Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Old Times, New Times
Michael Michael Motorcycle has cast a Victorian spell on modern day poster art. He drapes the page in the romance and tragedy of petticoats and curly mustaches. Unearths artifacts beautiful, fragile and obsolete. Frees lines of text to curve and sprawl beyond all borders, intricate vines gorged on style vitamins. With each new print he pulls the strings of the corset a bit tighter and steals your breath.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Rabbit Mother
Your mom wouldn’t use the words “dirty slut” in public conversation. Your mom wouldn’t boast about “giving it to your father last night” with your friends at the dinner table. Your mom wouldn’t be able to identify anal beads if they were lying on a counter in a sex shop. Your mom’s no fucking fun.
Your mom wouldn’t enter The Pleasure Chest in the West Village with her two, twenty-something-year-old daughters and offer to buy each one a vibrator. She wouldn’t pick up penis candy necklaces and packets of gummy boobies with childlike fascination and glee. She wouldn’t hold up a pair of edible undies and proclaim, “I tried these once. Too sticky.” Your mom wouldn’t be caught dead holding a seven-inch, pink “rabbit” and she certainly wouldn’t turn it on to watch it rotate or compare its size and shape with that of the other jelly cocks on display. She wouldn't be amused by cards adorned with hard dicks or fifty flavors of super lube. Your mother wouldn't instruct knowingly, while pointing at a string of red plastic pearls, “you shove ‘em in, and you pull ‘em out.”
I’m not saying my mom would.
I’m not saying she wouldn’t either.
Your mom wouldn’t enter The Pleasure Chest in the West Village with her two, twenty-something-year-old daughters and offer to buy each one a vibrator. She wouldn’t pick up penis candy necklaces and packets of gummy boobies with childlike fascination and glee. She wouldn’t hold up a pair of edible undies and proclaim, “I tried these once. Too sticky.” Your mom wouldn’t be caught dead holding a seven-inch, pink “rabbit” and she certainly wouldn’t turn it on to watch it rotate or compare its size and shape with that of the other jelly cocks on display. She wouldn't be amused by cards adorned with hard dicks or fifty flavors of super lube. Your mother wouldn't instruct knowingly, while pointing at a string of red plastic pearls, “you shove ‘em in, and you pull ‘em out.”
I’m not saying my mom would.
I’m not saying she wouldn’t either.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
For the love of Pedro
It is the top of the sixth inning at Shea Stadium and the fat kid sitting in front of me can’t find his complimentary Pedro Martinez bobblehead doll.
When he departs on an ice cream mission with his father and two little buddies, there are three boxed, Pedro Martinez bobblehead dolls lined up under three bright orange stadium seats. Upon the boy's return, he has gained a besprinkled vanilla sundae, but lost his Gold’s Horseradish sponsored prize. Nevermind that these kids look at least fourteen and you have to be under twelve to be awarded a free Shea souvenir at the turnstile. It is depressing to watch kids cope with this kind of loss.
First, the kid – lets call him Percy – notifies his father that he can’t find his bobblehead doll. He looks over at his friends, who have overheard and are already picking up the boxes at their feet, silently claiming ownership. They return his disappointed look with expressions that seem to say, “Sucks.”
Now the search is on. Everyone gets up and looks under their seats. Dad peers behind to my row and Percy twists around next to him, scavenging by my feet. “I can’t imagine anyone would steal a bobblehead doll,” dad says to Percy. “It will turn up.” My friend Jen turns to me and jokes, “We didn’t do it, did we?” After another few moments of head scratching and futile searching, the group hesitantly takes their seats, defeated and doll-less.
Meanwhile, the game is one of the best I’ve seen in Shea since I can remember. I’m at the stadium with Jen, my 17-year-old brother and my father who got tickets to the game – including admission to the Diamond Club and seats directly behind home plate – as a gift from one of his colleagues. The Mets are beating the Cubs 5-0 in a pitching match-up between two unrelated athletes, both named Zambrano. According to my father, the Cubs’ Zambrano is supposed to be an ace, but the Mets have been killing the ball all night. We can see the break of every pitch. It’s a gorgeous, seventy-degree night and the game seems to have staved off the expected rain. A Met homerun prompts, not only the raising of the Mets apple, but an explosion of purple fireworks beside the massive scoreboard, a display of bravado for the ESPN broadcast.
But all I can think about is this kid and his missing Pedro.
I consider leaving my seat multiple times to try and find a replacement. I’ve seen mothers do it many times:
“Excuse me sir. My little boy has misplaced his Bobblehead doll and he’s just heartbroken. Do you know where I can get another one for him?”
Then mom travels with some random usher to the bowels of the stadium where the four thousand extra Pedro dolls are being packed up for next year’s promotion, overpriced sale in the souvenir store the following day, recycling…whatever. By the time she gets back the rest of the crowd has witnessed an unprecedented quadruple play, four back-to-back grand slams and a special performance of God Bless America, in full drag, by Mike Piazza. This isn’t my kid, so I’m not missing all that. Plus, I’m too fucking lazy.
I continue to watch as dad and son pretend to forget about the doll, mostly for each other’s sake, occasionally giving in to the urge to peek over-shoulder to see if Pedro’s hiding out behind a seat or along the side of the row. God knows why these stupid things deflate a kid’s spirit and mute the effects of an otherwise perfect baseball game. Today’s souvenir is tomorrow’s dust collector. But in the moment the want overrides logic and as a notorious collector of useless pop-culture crap, I can totally empathize. One thing’s for sure. This kid’s gonna take next week’s Rold Gold Limited Editon Cap to the toilet with him if he has to.
The Mets are winning 5-1 at the top of the eighth when dad, bro, Jen and I decide to head for the parking lot. I don’t register whether or not the row in front of us has already emptied as we file out and head to the restrooms. On our way down the ramp into the concrete spiral at the center of the stadium my brother taps me on the shoulder. My father suppresses a smirk as Adam pulls from behind his back, a Pedro Martinez bobblehead doll.
It takes me a minute to realize my brother really did steal a doll from a fourteen-year-old. And I am fucking pissed.
Dad and little bro try to convince me they saw Percy get another Pedro on his way out. They lie. Little bro says he only stole the doll because I mentioned wanting one on the way into the stadium and because he knows I love Pedro. I take the doll and tell him he’s going to hell. On the way home Jen and I see a girl on the subway whose earring is about to fall out. Jen motions to her to fix the clasp and tries to convince me that the good deed will reverse little bro’s bad karma.
When I get home the Pedro box sits unopened on my dresser and all I can think about when I look at it is Percy combing the stands as he holds up one hand, sprinkles sinking into a rapidly melting helmet of ice cream.
But I have to hand it to Adam. I had not a clue. My little brother is one shady motherfucker.
When he departs on an ice cream mission with his father and two little buddies, there are three boxed, Pedro Martinez bobblehead dolls lined up under three bright orange stadium seats. Upon the boy's return, he has gained a besprinkled vanilla sundae, but lost his Gold’s Horseradish sponsored prize. Nevermind that these kids look at least fourteen and you have to be under twelve to be awarded a free Shea souvenir at the turnstile. It is depressing to watch kids cope with this kind of loss.
First, the kid – lets call him Percy – notifies his father that he can’t find his bobblehead doll. He looks over at his friends, who have overheard and are already picking up the boxes at their feet, silently claiming ownership. They return his disappointed look with expressions that seem to say, “Sucks.”
Now the search is on. Everyone gets up and looks under their seats. Dad peers behind to my row and Percy twists around next to him, scavenging by my feet. “I can’t imagine anyone would steal a bobblehead doll,” dad says to Percy. “It will turn up.” My friend Jen turns to me and jokes, “We didn’t do it, did we?” After another few moments of head scratching and futile searching, the group hesitantly takes their seats, defeated and doll-less.
Meanwhile, the game is one of the best I’ve seen in Shea since I can remember. I’m at the stadium with Jen, my 17-year-old brother and my father who got tickets to the game – including admission to the Diamond Club and seats directly behind home plate – as a gift from one of his colleagues. The Mets are beating the Cubs 5-0 in a pitching match-up between two unrelated athletes, both named Zambrano. According to my father, the Cubs’ Zambrano is supposed to be an ace, but the Mets have been killing the ball all night. We can see the break of every pitch. It’s a gorgeous, seventy-degree night and the game seems to have staved off the expected rain. A Met homerun prompts, not only the raising of the Mets apple, but an explosion of purple fireworks beside the massive scoreboard, a display of bravado for the ESPN broadcast.
But all I can think about is this kid and his missing Pedro.
I consider leaving my seat multiple times to try and find a replacement. I’ve seen mothers do it many times:
“Excuse me sir. My little boy has misplaced his Bobblehead doll and he’s just heartbroken. Do you know where I can get another one for him?”
Then mom travels with some random usher to the bowels of the stadium where the four thousand extra Pedro dolls are being packed up for next year’s promotion, overpriced sale in the souvenir store the following day, recycling…whatever. By the time she gets back the rest of the crowd has witnessed an unprecedented quadruple play, four back-to-back grand slams and a special performance of God Bless America, in full drag, by Mike Piazza. This isn’t my kid, so I’m not missing all that. Plus, I’m too fucking lazy.
I continue to watch as dad and son pretend to forget about the doll, mostly for each other’s sake, occasionally giving in to the urge to peek over-shoulder to see if Pedro’s hiding out behind a seat or along the side of the row. God knows why these stupid things deflate a kid’s spirit and mute the effects of an otherwise perfect baseball game. Today’s souvenir is tomorrow’s dust collector. But in the moment the want overrides logic and as a notorious collector of useless pop-culture crap, I can totally empathize. One thing’s for sure. This kid’s gonna take next week’s Rold Gold Limited Editon Cap to the toilet with him if he has to.
The Mets are winning 5-1 at the top of the eighth when dad, bro, Jen and I decide to head for the parking lot. I don’t register whether or not the row in front of us has already emptied as we file out and head to the restrooms. On our way down the ramp into the concrete spiral at the center of the stadium my brother taps me on the shoulder. My father suppresses a smirk as Adam pulls from behind his back, a Pedro Martinez bobblehead doll.
It takes me a minute to realize my brother really did steal a doll from a fourteen-year-old. And I am fucking pissed.
Dad and little bro try to convince me they saw Percy get another Pedro on his way out. They lie. Little bro says he only stole the doll because I mentioned wanting one on the way into the stadium and because he knows I love Pedro. I take the doll and tell him he’s going to hell. On the way home Jen and I see a girl on the subway whose earring is about to fall out. Jen motions to her to fix the clasp and tries to convince me that the good deed will reverse little bro’s bad karma.
When I get home the Pedro box sits unopened on my dresser and all I can think about when I look at it is Percy combing the stands as he holds up one hand, sprinkles sinking into a rapidly melting helmet of ice cream.
But I have to hand it to Adam. I had not a clue. My little brother is one shady motherfucker.
Monday, August 08, 2005
The Social Files: Out with the Daz
A rowdy evening with my friend Dazrazzle's Steve & Barry's coworkers inspired a guest post on the dazziest blog around. Check it out to find out more about Daz's midget fixation, preppy New York street gangs and drunken musical collaborations with the homeless.
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