleans bathroom. It was crawling on my toothbrush. Then when I tried to throw out the toothbrush with roach attached...the motherfucker flew at me. I ran out of there so fast that I slipped and banged my head on the wall. Then I called for backup. I'm a tough woman but I have my limits.

Okay. So. Back to the point...
There we were in the porn store.

And in the midst of all these seedy sundries, we see three massive stacks of...Delta Burke's book entitled,

"Delta Style: Eve Wasn't A Size 6 And Neither Am I."

We could not figure this out. Who would buy this book here? Does Delta Burke have an audience we don't know about? Do perverts read uplifting celebrity accounts about learning to accept their fat thighs? But mostly it was just an overwhelming thought of...why?

Well,  I finally got my answer the other night.

Turns out that in certain places, there is a 70-30 law. Meaning that at least 30% of the merchandise in a porn shop needs to be non-porn related. So Delta Burke and her uplifting book were helping these porn purveyors uphold the law!

Mystery solved.
And with that, I'm off to slice a piece of pie for breakfast.

Happy first official day of the Holiday Season to all of you!

DESOLATION BOULEVARD: BLOGGING IN THE HARSH GLARE OF KINKOS

Hello Peons!
Just checking in with you to tell you I'm not dead. Neither is the blog. What's dead is my computer. But it's with the nerds at the Mac store, where I can only hope they are treating it with as much love as I do. I cannot tell you how forlorn my desk looks now, with only a cookie crumb infested keyboard on it.

Until my computer and I are reunited, I'd just like to leave you with this bit of information: Southern Cooking Personality Paula Deen was smacked in the face with a ham yesterday.

Back soon with more of the useless shit you've come to expect from this blog...

-VJDutton

TOP TEN WORST ITEMS TO SELL DOOR TO DOOR

(Enjoy today's Large Print Edition. No need to dig out those reading glasses. No, I didn't do this on purpose. Not sure what I did wrong, but I can't seem to fix it.)


So-
I just read this from the Associated Press:


BROWNSVILLE, Texas – A 19-year-old Brownsville man is jailed on a drug charge after he allegedly went door-to-door trying to sell marijuana. A Brownsville police spokesman says Anthony Carrazco's alleged scheme went awry when he knocked on a police officer's apartment door.


Now, this fellow is an idiot. (Almost as idiotic as a person who can't fix font issues on their blog.) No question there. But it got me to thinking about other goods and services that are best not sold door to door.
I came up with this list:


1. Opened tubes of hemorrhoid ointment, accompanied by an offer to help with application


2. Lederhosen 


3. "Manager's Special" Ground Beef


4.  Dentures


5.  Opened boxes of Tampax, accompanied by an offer to help with insertion


6. Internal Organs


7. Whoopie Cushions


8. Tubas


9. Monkeys (That didn't stop 70's cult leader Jim Jones from doing it, however)


10. Opened jars of Vaseline, accompanied by an offer to help smear it someplace

AM I CRAZY OR IS THIS A VAGINA? TAKE THIS POLL, PLEASE

So-
A certain bespectacled, grey-haired curmudgeonly pal of mine had a back stage pass to Metallica at Madison Square Garden  last night. (Another pal was in charge of tuning guitars for the band.)

Afterwards, he showed me the above badge and I immediately said,
"Oh, that's subtle."
And he said "What do you mean?"
I said, "Well, that's clearly a pussy."
He said I was wrong. Crazy in fact. And no, he was not being ironic. Of course, he was still a little drunk. Maybe he will sober up and see the truth.

Admittedly, I am painfully aware that us women are shaving/waxing/plucking/laser beaming our nether regions now, so perhaps this photo does not automatically conjure up genital visions.

Point being...
Cast your vote now!

A. Yes, that's a Hairy Clam
B. What the hell are you talking about, you lunatic?
C. Don't I have better things to do?

FACEBOOK ANNOYANCE DU JOUR

You know, I have enough people trying to make me feel guilty: PBS with their fund raisers, my mom on the phone, Hallmark with their insistence that I'm a bad friend who doesn't care enough to send the very best if I don't buy their cards.
Now Facebook is joining the guilt chorus.
I see in my suggestions column that they've taken to putting a friend's face there and saying, "You haven't connected with ___________ on Facebook in a while. Send______________ a message."
Better yet, they put: "Help make Facebook better for her."

What is the meaning of this shit? How did I become a Facebook charity work volunteer?

Why is Facebook telling me that I'm an uncaring asshole? Facebook is like one of those irritating, overbearing moms who always tried to mediate grade school conflicts:

Irritating, Overbearing Mom: Wendy, why can't you just forgive Saara for trying to steal your Little Pony, even though I'm sure her family can afford to buy her one and it was very rude of her.

Wendy: No! She's fat and ugly and I hate her!

See? And I understand Wendy's outrage. Truthfully, I still hate her too. Plus, I already had a Little Pony, I just took hers out of spite. And I'd do it again, bitch!
So Facebook, stop dropping unsubtle hints about friends I may be neglecting.
But if you still want to emulate an Irritating, Overbearing Mom, at least have the courtesy to carpool in an unflattering velour tracksuit, bathed in Elizabeth Arden perfume while you're doing it.

UNDER THE VOLCANO IN NYC: THE DEATH OF COOL

You know the only thing worse than your favorite bar going out of business?
Your favorite bar under new management.

For many years, there was a fantastic New York bar called Under The Volcano on 12 E. 36th Street. It was a murky joint that took its name from Malcolm Lowry's 1947 book about a depressed alcoholic expat in Mexico. There were incredible Dia de los Muertos creatures placed in strategic locations. Candles dripped wax all over the bar. The music was great. The staff could actually translate and explain the literary relevance of a famous quote from the book, which had been painted on the wall: LE GUSTA ESTE JARDIN? QUE ES SUYO? EVITE QUE SUS HIJOS LO DESTRUYAN!

In a dull part of Midtown, this strange place was a beacon of cool in a sea of boring, charmless pubs. Instead of office drones knocking back Budweisers, you'd find punk pioneer Legs McNeil sneering at everyone in the corner. (Okay, I only witnessed this once, but it still counts.)

Well, I went in there recently, and the whole place had been revamped. There were flat screen TVs blaring college football. They'd replaced the spooky amber windows. They'd removed all the Dia de los Muertos art and the dripping candles. The music was shit. They'd painted over the famous quote on the wall.

And yet they've kept the name "Under The Volcano". Why? What the fuck is the point? It's false advertising. Just go ahead and rename it Andy's Ale House or McDuffy's or some other shit.

I won't be back.

Anyone else have a similar story about your favorite bar?

UPDATE: Not sure if the new management reads this blog, but I walked past this place a couple days ago to find that that they've changed the name to The Archive.