Hit it and quit

Last posting of the year! I'm in a hurry because my internets are broken at home. Just wanted to point out what, to me, was one of the year's oddest sights, even in a year of young starlet poonannies flashing all over the place.

Yesterday I watched the James Brown funeral in a Saturday laze. Michael Jackson showed up, and was pointed out by JB's emcee gentleman, followed in the same breath by pointing out the presence of MC Hammer. Scharpton & Jesse Jackson brought Wacko Jacko over to JB's open guilded coffin, and they looked down on his body for a bit, then Jacko started touching JB a bit and then he bent and kissed him on the forehead. I guess it could be sweet but when the man looks like a skeletal alien, and you know what you know about him, it adds another layer of weird to the picture. (This clip doesn't seem to be on YouTube yet.)

Later, while Jacko denied performing in the live jam (with Bootsy!), Hammer sprung up (I think without being asked) and did the Hammer dance. For real. Brother can still move.

I got all choked up a few times,espesh at the end when the emcee threw the cape over JB's coffin lid, but then I also got choked up later watching that afternoon's airing of Ghost on the Superstation TBS, your source for weekend afternoon '80s crud!®

OK gotta go. I have a champagne train to catch! Happy New Year y'all.

My romantic bohemian artist lifestyle

Sometimes I feel like I'm ekeing my way up in the world, and have a cute place in a hot neighborhood--and am a rather stylish dresser as well! And then I notice a view like this in my apartment.



And then I realize that it's probably been that way for months. And then I remember that I'm almost 33 and still have to have a roommate. And all my coats are in tragic need of dry cleaning and repaired linings and re-sewn buttons, or really how about just replacement? You wouldn't even know that I had a full-time job plus freelance, would you? Or I must be living a lavish lifestyle in other ways, and pissing away my money, right? Nope. Just livin' in good ole NYC. But that's a bad road to go down in one's thoughts. All I can see at the end of that one is a stiff drink or two.

Continuing our tour, here is a view in my bedroom. Witness the lathing visible through the crumbled plaster hole in the ceiling. See the unframed poster from Tivoli in Copenhagen? It's a repro of one of their '50s posters. It's also partially covering a massive crack/hole/mess. (This damage is all from unaddressed ongoing water damage, not from lack of paint job.)




Despite all this, though, and despite the occasional bouts of self-pity, I have a good feeling about 2007.

Texas 4 the season

(The title is a lame play on a Misfits lyric that I felt needed an explanation. I.e., not a good title. Hey, they're not all gems.)



Things I learned about Texas during a whirlwind 48-hour (or so) visit to my BF's relatives' homes in Austin and Waco:

Ginger ale is apparently a rarity in Texas (is ginger too Far Eastern?), but I was able to top off my 2006 love affair with salty Mexcellent snacks by sampling a few new ones.






(In an ill-considered illustration choice, it looks like Chester Cheetah is vomiting out a white substance, also in keeping with the 2006 theme of snack food mascots looking ever more EXTREEEEEME.)

You can dine at at tee-hee-named chains Luby's or Schlotskys, or if you are feeling the girl power, Whataburger:



...because they totally stole their logo from Wonder Woman.





Some people really do just walk around wearing cowboy hats. Like, they're not kidding. Tourists from foreign lands should come here and check this out. This is probably exactly as they want America to look, except that they really want everyone to have gun belts as well.




This adult video store had a banner that said, "WELCOME HOME OUR HEROS," the subtext of which was, to me, "Now that your spouse has left you while you were serving the country, drown your misery with pornos!"



By Tuesday, with nary an edible green in sight, I had begun fantasizing about kale. In Texas, my being vegetarian is regarded as way more unusual than seeing this hunting section in Wal Mart:



Hey, isn't this a majestic creature? Let's blow it into Kingdom Come! Family fun for everyone! Thanks, family-friendly Wal Mart!



At this Waco Wal Mart, where you can order and pay for your McDonald's to go and also pick up smokes all at the cashier, I got the fear, with an encroaching sense of being at a crux of all that is evil about Western consumption. If I ever publicly lose it, it'll probably be somewhere like this.



(If you happened upon this page by googling like, "huntng suplies texxas" and are now about to post a comment to defend the barbaric practice of hunting, please do me a favor. See that little key over there that says "caps lock" on it? Mash it down until it's not lit up any more. )


The natives are fanatical about a local sporting team called the Longhorns, and often express their hope that the 'Horns "hook 'em." Most 'Horns merch is in a burnt orange color, in honor of the Texan sunset, which is, fittingly, big. And pretty.



I still have no idea what Austin's like, but I'm told it's really cool.

Silent morning (?!)

And on the 358th day of the year, the construction workers rested. This morning when I awoke, my bed shakethed not. Nor was my head rattled by the clamor of construction. Instead, I heard...what was that sound? Could it be? BIRDS! I heard BIRDS CHIRPING outside my apartment building! It was a Christmas miracle.







And lo! I finally relaxed. Even if just for one day.




OK, friends, readers, and stalkers, I'm off to experiences unknown in Texas. See you on the other side!

Christmas in the porno office

(Increasing blurriness is no coincidence)






























































All right, Black Bart, now you get yours.


























Merry Christmas, kids, and don't shoot anything living.

Hitting apple bottom

Today I was bummed to see a little girl (maybe 7 or 8 years old) wearing an Apple Bottoms coat. Just wondering, did Big Johnson ever have a line for young boys, and would that mom let her 7-year-old boy wear it?

Crazy train

Sometimes when the subway is jam-packed, there'll be one person with a huge chip on their shoulder (usually female, and large) who picks some poor nearby slob to loudly rail on (usually male, and mild-mannered), and no way that poor guy reacts will satisfy her, until everyone in the car is more uncomfortable then they already were, and very glad not to be either party. Being familiar with these incidents, and not being a meek-looking schlub in a suit, I never thought I'd be one of those victims. But there's no accounting for crazy!

On Sunday evening, returning from Jersey with the usual few bags, I stood in a crowded Brooklyn-bound A train. At one stop, two seats became vacated and a woman quickly claimed them, still standing, waiting for her daughter to reach her.

Just then, a large woman came plowing through, heading for the already-claimed seats, and since I was directly in her path, I uttered a syllable or two to that effect.

"I SAID EXCUSE ME!" she hollered in my face, instantly in full-on battle mode, and shoved dramatically by. She landed a few feet away next to the now-occupied seats, saying, "Bitch. Bitch...White bitch..." as I looked on, disgusted.

I have a feeling that if I had responded in kind by combining her ethnicity plus what I thought of her, things would have escalated to a most undesirable confrontation, annnnd considering factors like our relative sizes, and her apparent instability, I might not be blogging today. Instead, I just said:

"Merry Christmas!"

"I don't celebrate that pagan holiday!" she snapped, and there was a titter from those at safe distances.

A stop or two later, my antagonist got her seat, shoving by me exaggeratedly again instead of waiting for me to make room for her considerable bulk. I was hanging onto a pole with two strangers, fellow white bitches dressed pretty similarly to myself--wool outer layers and scarves and so on. We probably looked like three versions of each other, short, medium, and tall. "She did that on purpose," Small Hipster quietly said, in a tsk voice. I felt a surprising kinship with chicks I might normally dismiss as rich williamsjerks.

But I still extracted a small, puerile revenge. My antagonist's face now happened to be approximately 18 inches from the end of my digestive tract, and I happened to have a gaseous emission right on deck. And should she have any doubt about who had let that one rip, I made sure to wiggle my little, white-bitch butt.

Kindly admire my restraint

I went to the Japanese specialty market on Stuyvesant Street in the East Village last night, didn't LOL once that I was aware of, and only took one photo.



To me, this package design is a success, because this is exactly how I would like to feel during a delicious snack.

The times they are a-bustling

I'll be in Texas for real Christmas, so Sunday was a quick early Christmas in Jersey (plus I had two more parties after that). So I went Christmas shopping in my nabe on Saturday, and happily a clear-minded Zen-like state prevailed despite screeching brats running around everywhere, rather than the last-minute panic or badwill towards humanity that could easily have overtaken me.

I already knew Judaism has way more cool cache than Christianity, but at Barnes & Noble, the man born Robert Zimmerman proved it again.



And not to beat a dead plush that nobody wants (btw, the sight of unwanted ugly stuffed animals is guaranteed to majorly bum out my college roommate), but I just couldn't resist sharing this.



Nobody wants you, fake Furby. Even if you were a real Furb.



And especially no one wants you, bootleg Garfields.




Back home, several Christmas cards awaited, one from an elderly relative addressed to "Miss" Colleen Kane, which is charming, though not all that accurate. The holidays kind of underscore where you are in life, or your family's perception of where you are, and to folks from older generations, unmarried thirtysomethings can be kind of an unknown quantity. Inside? A $20 bill. AWWWWWW! (And my dad still gets the same treatment for his birthday.) The sad part is, after the shopping, I really needed that twenty.

The best card was from my favorite aunt, addressed in her cursive that's almost identical to my mother's (her sister), a hand which many women of the same generation seem to share. She included a few great pics of my grandparents at their early-1970s best, including this:





Note: Nana's Christmas apron, the festive mood Pop Pop seems to be reveling in, and his V-shaped hairline.



This one is my favorite:




I miss them. And when there used to be more time for holidays.

The power of ESP is a curious thing

I know I'm going to sound like such a fruitcake, but do you ever get the sense that your iPod is psychic? I often do, when I have it on shuffle mode, and the rock and roll combo or the song that I was JUST thinking about comes on.
So because my last posting was called "the power of guilt," I was thinking about it and of course thinking about the 1985 Huey Lewis hit, "The Power of Love." Right at that moment, it came on, putting that '80s-cheese-guilty-pleasure-triumphant spring in my step. But seriously, out of about 2000 songs on my iPod, I'd say statistically that's pretty impressive that it came up right then. Or maybe, as previously noted, it is yours truly who is the psychic one. That definitely seems the less scary of the two options.

That's the power of guilt

So on my way to lunch, I passed a seated homeless man with a sign that said I'M HUNGRY. I was hungry, too, and hurried on with a twinge of guilt.

"Wow! Good legs. Happy holidays!" he said.

Now I'm not sure whether to feel worse or better that I didn't give my spunky homeless admirer any change. Though I went on to have a disgusting lunch that I had to wait a ridiculous amount of time for, then choked on it because they didn't bring my drink for ages.

Has the comedy bubble burst?

I only used that smack-talking headline because there were only about half-to-two-thirds the amount of audience members at last night's Invite Them Up holiday hoedown at Bowery Ballroom than there were a year ago for their CD release show. It probably hasn't really burst.





The evening provided a cornucopia of fellatio, cunnilingus, and homosexuality jests for a part-worshipful/part-distracted audience. Here are some photos I took before my camera batts died.



















(Below: Kristen Schall) Hey, did you guys know there are lady comedians who aren't Roseann or Ellen DeGeneres? Christopher Hitchens doesn't. Why, this young lady doesn't even look masculine or Jewy! That goes against everything that man knows about female comics! (OK, I'll let it go now.)



















Probably the most exciting aspect for my crew was whether bday girl Jess was going to get bellig enough to heckle anyone. (She didn't...mostly.)




Later because of the extra holiday tourist population, I had to fight for a cab right home, shooing away women from both sides of the cab I was already in, since the driver was lingering around acting like he was still taking applications from young ladies who live in more desirable destinations. Yeah, cabby, "I don't know how to get there" is not an acceptable answer if I, the paying passenger, do, and it's easy to get there. So all these cab vultures can just scrammo. Cripes. Grumble grumble humbug

A nutty Christmas show

My BF had a surprise for me last night: We went to the ballet, at Lincoln Center, don't you know! It was this lovely show about a little girl who has the most marvelous gay BF (I was jeal) and she has a crazed fever dream featuring all kinds of international dancers (including what Rosie O'Donnell might call "ching-chong Chinamen"). The show we saw was called The Nutcracker. It was (and please read this without any irony, as none is intended) magnif.


BT-dubs, it is impossible for a nutcracker to not look like a complete creepo.

















This one that I ripped off the Internet is titled "Stars + Caroline."
















It's like, here's the stars...and then there's Caroline. (And then there's Caroline!) Poor Çaroline. (I dont' know how I made that capital letter C look all French, but I'm going to leave it, because Caroline deserves to feel a little more special.)

See, women ARE TOO funny

It begins! Here at naked mens magazine, delicious edible holiday offerings are starting to arrive from lots of different folks we've worked with.

















That golden sack contains easily one pound of truffles.











Soon it is going to totally be like













Am I right, ladies?!?!?!

Why Christopher Hitchens isn't funny

Once again, I am totally psychic. Earlier this year I was thinking of writing an article tackling the old rusty saw that women aren't funny. Then due to a combination of laziness, distraction by my multitude of other awesome ideas, and the thought that, "Duh, of course women are funny, who doesn't know that?" the article never got pitched.

Now the opposite article has been written by Christopher Hitchens for the latest Vanity Fair, entitled, "Why Women Aren't Funny." The article was actually distributed by two very funny women, Julie Klausner and Jackie Clarke, last night at their very funny show, OBSESSED. And they pretty much ripped Hitchey a new dumb-hole, which he was asking for by writing such an article to begin with.

I read it this morning on the subway, and when I got to the following sentence, I decided the article had to be a satire: "For women, reproduction is, if not the only thing, certainly the main thing." He can't be serious. But if it is a satire, it's not funny.

I won't bother refuting the piece point by point, like that women don't make jokes "about calamitous visits to...the bathroom" (clearly he never visited the all-girl office I used to work in!), because as anyone who reads this blog knows, women are funny. DUH. This guy says farts are a major staple of humor (hence, why dudes are more adept to being funny than women), so let's all envision me ripping a major heater in Hitchens' face.

Now, that would be funny.

They took the words right out of my mouth

Cokane is Christmas-ballz deep in soy nog, holiday parties and freelance excitement, so in lieu of a real posting and in keeping with the Rankin-Bass props of late, please enjoy this treat, "Santa is a Jerk."



Oh, and bt-dubs, Santa Claus is also a black man.

Misfit toys

As a fan of Rankin-Bass Christmas specials and Engrish, not to mention creepy things, I hit pay dirt on Saturday when I discovered a local Island of Misfit Toys, conveniently located adjacent to Penn Station at Weber's discount store.

We'll start off with this, a NOT-McDonalds snack truck, driven by red-eyed robotic chefs, with a manic mascot we'll call Donald Mc Ronald on the side. Did you notice the door says the truck is also a traditional American "sweet potato bar?" And imaginary customers can buy a refreshing cup of "Pebsi" from this truck, as well.














Then there is this tragic piece of crap, already missing two buttons. If you want your kid to never learn how to tell time, and you also don't like them and/or want to scare them, be sure to get them this.














Then we have the copyright-infringement special Star Raider (no relation to the Atari game), which claims, in typical Engrish all-caps font, "BUMP AND GO ACTION / WITH BEAUTIFUL MUSIC. SOME COLOURS, SOME STYLES. WITH FLSHING LIGHT."














Party Music uses one of the other familiar Engrish fonts. It claims, "Turn And Press The Arrow To Hear A Melody Intermixed With 1 Of 4 Fun Sounds." Well, this sounded promising to me, but the sad part is, the party must be over, because none of the Party Musics make any sounds.













And finally, we have "Funny Child riding pony" or en espanol, "Nino Simpatico," which advises on the side of the box, "Lifted up the pony's tail, it can ride" and depicts it can riding at a blurry-fast rate.














But would you please just get a load of pony's evil glowing red eyes.














It may be that you have a serious case of the fear after visiting Manhattan's own little Island of Misfit Toys. But don't worry, because Weber's has got you covered with another product.

And you may ask yourself...

How did I get here? I'm a talking head on television, on this CMT show: Sexiest Videos of 2006.

It's on all the time, I think (and again in two hours), but I first saw it last night in fast forward (as I recommend anyone watch it, should they not be into new country and/or women with shiny wavy hair and/or co-talking head Marilu Henner) on the gentleman friend's newfangled DVR device. I'm on for like five seconds total, which means there is so much wasted cokane brilliance on the cutting room floor. I learned that compared to the ultra-energetic other commentators, I appear borderline comatose in my mellowness. Note to self: next time, make that coffee a double espresso to ensure more air time.

Nobody asked, but these would be my votes for sexiest awesomest current dudes out of Nashville:
Hank 3

and Shooter Jennings.

Yeahhhhh.

If this catches on...

I'll eat a jimmy hat! No joke: Spray-on condoms.