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Colorado Strikes Again: Strippers and Golfers Converge

I must thank my news-gobbling friend in Denver for passing on this sweet snippet to bolster my repeated claim that Colorado is the most insane place in the continental U.S.

Camera Phone Picture Gallery II: Return of the Hot Pink Razr

With all the between jobs traveling, sleeping in late, afternoon boozing and subsequent napping; the reality show TV-watching, the sunning and the directionless strolling, I have been noticeably disconnected. In truth, I have nothing to comment on—not even the birth of Jamie Lynn's baby girl, because two of my good friends just gave birth, which to me, is much more exciting, nor the death of Tim Russert as it has already been discussed ad nauseum. So instead of describing my father crying as he watched the news, or impart the rather gruesome knowledge I have obtained about child labor, I will simply unload my camera phone for another gallery entry. Innocuous; uninsightful; kind of amazing.

1. Taken at a McDonald's parking lot in Colorado—where else?


2. Indisputably the most terrifying mannequin in all of Manhattan, a "little girl" who sits in the window of a fabric shop on 38th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues.


3. Really, FDNY? Don't you think it's a little too soon post-9/11 to be making light of your jobs? Or do you (shudder) actually call your firetruck the Batmobile?


4. My camera was unable to capture this photo in a way that would relay the entire, rather hilarious, effect of this man lounging in his cowboy boots against a tree in Hoboken, NJ, nonchalantly talking on his phone.


5. Nothing brings out pure Hulkian rage in me like the overt display of a prized possession.


6. And I thought the days of dressing like Michael Jackson were over. I guess band uniforms never really change.


7. Beowulf Kitty: still fat, still likes to lounge like an overweight baseball fan watching the Yankees game from a stained couch somewhere above 125th Street.

The Widget That (Almost) Ruined My Day

That slimy, slithery Flight Tracker Widget! You can't trust it. Take it from me: I missed an 8 a.m. flight this morning from Newark Airport in New Jersey to Denver because that fallacious contraption insisted my plane was running 25 minutes late. Mark my words, I will curse that erroneous desktop adornment till I lay withered on my deathbed.

Still unwilling to abandon an evening inhaling cool mountain-y air, I waited for the next flight, as a standby passenger, but was passed over for an old couple with a funeral to go to. My luggage, of course, made it and is currently locked away somewhere that surely smells of aspen trees and burnt pine needles.

With all hope lost and left to contend with the NJ Transit System, I snail-crawled my way through the industrial patina of inland New Jersey back to civilization. It was during this journey that I realized I wanted to marry Michael Ian Black, if not for his deadpan humor than for the title of his new essay, "What I Would Be Thinking If I Were Billy Joel Driving to a Holiday Party Where I Knew There Was Going to Be a Piano."

The Wind Whipping Through My Leg Hair

I just experienced something wholly new and utterly awesome: the feeling of a warm summer breeze blowing off the Hudson and through my thigh hair. Incredible.

Over the winter not only did I gain ten pounds, but I also stopped shaving above my knee for the first time since I was in fifth grade, allowing the fuzz to fill in where nature intended. And then it was no longer fuzz, but a wispy, white-blond covering. Soon after, it morphed into a flaxen shield that sexiness could no longer penetrate, which is where I stand today—leg hair blown back as if I were cruising in a convertible.

Alien Update

Click here for the Denver Post article.

Alien Believer Pushes for ET Affairs Bureau

The state of Colorado is like a modern day Australia—at least in a sense that Australia was once an asylum for potato-noshing criminals and lunatics. It seems that every time a WTF headline drops jaws, it sprung from that schizophrenic square in the middle of the country.

Case in point, a Denver man is currently petitioning for a ballot initiative that would require the formation of an Extraterrestrial Affairs Bureau. Why? Because aliens are real, dog.

In about a month, the man, a Mr. Jeff Peckman, will show footage of a 4-foot-tall alien creeping around a car, peering into the windows, and blinking. Blinking?!

My boyfriend speculates that, in fact, the video is just the last ten minutes of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

Celine Dion: A Death Threat

Emaciated singer Celine Dion must still be scrubbing the lecherous stain of Vegas from her freakishly toned body. The UK's Daily Mirror reported yesterday that Ms. Dion used 6.5 million gallons of water at her Marin County, Florida home in 2007, or enough to fill a 50-gallon bathtub every four minutes.

"Most homes in the area, which has a population of 126,000, use just 10,000 gallons a month to water the grass and clean their cars."

So Celine, I will have to kill you. Water is a commodity and you don't even shave, so how is it possible that you use so much? Don't answer. It doesn't matter because I have already put a hit out on you. For the greater good, for all mankind, and especially for my parents in Colorado where the paucity of water makes me shudder.

When a slick character with a spit-drenched Cuban and tricolored top-siders comes knocking, know that I sent him. Oh, I sent him alright.

What do the College Kids Say? PWNED?

Zachary, a smoked out Colorado University sophomore who introduced me to the term "zanibar"—and also happens to be my little brother—often trumps me in the logic department, despite the fact that he operates in a weed-induced stupor much of the time.

When we were talking on the phone earlier today—me from my increasingly familiar post on my boyfriend's couch, and him from the dormitory kitchen where he took a summer job in hopes of banging the girls who stay there for sports camps—he was watching a clip of Kobe Bryant clearing a swimming pool full of black mambo snakes.

"Dude, have you seen that video of Kobe jumping the Aston Martin yet?" I asked.

"Yeah, but that shit isn't real."

"Wha?"

"Do you really think that Nike would let him do that? Or do you think that the Lakers would let their star player, the best player in the league and the 2008 MVP risk his life for a stunt? His contract doesn't even allow him to ride a motorcycle, much less jump a moving car."

Silence. "Oh man, you are totally right!"

Blast! Outsmarted by an 18-year-old stoner—again.

Girl Equation

Gould Plated Self-Awareness

As I read Emily Gould's article, "Exposed," the lead story on the Times homepage this morning, my breakfast began its esophagus-burning procession back up my throat. It was all so familiar: the extreme exposure, the vitreous attacks and the gut-eviscerating self-doubt (which I can only assume she is feeling).

When I was twenty and a student at the University of Kansas, I wrote a candid blog about myself hosted by Lawrence.com. It was called Powder Room Confessions. Every time I posted I was pummeled by a barrage of hate mail. After four short months, my fragile ego couldn't handle it and I quit. Much like Emily, I later wrote a feature about my experience, and about the nascent blogging industry in general, for the student magazine (not quite the NYT, but still).

After finishing the article and scanning the 400-some comments, my first reaction was pity. Perhaps that isn't so. My first reaction was jealousy, as it often is when I see someone my age published in the New York Times. But after that, pity. And then a creeping feeling of schadenfreude. Watching someone else get chided in much the same manner that I did years ago was shamefully cathartic. So cathartic, in fact, that I think I am going to buy up all the tissues in Brooklyn so she has to wipe her porcelain, tear-drenched cheeks with paper towels.

But the jealousy? Yeah, totally over it.

C/O Democractic Party

The mile-wide tornado that tore through Northern Colorado earlier today was no doubt whipped up by the GOP in an attempt to instill fear before the Democratic National Convention in August. Next up: locusts.

Moldy Peach Dog Biscuits

Music artists lending their voices or songs to television commercials is as old as Madonna, and to be honest I don't even consider it "selling out." Really, was Aerosmith's aural offerings over the past two decades ever so sacred that a partnership with Dodge changed the band's already fledging rocker reputation?

So when I saw the new commercial for Atlantis resorts, set to "Anyone Else But You" by the indie twosome Moldy Peaches—better known as the song that Ellen Page and Michael Cerra cover at the end of the movie Juno—I thought it was problematic for other another reason, and that is cognitive psychology.

Flashback back to PSYCH 101. Cognitive psychology is a school of thought that emphasizes a patient's mental processes—the same paradigm that harbors Pavlovian theory. And much like Pavlov and his salivating canines, this commercial makes me think of bastard children and awkward teen sex, not giggling frivolously in a one-piece under a poolside cabana. But hey, that's just me.

**and Nick, I know this is probably a complete perversion of cognitive psych and Pavlov and those mangy, blessed mutts. I look forward to the inevitable earful.

Tom Selleck Has Nothing To Do With This Post

Upon careful consideration and a lengthy pros and cons list, I have decided to pack up shop and move to Wordpress Tumblr. Blogger is like living in black and white when everything else is in technicolor; like being on MySpace when everyone uses Facebook.

Now I just have to figure out how to pull off the ole' switcheroo. If I happen to come across any speed bumps, detours or overpasses, rest assured you will be the first to know. And in the unlikelihood of a water landing, your cushion can be used as a flotation device. Same goes for Tom Selleck's mustache.

Anatomy of a Viral Video

Earlier today, a clip of an irascible Bill O'Reilly from his pre-Factor days took ahold of the blogotron. While Billo will have you clinging to the pant leg of your own splenetic boss, whose rants will suddenly appear tame compared to O'Reilly's outburst, what is most surprising is the video's proliferation. Pop culture blogs were on it like flies on a dead hooker—and yes, in this analogy O'Reilly is the hooker. Let's follow the breadcrumbs.

I first entered the online media ring at Radaronline.com, which was sent to me as a link via IM. The poor schmucks at Radar magazine (who I would give my boyfriend's left nut to be) apparently don't have the gear (or perhaps the inclination) to edit out the College Humor logo in the lower-third, thus their source was clear. Skip to Gawker, where O'Reilly took the page view cake with 37,000-plus views by 7 p.m., a boon for Gawker night editor Ryan Tate who posted the video at 2:30 a.m. By 4:30, New York Magazine's Daily Intel blog, which sources all its gossip, had picked it up from Gawker and whirled it into a combo piece about curmudgeonly white men, leading with a clip of New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg erupting at the press.

Four mega gossip sites, one mortified television personality. Is this enough for O'Reilly to crawl under a rock and never reappear?

'Bittersweet' Muff Diving

Certain songs you feel ashamed to love. You'll hear a catchy tune in passing, track it down and two days later "For You I Will (Confidence)" by Teddy Geiger is in your Top 25 Most Played. Shameful.

Such was the case when I came across "Bittersweet," a song even gayer than Ellen Page. The thing is I can't stop listening; I want to hear it over and over again until my ears are bleeding from Sapphic sentimentality and I just want to spoon.

Memoratorium

Me: What's that game called again? The one that you played as a kid with the farm animals and the cards, and you match them up?

Bruce: Um, Memory.

****

Earlier this week, I had that exact exchange. My ability to retain information is startling low. Like, chronic amnesia low. And as my pot intake has decreased over the past few months, it has become increasingly clear that the blaze wasn't solely to blame for the haze. In my case, it just might be a question of intelligence.

But there is hope. A recent study published on Monday in the The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (a title I would never be able to remember) describes the correlation between memory games and the increase of "fluid intelligence.

Will farm animals cards be able to undo that semester in college that I ate extacy as if it were Flinstone vitamins? Probably not. But would I be the lovably spacey, serotonin-deficient depressive had I not gone on weekend-long pill binges, thereby altering my entire identity? Definitely not.

Chewed Up and Spit Out

You know your music career is in jeopardy when even a collaboration with Lil Wayne is a radio flop. Perhaps wisely, former Creole Lady Marmalade Mya Harrison has turned her attention away from self-loathing teen girls and her yet to be (officially) released fourth studio album to the plight of the pups.

Teen girls? Oh yes. Mya's last philanthropic tour was the Secret to Self-Esteem, a mall-hopping brigade of back-patting health care specialists sponsored by Secret antiperspirant. Sadly, it appears that the only ones still interested in Mya is dog food companies and the producers of sweat inhibitors.

The Semen Tree

Every spring, I smell semen—or spooge, baby batter, love mayonnaise, the sometimes viscous, mostly watery (and fingers-crossed, never chunky) male juice that has been the bane of many a' girls' existence since the dawn of the blow job. The culprit? An efflorescent tree blanketed in odorous, white blossoms.

At times I chalked up the thick stink to an olfactory misunderstanding rooted in my tendency to eroticise everything—even botany. That is, until the most recent issue of The Onion cemented my observation in cold, hard fact (as The Onion is known to do).

Frida of the Yearn for Zion Ranch

The Dutch Oven

The other day I received this voice mail message from my friend: "You probably won’t listen to this message, but if you do, know that we desperately need your help as we are trying to discern what language the people of Holland speak, and whether or not they are both speaking Dutch and they are Dutch. And if they are from Holland, why are they Dutch? Why aren’t they hollandaise? And how do the Netherlands fit in there?"

As a product of the Colorado public education system, I am no more qualified to answer these questions than, say, Miss South Carolina, but I was once employed by a Dutch man. He was unusually tall and had an affinity for milk pudding. Unfortunately, that just about exhausts my knowledge of the world's wooden shoe-clad populace, so to answer these questions I will resort to Wikipedia, whose wells of unreliable information ne'er run dry.

Holland: Although ill-educated Americans (and some Dutch) use Holland and the Netherlands interchangeably, Holland is actually only a portion of the Netherlands. In fact, North and South Holland in the western Netherlands are only two of the country's twelve provinces. While Holland may have sticky greens and sailor-stuffed hookers, the Netherlands' outer provinces are populated by languid windmills, virginal milkmaids (see dildo below) and polychromatic fields of buttercream tulips.

Hollandaise: First described by chef François Pierre La Varenne in his 17th Century cookbook, hollandaise sauce has been making buttery goodness of unsavory comestibles for hundreds of years. Comprised of a piss-yellow powder from one of those Knorr sauce packets in the spice isle and a splash of milk, hollandaise sauce is indubitably delicious. It is not, however, the word used to refer to the occupants of Holland, nor the language that they speak (more on that later).

Netherlands: The Netherlands is the European part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, which consists of the Netherlands, the Netherlands Antilles and Aruba in the Caribbean. Yes, Aruba. Who knew?

Dutch: Resembling the sound of a German death metal band getting ass-raped by a Viking, Dutch is inarguably the ugliest language in the world. With this is mind, it is of little wonder why the Nazis killed Anne Frank (zing!).

The Keyword An(n)als

Through some XXX-rated force of panty-sniffing fortuitousness, I recently learned that an Internet peruser was led to my website after Googling, "www.woman naked with man having sex while pooping." It's good to know that I'm attracting my target audience: perverts and poopofiles.

Elizabeth Berkley is SO EXCITED!

When super gay entertainment channel Bravo tapped Elizabeth Berkley (better known as Jessie Spano) to host its new reality/competition show, Step It Up & Dance, they seemed to forget one important thing: no one cares about the towering talent-monger unless she is naked. Cue one of my favorite videos from You're The Man Now Dog, a community of nerdy video hacks with just enough time on their hands. It is a work of staggering genius, spliced together by a true visionary: my roommate.

YouTube Wunderkind

If emerging pop sensation du jour Marié Digby (as in Mary-ay, as I just learned) has taught wannabe artists anything, it's that covering billboard hits and broadcasting them on YouTube can actually launch a professional singing career. Sure, Marié might've been signed to Hollywood Records even before she became a DIY video star, but her real-life fairytale gave anyone with a keyboard and a camera hope—perhaps, even, too much.

Take Tiffany Jo Allen, a world class yodeler from Arizona who recorded a twangy cover of "Apologize" by OneRepublic last December. Interestingly, her video has gotten seven times the hits than the winner of the Myspace"Apologize" Cover Contest (chosen and announced by OneRepublic themselves). One can only hope Tiffany Jo will be performing her dipthong-heavy rendition during this summer's state fair circuit.


Or Britney Nicole, a Green Day-loving teen who belted a heartfelt acapella version of Leona Lewis's "Bleeding Love." What I want to know is why she didn't just come up with the stage name Britney Nicole Paris Lindsay. I think it's rather catchy...and very SEO friendly.


And then there's Chris Comisso, an aspiring Christian pop impresario who covered Sara Bareilles's "Love Song," not because you asked for it, not because you needed it, but because he thought it was about Jesus.

Hot VF on VF Action

While Vanity Fair, with its superlative design and carefully arranged celebrity spreads, tops my list of monthly must-reads, the magazine section of VF.com (reporting almost solely on operations at the mag itself: we just shot a new cover—hooray!; VF.com interviews a Vanity Fair reporter about writing a story for Vanity Fair) seems, well, vain. Perhaps Condé Nast's prodigal cultural digest has a right to be, but if this is where respectable news-blogging is going, give me Drunken Stepfather.

Reed Caught by Urban Eye

Of all the people featured on the New York Times's Urban Eye vlog—yeah, I said it: vlog—at SXSW, I of course know the one who looks the most toasted.

That's Reed. What the videographer might (or might not have) realized is that he was tripping on acid, thusly rendering him a somewhat overwhelmed and hilariously slack-jawed subject. Back in Denver, Reed is best known for two signature moves: tearing his shirt off after last call at the bar he works at and yelling "shirts are for work," and "metal face" in which he brandishes his half-clenched hand in the air and makes a pained expression. Both often involve growling.

I see you, Tommy

I think Tommy Wiseau reads this blog. Yes, Tommy Wiseau, the enigmatic actor/director/producer of my all-time favorite movie, The Room, and the man who taught me everything I know about romance. See, I keep track of page loads via Statcounter and someone in L.A. frequently looks at my post, The Best Worst Movie of All Time—sometimes as often as twice a day.

So Tommy, if it is you, give me a sign. There are so many questions I have, so many things I want to learn from you. For instance, how did you make such a cinematic masterpiece without formal training? What—or who—is your inspiration? Do you have parents or were you popped out of some vagina in the clouds? I'll be waiting, pen and pencil in hand (I don't know which one will work best...I know you understand).

The Black Hole Machine

News is supposed to be informative. It keeps us updated, it keeps us educated and sometimes, like Patrick Swayze's doctor, it gives us just a few months to live. Such was the case with an article that appeared on the front page of the New York Times this particularly frigid Saturday morning,

The story: two Hawaiian scientists are trying to get a judge to halt the construction of a giant particle accelerator set to be finished this summer, for fear that it will create a black hole that could consume the planet, possibly the universe. What the machine is originally designed to do (obviously it wasn't engineered to eat the Earth up) is probably explained further down in the article, but I (like most people) only read the first few paragraphs, then jump to extreme conclusions as I have only ingested the often sensationalized lede plus a few more explanatory sentences.

After committing to enjoying my last few months Queen Latifa-style, but with much more casual sex, I began to wonder: if scientists can make a proton-crashing/black hole-producing thingamabob, why can't they create a working hoverboard? Or an iPod that lasts more than two years?

I [heart] Bruce

My boyfriend wants to be in a blog. He wants me to write about him so badly, in fact, that he has mentioned it on multiple occasions. So here it is everyone—all eight of you—the story of me and Bruce.

We met back in October of last year. I was wearing a hat and he asked if my hair was real. That's how he got my attention—by asking me if I was wearing a wig. I know what you're thinking and you are right: he did read "The Game." We started formally dating in February; now I wear his high school class ring so everyone knows I am going steady with someone, but that doesn't stop them from hitting on me, especially in the workplace.

For our first Valentine's Day together, he took me to Hooters in midtown Manhattan and bought me chicken wings and a grilled cheese sandwich. Oh, and cheese sticks, but that was more for his best friend who came with us.

On Easter I went home with him to meet his mom and his aunt. We drank mimosas and had ourselves a lovely time, even though she likes to call me Sascha. (My name is really Sara...I don't know who Sascha is.) Bruce and I even have a song: "Apologize" by OneRepublic, but the remix version because Timbaland really knows how to add that extra something. I like to think of it as "adding the black." Anyway, here is a picture from Easter. That's Bruce on the right and his mom in the middle. His aunt is the one puking. She had one too many mimosas.

Blame Gray's

In the midst of an allegedly sketchy takeover, down-and-out lending Goliath Bear Stearns maintains it was a lack of investor confidence and not a dearth of funds that caused the firm's liquidity pool to drop almost $20 billion, a plummet that prompted JP Morgan to step in two weeks ago.

Perhaps BS (a fitting acronym) took a cue from president Bush's Feb. 28 press conference during which he denied that America was in a recession. Where, then, did the idea come from? Who was the scoundrel that first whispered the nasty "R" word?

New York City hot dog and tropical juice vendor Gray's Papaya, that's who. And they didn't just say it, they put it in neon lights. In fact, I had a special just the other day (two hot dogs and a papaya juice for $3.50), and it was so delicious I decided that if this is what recessions are all about—stimulus packages, hot dog discounts—count me in.

Damn you, Advertorials

Advertisers always manage to stay two steps ahead. As a child of the online era, I absorb most of my news online in quick B12-like shots; I am masterful at maneuvering through the Internet, deftly avoiding banner ad traps no matter how beguiling their nods and winks, and I never—I repeat never—pay to access anything online.

But every now I then I too am fooled. For instance, last night as I was reading The Huffington Post I clicked on what I thought was a feature article only to find that it was actually a link to a completely separate site—a site comprised solely of advertorials, those pesky ad-opinion hybrids parading as legitimate news.

I, who is so discerning and hawk-eyed when it comes to matters of the interweb, had been duped!

So I shook my fist in the air and damned those cunning, Starbucks-sipping ad execs who concocted such a well-engineered ruse, then I looked at a slideshow of The Washington Post's Peep diorama contest until all was marshmallowy and pastel once again.

DMX finds out there is a black presidential candidate

Hard core rap Don DMX may have made hundreds of thousands of dollars off his guttural vocal emissions ("huh," "wha?," "grr"), but he has no idea who Barack Obama is. In an interview with XXL magazine, the out-of-touch rapper reveals that he has, in fact, been living under a rock the past few years, emerging only to get arrested for drug possession and beating people up. Here is an excerpt from the interview:

The Best Worst Movie of all Time

Writer/actor/director/producer Tommy Wiseau is like the George Clooney of bad movies. His most notable cinematic offering, The Room, has the mouth-to-sound inconsistency of Kung Fu Theater and the maudlin appeal of a Spanish soap opera. To say that it's my new obsession would be putting it lightly.

Wiseau supposedly shelled out $6 million to make the film, went through seven crews because people kept walking out on him, and wasted an immense amount of time, energy and money filming it in both HD and 35 mm (as in both units taped together) because he wasn't sure which one would work best. But it wasn't all for naught: The Room enjoys a cult-like following in L.A. with frequent midnight showings and a loyal fanbase.

I have attached the trailer below, and you can click here for the YouTube page with clips of the best scenes.

What I can't figure out is how he made the money to produce the film in the first place. How did that burn-victim-looking beefcake (who some believe is retarded...like, retarded retarded) get such deep pockets? I asked around and here are the theories I came up with: Russian mafia hitman, international sex trafficker and internet gambling bookie.

I have an idea: let's consult Heidi

A seemingly drugged-up Heidi Fliess discussed the "psychology" of the Spitzer scandal last night on ABC news, where she suggested that the embroiled governor should have just gone to the Bunny Ranch in Nevada for "finer-looking girls." (see Alexis Fire or Mercedes Love)

My favorite words of wisdom uttered from the collagen-injected lips of the former Hollywood Madam? "He does have a sex drive and wants to get laid...He just went about it in a very sloppy manner."

Click here to watch the entire video, or go to her more in-depth analysis on Radar.com.

Newsflash: market researchers crack male code

In a recent national study funded by Spike TV and TVGuide.com, Latitude Research found that men like...drum roll please...football and hot chicks.

No shit.

The poll, which yielded a handful of similarly earth-shattering results, also had participants rate who they thought was the most smokin' Desperate Housewife, Grey's Anatomy resident and Lost castaway. (Can you say "airtime" Evangeline Lilly?)

For more of what you already know, pick up the March 17 issue of TV Guide with the complete results. Or I can just tell you: men like to poop, watch sports, have sex and eat steak.

My buddy, Spitz, and me

It is official, (former) Governor of New York Eliot Spitzer and I have one thing in common: we both resigned from our formidable posts today. I am again a free agent, inclined to impulse, unrestrained whimsy and toking from dusk till dawn while doing yoga in the living room, though, admittedly, my days will likely just be consumed by the Food Network.

But I am for hire, ya hear? Just not in the way Spitzer understands it.

Camera phone picture gallery

This morning I saw a poster on the subway (part of the semi-colon-heavy Subtalk series) featuring a "homeless" man whose visage was an uncanny throwback to 80s-era Bowie. In other words it was the perfect camera phone picture. But to my utter horror I was out of storage space on my dinky Motorola Razr and had to forgo my photo-op as we were nearing my stop. For posterity's sake and to avoid a similar scenario, I have unloaded ten of my favorite camera-phone pics to be immortalized on the Internet.

1. The vision of these two glitter boxes catapulted me into childlike glee as only glitter can do. Why would anyone want to throw them out?


2. This guy likes to ride around my neighborhood. And yes, that is a feather tied to a knife in his sock.


3. The sign outside of this Hell's Kitchen laundromat says "Issues, worries, lost underwear?" I liked how they were advertising the fact that they were not panty stealer/sniffers—like that was their selling point.


4. That's me. I'll have you know there are children out there who can't sleep because of this picture...and even some child-sized adults.


5. This is my roommate's cat Beowulf right before he shoots lasers out of his eyes.


6. Writen on a bathroom wall somewhere. At the time, it blew my mind. Then I peed on my leg a little.


7. If I smoked cigars I would have to cut them. And if I cut them I would use this lady legs cigar cutter on sale (for something like $1,600) at Mantiques Modern in Chelsea.


8. The most righteous camel toe I have ever seen. Ever.


9. The line at Target two days before Christmas. All I wanted was some toilet paper.


10. By far the best subway entertainer in NYC. He sings Calypso-style music and dances with a fake horse.

Dawn of the Chaste

Yesterday morning on the Today Show, author Dawn Eden discussed her book "The Thrill of the Chaste," which explores the rewards of dating without sex (or as the title's postscript reads: Finding Fulfillment While Keeping Your Clothes On [exclamation point]).

Dawn Eden: what a lovely biblical-sounding last name! Too bad it's really Goldstein. After Eden found Jesus, she exorcised the Jew and the free love out of her sinful soul. Here is an excerpt from the personal essay she wrote to accompany her appearance.

What was missing was joy. The kisses and caresses I sought, the heights of sexual excitement that I pursued — all served to camouflage the emptiness I felt inside.That emptiness was in fact a God-shaped vacuum, as I discovered at 31 when I had a born-again experience that converted me to Christianity — beginning a journey that would eventually bring me to Catholic faith. But when the initial rush of my newfound faith faded, I had to face some hard facts — namely that, where my sex life was concerned, I had to get with the program

Yes, the Christian program. So she dropped the sex, the Semitic surname and picked up the Bible (but was it solar powered?), expelling the serpent from her Garden of Eden.

The Geriatric Journalist

At a press conference Wednesday, President Bush assured that America wasn't headed toward a recession...to the OLDEST JOURNALIST IN THE WORLD. This lady must've started her muckraking career back when they were transmitting news via Morse code and the Pony Express was actually express.

Why—or more importantly how—is she still working? Seriously, she is like half my grandmother's age and my grandma makes no sense most of the time.

Lady, at some point it's time to drop the pen and pad and pick up the oven mitts because somewhere out there there's grandchildren who need you to bake them a pie. Or in my grandma's case, make them a martini then bake them a pie because they are a drunk and hungry lout.

Solar-powered Bible

And I thought the bible was powered by blind faith and a healthy fear of God. Leave it SkyMall to prove otherwise.

Back in the tire business

Ex footballer John Elway was once a demi-God in Denver, and to be quite honest I didn't think anyone else gave a shit about him outside of that conspicuously rectilinear state (from which I hail). But apparently the muckrakers at TMZ do: yesterday they blogged about a picture of the—well, not so hefty as he is flabby—former QB along with commentary on his questionable physique.

In lieu of the posting, I thought I should share with you the tale of the day I met Elway, the superlative Bronco, the apotheosized number 7, at DIA a few years back. So gather 'round kiddies, break open the boxed juice and listen up...

The scene is late 2006. The air is cold and the night had been long. My flight to New York was canceled due to a last-minute engine failure, and as we of the flight-that-never-would-be queued up at the customer service desk, I realized I was standing right next to none other than John Elway. Destiny, it seems, was my lady.

When he sat down at the new gate, I took a seat beside him. I wanted to know what a man of his caliber did when he was idle. Count his laugh lines, maybe? Polish his Superbowl rings, perhaps?

What did happen was even odder: He began cutting out newspaper articles about himself. Mind you, this was back when Florida-based AutoNation declined to renew their contract with him, a partnership that had yielded 16 or so high-profile dealerships (John Elway AutoNations) across the Denver Metro area. As you might imagine, each of the two major papers were on the story like flies on a dead hooker. But why would he cut them out? Could the clippings be for his "Scrapbook of Failure" where he documented all his fumbled passes?

We may never know. What is certain, however, is that this activity left ole' Elway at least a little cantankerous, for when a pig-tailed fan asked for his autograph, he sneered, huffed (albeit signed her plane ticket), then quickly sloughed off her starry-eyed gaze and returned to hacking up his newspaper.

All the while I am thinking, maybe he his John freakin' Elway, but that is no way to treat a fan! So to remind him that he was a mere mortal despite his athletic prowess and wind-blown hair, I leaned over and asked, "hey, where is your private jet?" hoping that it would be like grinding a knuckle in his side.

"In the shop," he says (and with a much more congenial tone than he had used earlier, which I chocked up to my having tits).

"Ahhhh," I replied knowingly.

Then I took a deep breath, and he smelled of sea salt and pig skin.

Back to the future

Recreating iconic photographs may be the kiss of celebrity death. When the Mistress of Rehab, draped in sheer cloth and captured in various states of (familiar) repose, she bucked up Nymag.com's page views by 40 times, a testament to her popularity (or at least to that of her bare nipples). But, Lilo, look at what happened to your equally ambitious predecessor...



Just like the famous shoot from 2003, when Britney Spears mimicked Angie Dickinson's pantless pose for the cover of Esquire magazine, Brit-fans had little premonition that the bubblegum-pop bombshell was teetering in those 4-inch heels on the brink of mega-disaster. Within a year-and-a-half after the cover was published, Spears was hitched to Kevin Federline, knocked-up with their first child and the star of the eye-opening reality show, Chaotic.



One can only imagine what Britney is thinking now: "See you in hell, Lohan. See you in hell."

Times, they are a-changin'

They just don't make ex like they used to. According to a recent finding by the Office of Drug Control Policy, 55 percent of ecstasy seized in the U.S. last year was laced with meth, a ten percent increase from 2006. Back in my day, in college, ex was so clean that when you snorted it, it wouldn't make your nose bleed or your head go numb but 2 out of every 3 times. Now, we might as well just start calling it "mecstacy," much like "brunch" or "Brangelina," but more fun and way more popular.

Fidelo my hobo

World, you have been duped yet again. Despite reports, the ample-bearded leader of Cuba didn't resign today—no. That would be impossible because he has been living in the dollar-store-lined confines of Washington Heights, where I too reside. Just look at this picture that I took with my camera phone a few months ago.

Put that in your embargoed tobacco leaf and smoke it.