Baby Jesus and the Cult Jam

You're probably wondering where cokane has been with her sassy girl-talk lately. One explanation is that the porn office where I spend my days, already in a state of slow decay, has now upgraded to slow-motion implosion. We moved floors and now everyone has an even smaller space than before, even people who used to have offices are now in cubbies the size of a desk and a chair, and the already-low morale is plumbing new depths. There's way more to me than the day job, but after work each day last week all I could do was lie on my bed. And after work is when I'm supposed to Make it Happen with my writing.

So I may have wasted the week, but I set two goals for last weekend: 1) Totally clean my room and 2) Become a successful writer. So Friday night found me in a vegetative state on my bed again, watching three straight hours of AFV. (You know, America's Funniest Videos? The word "Home" is gone from the title, as are the infuriating voiceovers! Now it's nothin' but dudes gettin' nailed in the nuts with various household items, animals, and babies. That's entertainment!)

Saturday I stopped at the Jesus book store to buy a gift for my baby niece/goddaughter, who was visiting the next day. I got Baby Bible Animals, a happy blend of my interests and her parents'.
The best part about Baby Bible Animals, other than depicting God and Jesus as toddlers with beards, is the title of the page about the plague of frogs: "Too Many Frogs!" It also shows some dragonflies, which maybe are more baby-friendly than locusts.

Here are my suggestions for kid-friendly titles of other Bible stories:

Too Many Foreigners! (The Tower of Babel)
Not Enough Drinkie-Poos! (The Wedding at Cana)
Too Many Parties! (The Prodigal Son)
Too Many No-Nos! (Sodom & Gomorrah)

Then I saw that Russian movie Night Watch, which I was lured to with promises of zombies. Not one zombie in that movie! Other than resentment about lack of zombies, my only lasting impressions of the film are:
Stupid sexy vampires are so boring.
and
Russians have really bad style.

Then somehow I ended up at this super-secret creepy clubhouse in the east village: (this was taken from the loft we climbed up to, and just so you know, there's another giant pot mural on the rear wall of the place).

My friends and I had no idea what kind of cult-recruitment we might have gotten into. All we knew were there were a bunch of 40 and 50-somethings there who were not exactly welcoming us. They were showing a tape about some controversial drug that's supposed to help you get off other drugs, but all the news clips on the tape were from the '80s or early '90s. At my urging, Jess and I scrammed out of there, having to unbolt the door as we left, which had a sign reading, "Don't open the door for anyone you don't know!"

It's so perfectly NYC that my day began with trying not to curse in the Jesus bookstore and later found me trying not to eat the acid-laced refreshments at the cult clubhouse. I ran around all day Sunday with my niece and ended up prostrate on the bed watching AFV again, followed by Sunday night cartoons. So I never did clean my room or became a successful writer last weekend. But hopefully I will by this weekend.

It's time for Jersey Girl Metal Talk

Two weekends ago, I was staying with friends in a vacation home up in Vermont, where we always have to watch a bunch of horror movies to ensure ultimate awesomeness. I brought a screener of the 2005 very independent film called Andre the Butcher (also known as Dead Meat). Synopsis: Ron Jeremy is the cannibalistic maniac Andre the Butcher, who punishes sinful teens by butchering them while sporting a welding mask. I know--Ron Jeremy: awesome. But what's even better is that during the murder scenes they play death metal really loud.

Why does metal make horror so much more awesome? It doesn't matter; it just does.

Also, this was on the Roadrunner Records website: "According to MelodicRock.com, Scott Ian (ANTHRAX; guitar), Ted Nugent (guitar), Evan Seinfeld (BIOHAZARD; bass), Sebastian Bach (ex-SKID ROW; vocals) and Jason Bonham (BONHAM, UFO, FOREIGNER; drums) are taking part in a new VH1 reality TV show tentatively titled "Supergroup". Filming for the program commenced this week in Las Vegas, with the premise being to lock several musicians in a house for 10 days and get them to write and record some new original music. Originally the network wanted the group to record an album, but at this time it is understood they will settle for one song and hope for more. In addition to the five musicians, star manager Doc McGhee (KISS) is in charge and is also living in the house for the duration of filming/recording. The show will air on VH1 later this year."

Just picture it: the Nuge teaching Sebastian Bach to shoot some innocent furry creatures after Sebastian has just done a bong rip, and Sebastian turns too quickly while shooting they accidentally take out Jason Bonham with the shotgun spray... Glenn Danzig wants to come over and play and they make him go home and mow his mom's lawn... the possibilities are endless!

Obnox sans Botox in L.A.

I just visited L.A. for the first time with the Playgirls. As requested, we brought our hostess, Kristina, some goodies from the sex toy closet, including this rather large butt plug. We were hoping to not have our bags checked carefully. Please note that although we did make Oliver the cat pose with it, he is drooling, so he totally liked it.














See? They are BFFs now! Butt friends forever.















After the ugly wintery New York we'd left behind, I was constantly in awe of the beautiful weather, the palm trees, the flowers everywhere. So naturally our first stop was the Museum of Jurassic Technology, full of the most gothy morbid ersatz relics and lore--nobody really knows what this place is. Kristina dropped Jess & I there before it even opened, so we left magical sunny L.A. behind and stepped into this dark cool place, all alone, where half of the wings weren't even lit yet. We were scared, we didn't know what the hell was going on, and it was totally rad. An unknown amount of time later (hours? days?), Kristina returned, and this pic is from the upstairs tea room, which looks nothing like the rest of the place.

















It is really fun to be obnoxious on Rodeo drive. For example, at Gucci or whatever, when there's a giant white leather purse with fringe and little mirrors all over it, for approximately one zillion dollars, you should say loudly in a downmarket accent: "Ooh! I bought this same purse at Mandee's in 1988! I had it at the Bon Jovi concert at Giants Stadium!" At lunch in Ethiopiatown earlier, Kristina had had fish, and you eat it with your hands, so she made sure to touch everything with her fishy hands. Talking like pretend rich people there is also fun.


And you can count on me to always take the high road:













After we tired of laughing at designer stores for stupid rich jerks, we found a tiny shop nearby where we could actually afford stuff. I picked up a cute bra that was on sale, but I couldn't tell the price and asked the sales lady. A moment later a Botox-face came in and sales lady dropped the bra back into my hand without saying anything to tend to Botoxo the Clown. It was so rude and fast that I didn't even understand what had happened until a minute later. Kristina made sure to touch everything there on our way out.


Then we tried to hike up to the HOLLYWOOD sign. I found this really cute tumbleweed! It was too big to take home, though. But I did take home a splinter in my hand, which is still there.















Then we did Fredrick's of Hollywood (the original! Why were we so excited? Oh, because we could afford stuff there, even without Botox), happy hour, and Mann's Chinese Theater. You know who else is Chinese?
















Kristina remembers a fellow Asian. See you at the crossroads, Pat.




















And I mourn the Scatman.
















Then I felt a calling!





















I don't remember much after feeling the Scientology call and doing some sort of "stress test," but here is a picture of me with Thai Elvis later that night!
(I'm scared for me! What happened?!?)




















The next day, Jess and I walked from West L.A.down Santa Monica Boulevard to Santa Monica Beach. Does this place, "K-2 Food Store," make you think of anything? Makes me think of Jah.














Jess wouldn't go to evil Starbucks again, so we finally found another coffee/doughnut place and met this little like 4-year-old girl who was SO L.A. Her first question was "Where's your car?" "We don't have one." "Why not?" "Because we walked. It's a nice day out!" She stared, chewing her string cheese. Conversation over.


And finally, the beach!

Bikinis on the beach in January!!! No, it really wasn't warm enough to do that.














Look who else is scantily clad! He totally caught us taking his photo and left. We creeped out the thong-wearing creep!

















We checked out Venice Beach and the canals, and now it was dark and much colder than before, so we put on the extra clothes we'd bought at Goodwill earlier that day. Then we were walking back parallel to the beach but a few streets inland, and noticed we were in a sketchy area. We approached a parcel of land on the corner that was apparently the place to be for anyone and everyone in the homeless community that evening. There were dozens of bums and hobos and tramps and what have you congregating all in this park area. We walked cautiously, trying not to draw attention, just like in The Birds. Then we realized we were fine because Jess looked like a crazy person with all the clothes she had on: two different lengths of skirts, tube socks, and various shirts.

At the bus stop, an intoxicated gentleman named Tyrone plunked himself down between us and expressed his appreciation for my "popsicle toes," which he wanted to suck on. He'd mentioned how he'd been recently jailed for being a terrorist, and was just getting around to asking Jess for money when the bus came to our rescue. We got on and Tyrone tried to follow without paying. Our driver, who looked a bit like a black Willem Dafoe, if you can picture that (cheek-bonesy and intense), threw the bus into park and stood at the head of the bus to face Tyrone and demand payment. The driver reached for his pocket--"Oh, he's going for his gun," Jess said, but it was his cell phone, and Tyrone reached into his own pocket and got out the change that the driver knew was there all along. So Tyrone found some new popsicle toes among the baby-faced punk teens up behind us, and got off at a liquor store. And then we knew why no one rides the bus in L.A.

We also saw: my friend Brendon and his excellent comedy show; the bar where they filmed Swingers and its (to use the term coined by my friend Tom) awefulsome lounge act Marty and Elayne; the most awefulsome movie ever called The Room (watch the trailer and you, too, will be spellbound/gobsmacked like all else who see it); a great weekly vintage sale at the Jet Rags parking lot where everything's a dollar; one of the amazing supermarket-size dollar stores filled with dollar treasures like badminton sets, champagne, and Mary-Kate and Ashley shampoo, and more!

On our last morning there, I got to drive and experience the legendary traffic. I thought about all the exotic new zesty snacks I was going to miss, like


















but especially Sabrositas Lime 'N Chile Fritos and other picante products aimed at L.A. and select other cities' large Hispanic populations, and I knew I'd be back.

I am Totally psychic

So I've finally gotten around to reading my dusty old '60s copy of Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique over the past two weeks or so, and then today I saw on a newspaper that she died yesterday. (Please forgive me, fellow feminists, I read the opening chapter "The Problem That Has No Name" years ago, OK? The rest of the book pretty much expounds on that chapter.)
Did I cause her to die? No; I am merely psychic. This is just like the time I was wearing my Johnny Cash T-shirt one sunny morning and then learned that JC had just gone to meet the other JC. And then I felt like That Guy for wearing the shirt. But even worse, JC was dead. And all they cared about on Howard Stern that morning was that John Ritter had also died. Please!!! And now all anyone cares about is that Grandpa Munster died! Who had more of an impact, Grandpa Munster, or Betty Friedan?!?! People are dumb.
But I digress. Reading The Feminine Mystique, it seems we've come a long way, baby, so much that it's hard to imagine the world she lays out for us in the book. But I do still know a few women who are living very limited domestic lives like the ones described in the book. Ah well, their loss. I have my own shit to do now, see you guys later.
B-Fried, R.I.P., holla at the suffragists & represent in the afterlife.

I'm with the lady who was with the band

I totally met Miss Pamela when she read at Coliseum Books on Saturday, and I was a dork. It was a reading of her reissued tell-all I'm With the Band. She looked adorable in a stylish long-puffed-sleeve T-shirt from her own line of tees (I'd link, but don't think they're online yet) that reads "Is Jesus Mad at Me For Sleeping With Rock Stars?" and her bubbly personality was evident.
Sandra Bernhard read from the book, too, looking, erm, most Botoxed-out (come on sisters, aren't we better than this?), and Pamela called her the only girl she's ever had a crush on. It was pretty special hearing Sandra's world-weary, sarcastic voice reading the blissed-out scribblings of young Miss P about Jimmy Page: "My whole self was opened up and everything sweet was entering my pores. Every piece of Jimmy, every piece of me; interlocking with raspberries, oranges, pistachio ice cream, cherries, grapes, and tons and tons of lime-green sherbet. I had an orgasm every minute, and each one was a different flavor."
Read this book! It is so awesome!