THE KING IS LEAVING HIS THRONE

Yesterday, CNN legend Larry King announced that he will stepping down from his perch soon and "hanging up his suspenders". Some of you have either worked for his show in the past or still do. I never did find out the truth behind the "he forced a VJ to pick the peanuts out of his Kung Pao chicken" rumor. But he was a comforting, steady presence on CNN and this rapidly changing world will feel just a bit more unsettled without him.

Here he is, interviewing The Letter W on Sesame Street:

SAMMY DAVIS JR.'S GLASS EYE

It's hot, humid and impossible to think in NYC today, let alone blog about anything too complex.
So instead, I'm offering up a rare, historical treat: Sammy Davis Jr.'s glass eye.
It was on display for several years at The Freakatorium, a.k.a El Museo Loco on the Lower East Side.
The owner, Johnny Fox was a sword swallower who also showcased such wonders as the two headed dog skull and Tom Thumb's vest.

Sadly, the Freakatorium closed down five years ago.

If anyone knows where these curios have been moved to, please let me know. It seems that the freaks in this world are getting harder and harder to find, and these artifacts deserve some love!

THE LONELY SHOE

Our new "Random NYC Photos" concept is off to a great start!
One of you sent me the above snapshot to add to the collection.
Today I present you with, "THE LONELY SHOE"

I'm not sure what the backstory is here. Did some drunken Cinderella lose it after a night of singing Lady Gaga songs at a karaoke bar? I suspect the odds of her inebriated, Bon Jovi-belting Prince Charming tracking her down are pretty slim.

Or perhaps some firey young woman came home from work early to find her boyfriend and some other woman naked in bed. Enraged, she scoops up this woman's clothes and shoes and throws them out the window shrieking, "Get the fuck out of here, you whore!" This prompts the naked woman to quickly wrap herself in a sheet and run out onto the street, wildly snatching up what she can before hailing a taxi, leaving this shoe behind.

I guess we'll never know...

MAMA D'S ARTS BORDELLO: SLAUGHTERING SACRED COWS-TONIGHT!

The time has come! Get down to Parkside Lounge where sensational best-selling author Jackie Collins will kick off this show via skype. Then put on yor safety glasses and rubber gloves because your favorite icons and cultural institutions are getting slaughtered! The Middle Class, Shakespeare, Bono--we're making mincemeat out of 'em. And the venerable NPR is going on trial. Will this esteemed Sacred Cow of radio be slaughtered or spared? Come be in the audience and deliver a verdict.
Plus: You could win a delicious prize during Mama D's Meat raffle!

Where: Parkside Lounge
When: Tonight at 8pm
How Much: $5

See you there!

NEW CONCEPT: RANDOM NEW YORK PHOTOS

It's the dawn of an exciting new era here at Peon Confidential! That's right. We're adding something else to this cyber brew.
I'll be snapping photos of random shit around New York City and accosting you with them on this blog.
Be forewarned-I'm no great photographer. I can't dance either but that won't stop me from making an ass of myself at your wedding.

This will be a photo potpourri. Sometimes the photos will be people, sometimes they'll be inconsequential snapshots of NY life. Don't over think them too much.

This first photo is, "STILL LIFE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM."

I liked this image because with the multiple Duane Reade drug store bags and proud Bloomingdale's bag standing at attention, you just know it had to take place in NYC...well that and the fact that the laundry room is a filthy shithole.

SECOND HAND LUNGS

So-
I have a bit of experience in purchasing second hand items. In fact, second hand books are cooler in some ways. You might see that the previous owner underlined certain phrases and wonder what kind of person they were. Of course, you occasionally wonder what that disgusting green glob is on page 152.
Which brings me to this story from the Associated Press:

Woman Received Lungs of a 30-year Smoker

LONDON – The family of a 28-year-old British woman who unknowingly received a lung transplant from a smoker says she would have been "horrified" and have lodged a complaint.
Cystic fibrosis sufferer Lyndsey Scott in February received a double lung transplant from a donor who had smoked for three decades. She died in July of pneumonia.
Britain's top transplant official Chris Rudge defended the decision and said patients should be told they are not getting a "brand new" organ. He said on the BBC that "lungs from a smoker can be working perfectly normally."

Now, I think this transplant official is kind of a prick. Of course this patient knew she wasn't getting a "brand new" organ.
It's not like they stock new lungs at your local Target.
But getting this particular set of lungs is a bit like getting Pamela Anderson's used vagina.

The bottom line is:
If you're getting something used, it's best if it's "gently used", to use a vintage clothing term.
It seems to me there ought to be a Kelley Blue Book for second hand organs.

5 NEW PORK SLOGANS

Apparently, Pork Industry honchos are searching for a new slogan. Sales are stagnant and "The Other White Meat" isn't cutting it anymore. I'd love to sit in on the pork slogan brainstorming sessions. Tell ya what fellas, here are a few ideas I came up with, just off the top of my head:

1. Stab Your Fork Into Some Pork

2. Don't Worry, Swine Flu Doesn't Actually Come From Eating Swine

3. This Little Piggy Got Slaughtered And Wound Up On Your Plate

4. Ham It Up Tonight!

5. We Ain't Fakin'-There's Nothin' Better Than Bacon

10 MOVIES WITH SHITTY MESSAGES

It occurs to me that people have overlooked some of the lousy messages buried within popular films over the years. Well no more. I'm fed up. It's time to call these classics out, and I'm just the cranky bitch to do it:

1. Forrest Gump: It's better to be naive and ignorant because otherwise you'll get hooked on drugs and die.

2. Pretty Woman: Prostitution is a great way to land a cute, rich guy who buys you lots of expensive stuff.

3. Sixteen Candles: Date rape is totally hilarious!

4. Ratatouille: Rats in the kitchen are adorable!

5. Grease: When you completely change your image and learn to dress like a slut, you get the hot guy and everybody's happy.

6. Dead Poets Society: Pompous, irritating windbags are "inspiring".

7. Patch Adams: Don't be afraid if your doctor is some nutjob wearing a clown nose.

8. Twilight: Pasty stalkers who watch you sleep are "romantic".

9. The Wizard of Oz: If you magically find yourself in a beautiful place with great friends and cool shoes, it's still better to go back to the dusty, dreary shithole you came from.

10. Pretty In Pink: That guy who really loves and understands you, who is sweet, funny and kind? Yeah. Forget him and go for the rich asshole who was too embarrassed to be seen with you.

Have you got one to add? Lay it on us.

FATHER'S DAY ANNOYANCE

So-
Every year around this time I start the hunt for a Father's Day card suitable for my father. Yes, I have to start this early because it is such a pain in the ass. They're all illustrated with pictures of tools, golf, barbecues or fishing poles (none of which applies to my father.) Worse, they all have sappy inscriptions like,

Dad, you've taught me how to live, share and love. You're the best dad I could ever ask for.

Dad, you're wise and caring. My love for you grows every year. Thanks for always being there for me.

Dad, you're my hero.

Yuck.

And listen, I love my dad. I love him for the person he is, not for who I wanted him to be. It took me a while to figure that out.

So all I want is a card that says, "Well, dad...you tried."

Yeah, I could just write it myself. But it would be oddly reassuring to know that someone at Hallmark felt the same way.

CAPTIONING WITH INTENT

CAPTIONS FOR THE ABOVE "RESPECTABLE DAD" PHOTOS

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

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

3. Bill McGillicutty is goin' down, fuckers.

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

EMBARRASSING GYNECOLOGIST CHITCHAT

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

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



P.S. Happy Birthday Eve Ensler!

SAUSAGE AGONY

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

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

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

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

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

MYSTERY BREWING IN MY BUILDING

This morning I took the trash out and found this note attached to the garbage chute:

Whoever on this floor dumps cat litter down the chute and sprays poop on the floor should be very ashamed.

I'm watching you!

NO CAT POOP ON THE FLOOR!!!

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

SLAUGHTERING SACRED COWS FLYER

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

DEATH TO THE OVER POPULATED PITY PARTY

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

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

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

THE LIMELIGHT: CHURCH OF COMMERCE

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

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

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

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

Here's what I don't get:

What the hell happened to New York club culture?

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

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

LOVE SEATS ON THE BUS: YOU GOTTA BE JOKIN' ME!

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

So when I read the following story, I tried to put it into NYC context:

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

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

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

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.