Lookin' out my back door

The bf and I spent some time yesterday in the back yard, which looks like this.

Think not of this as tragic, but more a humble beginning: the fire escape's newly verdant state is a vast improvement from before. Please note the check cashing sign in the background, and not pictured in the distant background, a Conway, or as it is sometimes locally referred to, "Conways." Conway is a downmarket department store where you can buy all-synthetic versions of modern urban fashions as well as cute cheapo ripoffs of current underwear designs, and about half of their stock is usually found on the floor.

We had quite a show from the makeshift back yard, as many cop cars, ambulances, and fire trucks assembled at the subway entrance, sirens blaring. Considering there's already a cop shop down in the neighboring subway station, we assumed they were just calling in reinforcements to hang out on the corner, or jibe each other over their cars' loudspeakers, which from what we can tell is what they spend a lot of their time doing.

But then journalists arrived with cameras and notepads, followed by news trucks from every network. Turns out two subway workers were struck by a G train; one had died (the second such death in a week) and the other is now in stable condition. Cheekiness aside, that's one pretty terrible way to go/get injured.

Later I went to Julie's swinging bachelorette pad for her screening of All That Jazz. Have you ever heard of two men having sexual intercourse with each other? This was gayer than that. And I got some insight into why I don't have a gay bf. I think it's partially due to my not liking too many things typically considered gay. Like movie musicals (though I did enjoy ATJ!). And Liza. There was a lot of Liza talk last night. Don't get me wrong; she's great, but I don't consider the matter much further than that. Last night's revelers spoke an unfamiliar dialect of choreographers and dancers and musicals. Therese and I briefly spoke in our rock dialect of how awesome it had been at the Flaming Fire show the night before at Southpaw when they'd played "Holy Diver," and how much Kate's vocals had kicked ass, but surprisingly no one else had anything to chime in about Dio. Eh, it's like the old saying goes, You say Bob Fosse, I say Ronnie James Dio.

Party zone

It's FRIDAY, RIGHT YOU GUYS? wooo.... oo...

OK, today sucks, and the obvious move would be to focus various grumbles into a post--but I won't go there, and I am telling negativity to talk to the hand. Instead, here are some rainy Friday time-wasters. Take a voyeuristic look at these photo galleries and bear witness to that wacky and wild mating game.

For skinny hipsters on drugs, check out Last Night's Party, The Cobra Snake, and JoonBug. Lotta douchebags.

To observe meaty guidos partying in their natural habitats, check out The HotShotz and my old favorite, NJ Guido...looota gym memberships, flatiron usage, and a lot of bronzer.

Extra bored? You can try counting the implants, instances of faux-lesbianism, guys whose necks are wider than their heads, amount of toungues sticking out, regrettable tattoos and piercings, etc.

I'm glad I've been nowhere near these places (recently).

Most curious

In what office's back hallway do you think this pile of discarded books was found?



























Hint: see this post's label.

Did someone get sacked for being an intellectual?

I'm bored with Adrian already

That's the thing with pretty boys, isn't it?

So I'm putting up this:



Wow--the Who has gotten, like, really old.

Saying Something Nice Wednesdays™: Giving Thanks

Dearest young Adrian Grenier.

To quote an inquiry once posed to myself by a gas station attendant, "Why you are so pretty."



Please thank your parents and their possibly exotic ancestors for the unique and magical genetic combination that equaled you.

Also, please continue doing what you do best.



Thank you.

(Nearly) barefootin'

It's flops season again, even in the office, if you work in the lower echelons of magazine publishing.

When I had my first NYC publishing job in '98, I remember being mildly scandalized when a new young coworker fella rolled in wearing flip flops one day. Of course, this was during my phase of coming in decked out in dresses from the '40s and '50s, seamed stockings, and heels, and scorning most modern ultra-caszh styles. It was also a few years before that one summer ('01? '02?) when the flip flop floodgates opened and summertime office footwear forever changed, allowing the least formal footwear possible without workers actually being barefoot.

Although I love being able to free-foot it all the hot summer long (pictured here are Havaianas, my favorite super cushy and comft Brazilian flips brand), it's still a bit ponderous to me that this is allowed. This phenom is one of those cultural milestones, like starlets casually flashing their reproductive organs and the Jackass guys being insane jackasses, that makes me wonder what can be done next to top it. Like, will bikini tops and thongs become acceptable office wear? It's nice to know, though, that even after working in the (at times) locker-room atmospheres of BUST and the porn office, I can still be a bit shocked.

Jer Z nites

I had a big Jersey weekend, you guys. Friday right after work til Sunday afternoon--I did so much that I think I have to use bullet points to get this out in a timely fashion.

* Two friends had a birthday at Asbury Lanes in Asbury Park. I'm a fan of modern ruins, which are found aplenty in Asbury Park--abandoned hotels, motels, Holiday Inns, abandoned ye-olde-holiday-tyme-amusement arcade on a pier, abandoned midcentury design Howard Johnson's that looks like a crown on the boardwalk. Despite all the abandonment, it was quite hopping on a Friday night, what with the Stone Pony, the Lanes, and a few other nearby hotspots. I was quite pleased at the snack bar o' greasy delights which prominently featured "Totz." (Who can argue with Tots? I have some in my pocket right now.) I got a "half order" of spicy curley fries for $2 that would've been a good $8 at least in these parts.

* Although I spent the first 20 some-odd years living in the Jerse, I am now amazed that everyone there seems to have a house, a yard, a regular place to park. And, also amazing, the financial ability to purchase whatever they want at the grocery store and Target. This is all very attractive to me after 6-1/2 years in Brooklyn. I want to be sterotyped. I want to be classified. I want a big loan. I want a suburban rural home.

* On Saturday, I helped bff Kartek lay down laminate flooring in her condo. I realized that when you work in a porno office for a living, at first pretty much everything you say while doing a constructiony job sounds suggestive. Nailing, drilling, etc. Also, I LOVE power tools! I also love ripping out old carpeting while going "YYYYEEEAAAAHHHHHHH" death-metal style.

* Saturday night, Kartek, bff Patty, her bf, Lioux and I met up at a townie bar/restaurant called Cahoot's (note extraneous apostrophe: sure sign of a townie bar). It reminded me of the Ground Round, which was one of my fam's default restaurants when I was a kid. To the tune of Cahoot's soundtrack including "Forever Your Girl" and "More Than Words," Lioux regaled us with a tale of staying in Jeffrey Dahmer's childhood home while on tour, and I reminisced about my old boss from my bartending days who would drink pint-size vodka gimlets then flash back to 'Nam and alienate all the patrons. Before parting outside we had the giggs, especially Lioux, and this was very much compounded by a neon sign across the street reading "Pupusas." After several drinks, that couldn't sound anything but dirty, even to people who don't work in a porno office. There was also a freestanding pupusas sign out front which then *mysteriously* showed up outside Patty's place just after she got home, along with another sign that said "HOT DOGS!!!" I haven't had that much juvenile pranking fun in ages. Townie bar visits are going to a be a regular (occasional) Saturday night thing for us.

* On Sunday it was my nephew's Christening and my first time in church since my niece's Christening. A priest gave a sermon on how after last week's ruling, how great it is that abortion might be made illegal again. It went on for a good 20 minutes at least while I wondered how many women in there had had abortions and how terrible they must be feeling now, and how other people in the room would be glad to know how terrible they were feeling, and how it made me feel bad just being there though I hadn't even joined The Babykillers Club myself. It got a round of applause (bf & I abstained, which drew a staredown from the altar). That's one reason I don't go to church.
Then I got hassled by an elder extended family member for not having babymaking as a priority of my own right now. I can't imagine pressuring someone else I don't even know very well to have a baby, yet it seems a pretty regular occurence among the older generations. Isn't that insane, when you think about it? Yes.
Back in Brooklyn, where thirtysomethings having a cat or a dog instead of a baby is acceptable, the bf and I took the dog to the dog run as the light drained out of the day and walked home under the blooming trees.

Shoot

I've been trying not to watch or read too much coverage of the Virgina Tech shootings, because why? It's just senseless. But one thing about this disaster really stuck in my craw. I can't believe NRA types are defending the lax policies that allowed someone recently diagnosed as mentally unfit to legally purchase guns. Some of them say, Well, what if someone in one of those classrooms had had a gun, they could have stopped his murdering spree.

What is this, the fucking Wild West? I spent one New Years Eve in Copenhagen, and remember all night long insisting to numerous people I'd just met that America is not like the Wild West. We do not all carry guns around with us and have our daily shootout at the OK Corral. And some people refused to believe me. Finally by the end I was like, "OK, you're right. I'm packing heat right now." But you know, you don't hear about massacres like this happening in Denmark. So maybe something is rotten in the state of Virginia.

Times when guns are cool: when it's a bb gun and you're shooting beer cans, when the world is being overrun by zombies, when you have one as your leg and use it to shoot zombies, and when you have the opportunists who are cyber-squatting on the following domain names in your crosshairs:

http://virginiatechmassacre.com/
http://virginiatechmassacre.net
http://virginiatechmassacre.org
http://virginiatechkillings.com/
http://massacreinvirginia.com/
http://RampageInVirginia.com
http://vatechlitigation.com/

Gun control is just one of those topics that polarizes people in America, like abortion or stem-cell research. You're not really going to win over your opponent with little things like scientific or statistical facts. So uhh, like "Peace!" and stuff, but I really don't know how that can happen.

Good enough for you, good enough for me: It's Clooney!

I enjoy this photo from a recent People magazine so much that I have it on my wall at work (next to the photo of the Alan Jackson-looking older man amateur nude model in the cowboy hat and billowy American flag shirt, sans trou, coyly showing his bum and peeking over his shoulder). The caption reads, "After paying $20 for a 25-cent cup of lemonade, a slimmed-down George Clooney poses with fan Courtney Fontaine, whose children set up a stand near his Leatherheads set. 'I got a little starstruck!' she admits."



A little? As much as I would like to hang like a normal human with Cloon, I would do the same thing. No, if it were me I'd be like:



I should probably see some of the movies he's in.

Celebrity Nicety Wednesdays: Bad meaning good

Rose McGowan:



Rosie McG was bad-AAASSSS in Grindhouse. That is, as Cherry in Planet Terror, the first of the two films, she was total superheroine hot stuff. I'm not much of a fan of what I've seen of her offscreen persona (Marilyn Manson? ew.), but this was a role she was born to play. She also loves one of my favorite video games ever, the zombie killfest House of the Dead II.

As widely discussed on last night's The Best Show on WFMU, some people hated Grindhouse, and apparently at some screenings people had enough after Planet Terror, the first of the two films and left. I disagree: Grindhouse was AWESOME! Flawed, yes, but overall such a fun experience. In retrospect, although all the jibber jabber in the first half of Tarantino's Death Proof was boring, I thought his film was the superior one, as I already forgot most of Rodriguez' movie other than the (super duper awesome) machine-gun leg parts. But I will never forget the ending of Death Proof, which was one of the awesomeest awesomes to ever awesome.

Kurt Russell? Awesome.


Did I mention this was awesome?



Hm. I need to like, exercise and stuff.

The Lower East Side: It really sucks

Or, New York is a jerk, part 2.

I don't know if you locals noticed that it was Biblically raining for the past 40 days and 40 nights or so? But on one such day last week, my friend Jess was heading to her freelance gig in Midtown when she got into one of those awkward little "oops, how do we get by each other, our umbrellas are in everyone's way" crowded sidewalk dances. The stranger this happened with proceeded a few steps away from her, then turned around and quite deliberately kicked her in the shin, which was already bruised from a fall on the subway steps. Everybody else continued about their business. Jess describes herself as looking either like a little girl (I agree) or a cat lady (not as obvious), so this lunatic kicked someone who looks like she's 12.

Something similar is going on in a cooler part of town: I'm talkin' downtown. Corporations, which as Jess mentioned act like psychotic people, as demonstrated in the film The Corporation, are kicking the little guy. I know: shocking, right?

First, in addition to all the other recent rock venue closings (CBGB, Sin-e, the Continental, et al), we're now looking at the closing of the avant/experimental music venue Tonic, thanks to ultra-jacked up rents they can't handle anymore. (But you know who can handle those rents? More high-rise apartments for rich jerks.) An outraged coalition has formed to fight this, and on Saturday, they staged a protest.

As Rebecca Moore wrote in a letter on the group's site, "This is not culture formed by 'popular opinion' or by true market value: This is about developers running everything and everyone that is not wealthy out of this town."

Mmmmm hmmm! Preach on, sister!

In related news, there was also a recent benefit for the 4th St. Coop which will surely be crushed by the newest chapter of the Whole Foods monolith nearby. (Is Whole Foods owned by Wal-Mart yet, by the way?)

I've been kicking around the Lower East Side area fairly regularly for a decade or so, but it's only in the past year that its once low-slung skyline has started to get unrecognizable with glimmering high rises and boutique hotels.

So it goes.

The future of hummus

The folks over at Sabra have made a calculated and delicious play to take hummus to the next level and bring it to mainstream America. Some may say, "Why, CoKane, hummus already is mainstream." Those people are not in my extended family, some members of which at a recent gathering have asked "What's that," and "Does it have taste?" (The latter question apparently based on it being something that I was eating, therefore anything vegetarian/vegan/good for you = probably flavorless.)

What's so different about Sabra's Classic Hummus? A few things. First, other than adding different flavors, there isn't much to be done with the basic hummus recipe: chick peas, tahini, lemon, maybe a little cumin, throw it in a food processor, boom, you're done. Sabra added "soy bean and/or corn oil," and it's made a huge difference in the conistency. Not just the first time I noticed it, when my appetite was, let's say, rather enhanced, but all the time. This stuff is less identifyable as something from nature, and now could pass for a flavored Miracle Whip. Therefore, way more marketable to middle America.

On a PR level, Sabra's tagline is "Go Mediterranean," which is much more red-state-friendly than "go Middle Eastern" or especially "Enjoy this traditional dip of people who wear turbans." Even the brand name is less terror-invoking than other hummus brand names, like, say, Two Sheiks. They might want to change the name of the dip itself, though, like in that Simpsons episode when they de-ethnified falafel into "crunch patties with flavor sauce." Flavor whip, maybe?

Now all they have to do is make high fructose corn syrup the second ingredient and they'll be all set! YOU ARE WELCOME, hummus manufacturers!

Uncool jazz

The other night I listened to Jazz 88 on the kitchen radio while doing the dishes, because all radios in my apartment are very bitchy about what stations they will tune in, so there's never much choice. Jazz 88 can go from good to very not good in the change of a song (i.e., most jazz up through the '70s, good; most current jazz, very not good). The DJ back- announced an artist with the comical moniker Kevin Mahogany. I'm pretty sure he's the kind of jazzman my man Clinton would refer to as El Boring Borington.

I started to think, what would my own equivalent of that silly jazz name be?

If I were smooth/cool jazz (which I would never, ever be): Colleen Cream (album: Colleen Cream Takes you to Honkeytown). Or: Colleen the Vanilla Dream with Nuts. Or: Cool Whip. Or: Snow White. Or: White Chocolate.

If I were bebop: CoKane.

God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut

I really shouldn't cry at the news that Kurt Vonnegut, an 84-year-old lifelong smoker, died last night; it's not like it was a surprise. But the world seems like a worse place today without my favorite cranky funny old wise satirist.

Instead of adding more waterworks to this appropriately gloomy day, I'll share a quick story I'm very glad to have. I had always hoped to spot Kurt Vonnegut since moving to New York, and had always wanted to go see him read. One time my pals and I went to some reading at the New School he was supposed to appear in but instead had to listen to unfunny old Susan Sontag (also, now, RIP) while trying not to crack each other up too much in the serious audience. No KV that day.

NPR has studios in the same building as the porno office where I work. So occasionally one of my fellow pornographers will get to ride up in the elevator with David Bowie, for example. (I know: can you imagine?) In mid-2005, word came to our floor that Kurt Vonnegut was in the building, promoting what turned out to be his last book, A Man Without a Country.

The then-editor of Naked Man Magazine and I went down to stake out the front door and await his exit. When he finally came teetering out, I believe he was clad in a white suit, led at the arm by a woman, I was speechless. Diego, the doorman, stepped up for us, saying, "Excuse me, these young ladies are fans of yours."

He turned to us, said, "Well, I'd love to date both of ya," turned away, and was gone.

In the elevator, I jumped up and down in glee.

Then I went back to the porno office:



And so on.

Saying Something Nice Wednesdays™, Platinum Edish

Welcome back to Saying Something Nice About Celebrities Wednesdays™, the only purposely-snark-free weekly feature on the whole Internets. This week, my inspiration came from happily bearing witness to a perfect pair of Saturday afternoon programs on the Ovation network: "Stand by Your Dream: Tammy Wynette," followed by "Definitely Dusty."

When I was a wee lass in the late '70s/early '80s, it was countrytime for my parents and I think a lot of other parents as well. While I was gadding about in plaid pants (that I would try to match with other plaids until my Mom hepped me to the fashion tip, "never wear plaid with plaid,") my dad was sporting a Wrangler jeans, country snap-shirt, and belt-buckled look that I still very much enjoy on myself and others. (The favored buckle of his extensive collection simply said BOB. Like father, like daughter. )

Consequently, I came up hearing a lot of records by Johnny Cash (my favorite), Dolly Parton, Alabama, the Statler Brothers, Willie Nelson, and Tammy Wynette on the old Panasonic stereo. Especially Tammy Wynette. In fact, my 'rents put on her greatest hits cassette so many times that its opening notes would cause my brother and I to scream in agony, until we finally "lost" the tape for an extended period.

But I've since gained much love for her songs--karaoke would be nothing without those greatest hits. What struck me about Tammy in this documentary was how genuine and normal she seemed in her 1980s interview segments. My favorite part of the doc was the final scene, where she plays a studio demo of her latest song on her stereo, and you see her looking pleased and singing along to it herself. She was just the model of someone who hadn't had an easy life, but who had turned her hard times into songs people dug, and she'd persevered to tremendous success, and she seemed really content. Yay Tammy.

I never knew much about Dusty Springfield other than one of my favorite gay gentleman friends likes to refer to her simply as "Dusty." (To understand what he's talking about, you have to know "Patti" = Patti Smith, "Chrissie" = Chrissie Hynde, "Marianne" = Marianne Faithfull, etc.) One cool thing I learned about Dusty was that although she wasn't political, she was all "I ain't gonna play Sun City" long before Little Steven's Artists United Against Apartheid supergroup sang it in '85. Plus, she just plain rocked the blue-eyed soul (note to self: pick up all of her records). And she had a great look.


Hmm... [rummaging through cosmetic case for charcoal eyeshadow]

))<>((

I almost posted something mean today, friends and readers. It was about this perfectly innocent gal on MySpace whose entire profile I read because she was such a Disney happy blonde, who wrote the following quote in a blog: "Trust me, I have been to 6 Backstreet Boys concerts, a Britney Spears concert, an LFO concert, the American Idol 1 concert, and a Kelly Clarkson concert...I am a bubble gum pop concert afficianado." And I was going to talk about how after that statement there was no one on MySpace I trusted less than her and that included meth labbers, predatory pedophiles and so on.

But I took the high road and hit delete, and along came the link to this charming and creative site by Miranda July.

I'm glad I waited.

Space-trasmic Friday silliness

Listen, I know it's Good Friday, and I am home for the holy day, and the Vatican used to say you are not supposed to watch TV, listen to the radio, etc., between 12 and 3 in observance of the Crucifixion--but the Vatican says a lot of things. I figure with all the meat I don't eat ever, not just on Fridays, I'm ahead of the game. Or at least Saint Francis, friend to the animals, will have my back in the afterlife.

At any rate, now that I have sufficiently scandalized my church-going brother and he is saying a rosary in my name, get a load of this unicorn rap silliness made by his friend over at Non Stop Biscuit*.



I've been nostalgic for early early Beck lately, and this certainly added to it. Although the rap stylez are the honkiest ever, the lyrics are pretty special. (Nice Arthur Treacher reference!)


*NSB is a blog which claims to be "metal as fuck" although I have not yet investigated the matter further, but I do see they have a contributor named Sir Snacksalot, who may well be a kindred spirit.

Some hoser from Canada visited me

...and all I got was an awesome belt buckle!

Several weeks ago, my Canadian friend Dwayne visited, so we packed in a lot of sightseeing and local color: the porno office, the Chrysler Building, the Lower East Side, DUMBO. On his last day, there was a sadly telling incident wherein my beau was taking a few pictures with his phone camera of a spiral-themed plaza in the City Hall area, because it had been designed by noted landscape architect Martha Schwartz, and that's his line of work. Some peabrained security guard with a prominent gun about half his Napoleonic height, holding his arms out far from his body for the appearance of extra bulk, came storming over yelling in broken English at my (decidedly not intimidated) BF, who had maybe taken one shot in the general direction of a government building. Because, you know, that is how terrorist spies operate: Get two conspicuously tall men and one conspicuously attractive woman openly taking photos in a public area. That is such a good spy tactic!

I could have pointed out to the security guard that he was the one with the weirdo accent, but instead I just covertly snapped this photo of him hassling the beau. See? I am a good spy. (Dear FBI: disregard last sentence.)



After that confusing reprimand, as we still weren't sure what we had done wrong, I seranaded our Canadian visitor with Neil Diamond's 1981 hit, "America." What a great example for our progressive neighbors from the north, eh?

Fortunately, New York had already redeemed itself the evening before.

My guest Dwayne there in the front righthand corner, apart from being shy as you can see, is an actor and does a lot of voiceovers. One of his cartoon projects in the works is an urban character called The Billionist, and so we had to outfit him with the proper bling at my local Fulton Mall. As our custom BILLIONIST and COKANE belt buckles were being made, we befriended everyone working in that store. Dwayne even went out and got my main man Malik there (back left) coffee and met the rest of everyone in Fulton Mall, while Malik sanded down the letters in his buckle so they would fit. He doesn't do that for just anyone.






This matching-set couple made a brief but stressful appearance.
"YOU GOTTA BELT IN 48-50?" he demanded, then a heated argument ensued with Malik about which way the Italian-flag belt buckle should face, as beads of sweat gathered on High Blood Pressure's bald head, and then I don't think he even bought anything. I can't be certain, because during the hubbub I was distracted by his ensemble. You can always spot new clothing trends in Fulton Mall. I would file this man's trend under "logo-crazed hoodies," other variations of which include diamond-shape-covered hoodies, and the two I spotted this morning, horseshoe-covered and Sanrio-style monkey-head-covered hoodies. On grown men, all. But let it be noted that this man carried his Marvin the Martian theme onto his T-shirt as well.

In all, we must've spent about an hour there, and it was one of the warmest times I've had while living in New York. We went back the next day so I could get another hole punched in my belt, and were greeted like old friends by all the shopkeepers.

SSNAC Wednesdays™® surprising edition

Today's surprising subject for Saying Something Nice About Celebrities Wednesdays is Adam Sandler. I never thought I'd go out of my way to compliment him, but here goes... He did an impressive job as the disturbed dramatic lead in Reign Over Me as a guy whose entire family got killed in the shit on 9/11, and I drenched my bf's sleeve crying. (I know I cried in Saw II and when I saw that otter video on Cute Overload, but I swear, this one is a real tearjerker, especially if you have any personal parallels to the story.) Also, accoring to hearsay on Conan O'Brien, he is supposed to be The nicest guy in showbiz. And furthermore, Crazy Newspaper Head Man continues to be funny.



Why won't you give him some candy?

So wait; Adam Sandler can act in real roles? Why has he been playing retardo boy-men all this time? Oh yeah, he got rich playing retardo boy-men. (Would an actress playing a retardo girl-woman repeatedly equal box office gold? Methinks not.)

And Liv Tyler, what a graceful doll. Her calming presence was a welcome counterpoint to AdSand's intense character (or should I say Sadam Sadder). And her hair looked gorge on Conan recently. A few years back, a friend and I were up in Woodstock and saw this very pregnant woman who looked like Liv come into the ice cream shoppe/Mexican joint where we were, and my friend blurted, "You must get all the time that you look like Liv Tyler!" And [wah wah wah wah wah horn sound] the way she ducked her head told us we'd just loudly outed a local celebrity to all within earshot. Whoops. Still: a lovely, lovely lady.

Also in the movie's all-star cast were Robert Klein and the mom from A Christmas Story, Melinda Dillon, as Ad Sand's parents. Both looked surprisingly aged, but that must have been exaggerated for their roles.

Some people have been pointing out how similar Adam Sandler's look is to Bob Dylan in this film, but they just think all Jews look alike.

I have nothing nice to say about Bob as a person, so I will end it here.

Hard rockin' roundup

By now everyone has heard that Keith Richards snorted his dad. I just want to know: was the drip like being haunted? [rim shot!]



But SERIOUSLY folks, I have even more awesome and roll news: A couple in Sweden named their baby Metallica.* And Sweeeeden, supposedly so pro-greeeeessssive, was not having it!

Whose laws are being overtaken by religious zealots now, Sweden? Oh, right: ours.


*pictured: not baby Metallica...photo thanks to Google image search, titled "why men don't babysit." I'm going to look at this every time I need a laugh.

Self-lovin' of several kinds

One kind being self-promotion: I have an essay (humorous, natch) in the latest issue of Anthem about another kind of self-lovin'.

Who reads Playgirl?: That is to say, are women really turned on by the sight of naked men? (In other words, isn't Playgirl for gays?)

I'm the senior editor at Playgirl, the 34-year-old publishing institution with the tagline, "Entertainment for Women." But whenever I meet someone new and they find out what I do for a living, just after I assure them "really" and "yes way," I know what's coming next. It's almost always some variation of, "but …who…what percentage…it's all gays, right?"

That's all you get for free. Look for this special male/female themed issue of Anthem on better newsstands, please! There's also an ode to our fallen comrade Sassy magazine. I am pouring out my Kiwi Strawberry Snapple* for you, oh glorious Sassy.


*(I was trying to think of what I used to drink back then...)

Saw vid update

I don't have a real post in me today, but I'd like to note that the Saw video my friends made has now been viewed 666 times.
That is all.