THE ROLLING STONES: EXILE ON MAIN STREET

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.

TOP 5 WORST PLACES TO BE CAUGHT HAVING SEX

So-
I recently came across an article about two people who were caught having sex in a K-Mart bathroom.
It struck me that this would not have been nearly as embarrassing if they were caught in a cool L.A. club. Or perhaps a chic NY restaurant. But a K-Mart bathroom is pretty horrific.
Then I started to think about other mortifying places to be caught in the act.
I came up with this list:

1. On top of the kitchen table in the above photo

2. At Sears Portrait Studio, in front of the "woodland" backdrop

3. At Costco, behind a massive stack of pickle jars

4. At a Taco Bell, in a vat of ground beef

5. The Foot Locker

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...