VW bust-in

Last week my beloved Wolfgang, my 1979 VW Westfalia camper van, was violated. As far as break-ins, I've been very lucky up until then, considering this is the first such incident in nearly seven years in Brooklyn.

I've always thought that the only burglars who might ever be happy looting my apartment would be gay men who own vintage kitsch resale shops, and the same holds true for would-be pillagers of Wolfgang. So when whatever crackhead rummaged quickly through all of Wolfgang's little drawers and cabinets and cupboards and opened doors and swept stuff out of compartments must've left pretty disappointed, not to mention newly perplexed by a lifestyle entirely different than that fiend's own experience. For the contents revealed within must've seemed an infuriatingly wholesome booty indeed: plastic cups, plates, utensils, and bowls all in matching '70s avacado shades, Melmac and Pyrex from kitchens of the past. Vintage sleeping bags and linens. A can of vegetarian baked beans, perhaps. Cooking oil.

That must be why that methface stole Wolfgang's ashtray, just to stick it to me for having such cute taste in campware. That, and because coins were in that ashtray, perhaps a whole several dollars' worth.

Well guess what, hophead, you missed the mother lode of drugs, it was all stowed in the water tank for the sink! Simply turn on the faucet and out spills riches of powder, leaves and pills! Never mind, you don't have the Internet and you can't read anyway!

Woah. I get pissed when someone messes with Wolfgang. Oh, Wolfgang, I'll never let this happen again. Hopefully.

Curiouser and curiouser

I think we can all agree that I have a pretty bizarre job as Senior Editor of Naked Wieners Magazine, but Friday was definitely one of the more bizzaro days I've spent on it. Can you guess where I was?













("Muscle Milk"...eeewwww.)



















Full supply of neon furry backdrops...check.




















Improbably short micro-mini from some previous shoot with musclebound divas...check.















Annnnd, leopard undies in both full-arse and thong format. Check and check.


Final visual clue!















Note: No chairs were thrown in the making of this photoshoot.

Preemptive scolding

To all of you jokers who are planning to be so clever and timely with your Crocodile Hunter-with-the-stingray-in-the-heart Halloween costumes this weekend, you should be ashamed of yourselves!

I'm serious. (Even though I may end up recycling my Joan Crawford-with-wire-hangers costume.)

Theater (?!) Journalism Girl Style Now: Evil Dead the Musical

I didn't know what was in store at Evil Dead the Musical, after chancing on a pair of seats located in "the Splatter Zone." Would it be a mashup of lame gags and Gallagher? And one at which dedicated fans laugh anyway because they want it to be good?*



My first thought when arriving (late, natch) and being faced with a line of boisterously singing and dancing goofballs was Oh yeah, I forgot that I don't like 1) theater and 2) especially musicals. Despite this, it was watchable, funny, and very, very silly, though I did wish for a fast forward button during a few of the songs. It was a bit like a reunion with the kids from Script & Cue club in high school, only this time instead of trying to loudly outdo each other with Monty Python impressions, they were reinterpreting two of my favorite horror movies, singing songs like "What the Fuck Was That?" and spurting blood everywhere, which was quite an improvement.

Only a few catch phrases like "Give me some sugar, baby" and "Groovy" made it into the script of this creative reimagining, as did many sendups of standard musical devices. And truly, these are postmodern times. While watching numbers in the styles of vaudeville, disco, MJ's "Thriller" and Meat Loaf, I wondered if anything gets made these days that isn't an homage/takeoff/satire of like 50 other sources.



Whatevs, it was a fun time, and I recommend the show to any fans of these movies with a high tolerance for goofiness (and I'm thinking if you are fans of those movies, this won't be a problem). Thanks to julepandme and Aaron for the tickets.

Oh, and during the second act's gorefest, we were not close enough to get bloodied, but folks in the first few rows had to put on plastic ponchos.

*I refer you to the cult of Evil Dead's Bruce Campbell. He's quite a hit with a demographic of Certain Alienated Dudes, not entirely dissimilar to the Kevin Smith School of Dudes. There's something about straight guys' adoration of Bruce that's a little sexual. And what's not to love in the first few movies? A few years ago, I went to see Bubba Ho-Tep in the theater, which based on its plot description (Elvis plus a black guy who thinks he's JFK in an old-age home plus a mummy or some shite), already didn't sound like a good idea. But my friend Leah wanted to go and maybe there would be some good horror schlock, and no: we both found it the biggest piece of crap we'd ever seen. But certain guys in the mostly-empty theater seemed determined to like it and laughed at every lame, grossout gag. Such is the Cult of Bruce Campbell.

A is for A-hole

This is what a $1.55 organic apple looks like.

I know, right? You'd think it would be made out of gold.







Here it is minus one bite. Now it would probs go for about $1.40.



And instead of tasting, as I'd hoped, like autumnal delights, it tasted like the health food store. (It's a certain small chain we can call The Health Wackos. Or, the Wallet Rapists.)

Why didn't I protest when I saw the guy ring it up? Sometimes I don't recover that quickly from shock.


Not pictured: $3.29 vanilla pecan pie rice shake, which I rationalized by it being a two-servings size. I drank half, capped it, and a minute later drank the other half.

OK, let the mockery begin. I deserve it.

I'm an excellent housekeeper

This afternoon I found myself ovaries-deep in another wacky hijink because I was trying to recover a necklace piece that was dear to me. It was a simple, modern squared-off cylinder that my friend Kim got me when we were in Sweden, at a silversmith in the country called Silvergarden. I'd worn it nearly every day until it slipped off the chain and was lost on my gray industrial bedroom carpeting. I could never find it, then was vacuuming under the radiator and heard something like a pebble rattle up the attachment.

I knew I had to see if my favorite necklace bit was in the vacuum bag, which had never been emptied. (What?!--the full bag indicator never came on! Not my fault.) After months of putting off the task, today I made an autopsy-style T-shaped incision in the bag and set forth the dirt and cat hair onto newspapers, covering my mouth and nose with my shirt. There was enough hair to make several new cats.



I gave special attention to the pink-tinted hair/lint masses which are native to my bedroom. About halfway through, the word "mites" popped into my head. I did my very best to dispel it until my unpleasant task was done.



Now, you might think that all sorts of interesting and possibly valuable things get vacuumed up all the time. Turns out...no. There is nothing you want in a vacuum bag. I did find a fortune, though, and thought whatever it was going to say must be significant.



It said, Ignorance never settles a question. Fuck you, that's not a forutune. Don't judge me, dirt bag! So after all that careful effort, I had to admit defeat. But I didn't want to give up entirely. I'd already looked numerous times, but made another extra-thorough search under my dresser with a lamp, and there, on top of my long-unused watercolor paper pad, flanked by dust bunnies, was the necklace piece. Yay! One lesson here could be that you have to deal with dirtbags before you find what you're looking for (quite applicable to my life). So...yeah. I'm going to go shower now.

Ravin' 2: Unwelcome Boogaloo

Some of you may wonder how I keep so in touch with current fads and crazes that the college co-eds are flipping their lids over, such as stuffing themselves into phone booths, keeping those pet rocks, goldfish-swallowing contests, donning fur coats and waving pennants at the sporting matches, and so forth. Well! I must admit, I have a little help from a newsletter called Trendcentral. I've noted previously that if I see an example of a fashion phenomenon more than once, then it is a trend. But judging from the Trendcentral item below, I need only see it once, as with my complaint about the raver revivalist on Dear Douchebag . Get ready to be bummed out.


'90s Flashback Hitting London

London residents are reporting stirrings of a nu-rave scene. With a largely identical roster of rock bands rotating the corporate live scene, the "indie" scene has become mainstream. This does not sit comfortably with the desire to rebel. In times of noticeable political strife, young people want true escapism—to move from international conflict, employment worries and everything else into a realm of truly losing oneself in the music and atmosphere.
Thus, this second coming of the rave scene is on the rise. This time around, it's not yet the giant warehouse raves of the '90s, but rather influences of the Ecstacy-driven era showing up in music, fashion, and parties. Clad in loud, acidic colors, band of the moment Klaxons combine glow sticks with sped-up tempos and airhorns that make people want to dance. Other artists such as Datarock, Shitdisco and Metronomy are also leading the trend while popular DIY club nights, including Young, Lost Club, and Angular Disco, are popping up everywhere. Recent runway shows paid homage to the rave era, and stories have sporadically been appearing in the British media about all-night illegal rave parties, citing that police have had to break up these gatherings that often go on past dawn. Hopefully, JNCO pants won't be back this time around.















Note: It is decidedly not all good.

Rock Journalism Girl Style Now: Beck @ Theater at the Garden

I believe it was my third time seeing this lad(-turned-dad!), and the schtick with this tour is there were marionette doppelgangers of Beck and everyone in his band performing the whole show, which was simulcast on the big screen. [Insert Beck-as-puppet-of-Scientology joke here.]

Did Beck look up or talk to us once during this show? I don't think he did. He didn't even dance or wear an assholishly-darling outfit. (I stole this otherwise-representative photo, but he wasn't wearing that hat.) They had a guy onstage spastically dancing, but that guy wasn't Beck.

Speaking of not being Beck, gone are the days when those absurdo lyrics about junk food and huffing came tumbling out of his mouth almost faster than he could awkwardly rap them. I just want to know, who is this adult-oriented-rock-friendly performer, and what happened to my favorite wacked-out postmodern antifolk dandy? Is it really the Scientology that's smoothing him out into bland Sting territory?

It wasn't a wash, but it never kicked into exciting. The coolest parts were when Beck sang the Flaming Lips' "Do You Realize?" and when the band ate their dinner at the foot of the stage while playing their glassware as percussion. I used to love him, but now I'll stick with his older stuff, and hope he does an all-country show or a lounge act in Vegas.

Friday the 13th, part 2

Somebody had a rough one.

















Let's remember him as he once was, so full of death.

What in the...?

As a Professional Journalist (don't laugh just becuase the last person I interviewed was a male stripper with a stage name befitting an Egyptian pharoh), sometimes I recieve press releases for unusual items. Sometimes you can see exactly why such products would need to hire professionals to get them press mentions. Such as with this product.

Will someone please tell me what in the Sam Hill is going on here?

Fun in Midtown: Friday the 13th edish

It's an October Friday the 13th, and in that spirit, I found a bit of Midtown morbidity (other than general cubicle/fluorescent-lighting-induced loss of will to live, etc.). The first bit is a Halloween display adorning a surpisingly quaint building that houses a vet's office on East 40th Street.









Take special note of this guy. He is so like [skeleton voice] "It's a living," or else [skeleton voice] "Ta-daaaa."


















(This establishment is doubtless assisting countless punt-punt "dogs" to yipyipyipyipyip longer, when those things really should not be. Not to mention that these creatures, unsuited for existence outside a handbag, come from breeders and puppy mills when perfectly good pupps are getting euthanized daily, and isn't that the real horror? Just sayin'.)

Anyhoo! That display is temporary, but just another block or two West, you can recoil from the following horrific visages year-round. (Located where? Another card store. Who knew card stores were so goth.)




















































Awesome.

Bon voy-agey!

[whisper] Here we have a rare North American/Australian heterosexual pairing exhibiting the ever-so elusive state known as "love."

This is ecs & Ed on their wedding day a week ago at City Hall. Tomorrow, they're moving to Australia. I guess "true love" is a good enough "reason" to "move away from me."

(jerks)

No seriously, it is.

Many congrats to them, and...sniff. Excuse me...I must have something in my eye...

Rock Journalism Girl Style Now: Silversun Pickups & Viva Voce @ Mercury Lounge

Here's a show I went to last night that you should see tonight at the Bowery Ballroom, but only if you like music that's awesome: Silversun Pickups and
Viva Voce. And here's some stuff that girls like me think about during rock shows.

(Tall bf's are good for taking photos above the crowd.) Openers Silversun Pickups put on an amazing show, and had a bigger crowd than the headliners, but they seemed a bit disgruntled around the club after. I heard they were tired. Understandable, since they just rocked everyone's faces off, psych-pop-rock style. I hope they're OK. I wonder if guitarist-singer Brian Aubert and bassist Nikki Monninger are together, Kim and Thurston style. If not, they should be.

Viva Voce are a husband/wife duo from Portland who recently had a song featured in a Pontiac G6 commercial. I knew them from their 2004 album, The Heat Can Melt Your Brain, fuzzy mellow rock which I recommend. Singer Anita Robinson had a really cute black guitar with red Country-Western-looking flowers on it.



If I played guitar, I would totally want that one. Doesn't this look like one of those school portraits with the two faces, one floating up in the air? I did that on purpose. No I didn't.

They were joined for a few tunes by Kim Baxter, clad in a short sailor dress, who at first I thought was a little girl.




















But then I realized she was just from Portland. And then I thought, I would totally wear that dress, but without the pants underneath.

Then Anita changed guitars to this pink one.



I would rock that one, too, if I played guitar. Good show, ladies and gents.

Totally hopped up on bargains: once again with feeling

It was an outstanding weekend for many reasons. Ecs got married on Friday at City Hall, and it was one of the best, most fun wedding days ever, and one of those rare weddings where you watch the couple together, and you are like, Yes. This is the real reason people should get married. There also seems to be a Jon Spencer Love Explosion going on right now among numerous friends (and self) who are usually permasingle. I also got some Aunt Co time in with my wee niece (adorable to the max). And most importantly, the biggest rummage sale in New Jersey went down in Far Hills this weekend.


















This is the sale where for most of my life I've gotten pretty much everything I own (the rest I buy at the sale I went to last weekend).


















Often at these affairs, I have an inner battle, and it goes something like this.
Step away from the pink vacuum. You already have a working modern vacuum, a broken modern vacuum that you can't throw out until you retrieve your necklace piece from its bag, and your (also working) mustard-colored Hoover Constellation 88 that looks like Saturn.



Yes, I know it's pink, but you don't have any place to put it. Plus, you don't even vacuum. Just take a photo, and move on. Breathe. OK, good, you can do it. Back away, and let it go. (BT-dubs, I thought I was OK but I am still not over this vacuum. Having the photo has only exacerbated matters.)

Other times, there is no reasoning. Vintage GE toaster with probably dangerous olde-tyme cord? Why, of course. It will be darling in that puddle that hangs out on my tiny countertop.


















Did I mention I am into vintage kitchenware to a nearly fetishistic level?


















Especially Pyrex?













Speaking of fetishes, check out these black-seamed nylon stockings. No practical use! Sold!


















And I found the first radio I ever knew! This exact model was my family's kitchen radio forever, going back to when I used to think there was maybe a little band in that radio playing all the songs. Kids are dumb!













Karin, Mystery Mike, and I had a hoot in the barn of misfit toys. First stop, bag o' Garfields!













He's right! Diets DO stink! Oh, Garfield, you've done it again. You say what everyone is thinking when it comes to such topics as naps, diets, and lasagne.

And sometimes, toy franchises go too far. Pound Puppies, that makes sense. Pound Purries, OK. But there is just no reason for this travesty.













What's more creepy than a box o' dead Furbys?













A bag of dead Furbs, with eyes wide open! Dear God, please make it stop.













And here we have a rabbit that is quite obviously entrenched in the hip-hop scene. East Coast or West Coast? He's dressed more old school than anything, I'd say, so that was before such distinctions were an issue.


















Then we helped Hip Hop Rabbit meet his match. You're welcome, Hip Hop Rabbit.













We laughed, but we also learned. Lest we forget:


















And:


















(Yay for the honest-to-goodness digital camera, courtesy of my gentleman friend.)

Does Foodswings serve veggie crow?

It appears I have found myself a gentleman friend, or rather he found me and decided to go for the (myspace) gold after reading this blog posting of mine.



He's the guy I fainted on when I got the vapors in an oh-so-ladylike way at the Flaming Lips show. Seriously, ladies, the way to hook a fine man in 2006 is to put your hand to your forehead and gracefully collapse, preferably onto a chaise lounge or into his arms so you don't muss your petticoat.

Anyhoozle, you know how I like to have myself a chuckle or 10 at the expense of Williamsjerk? Well the joke's on me, because my fella just moved there. From Fort Greene, mind you, which was much closer to where I live. Neither of us is too stoked about that matter, although now he does have a backyard, a treehouse, a swing, a screen door, and some hounds, not to mention that he drives a pickup truck. (Um, yum?) So it looks like I'm going to be in Williamstuckey a bunch.

Sooo...Foodswings, can you try not to run out of the veggie buff wings ever again like you unforgiveably did the other night?



I mean, that's like Sears running out of all their Kenmore appliances or their Husky sizes for boys or their Silver Unicorn clothes for juniors. That's like Radio Shack running out of their Tandy line of personal computer systems. That's like Carvel running out of Fudgie the m.f. Whale. That's like Shop-Rite running out of canned goods during their Can-Can Sale. That's like Playgirl running out of dongs. And so on.

I think this unexpected development is a good thing, because a content cokane might be a less funny or prolific writing cokane. But if I'm set amidst unchecked douchebaggery, there is still plenty of writing fodder. Like this. (Click on "Read your Dear Douche Letters Here," and find the one called "Dear Raver on the L train this morning")