"Why I can't

with my mother."

My good friend Jasmine's mom is coming to town this weekend and Jaz felt compelled to transcribe and share some of the love her mother was sending over the phone earlier this afternoon. I know for a fact the firm Jasmine works for records all phone conversations, so hopefully she will run for public office and we'll hear actual audio on this someday:

"you know im going to be there at the end of this week, im going to touch you and kiss you all over. are you ready for that, baby jasmine? are you ready? make sure your body parts are ready, all waxed and greased up cause im gonna be all over you come thursday"

MY MOTHER

Shit is your mother smooth Jay-Z.

Born on eight wheels

I am gliding around the rink in an arabesque, arms outstretched elegantly behind me, extending the perfect line. Watch me execute this triple-salchow and launch straight into a round of tight spins, arms crossed, body stiff and taught in perfect pike position. I am Kristy Yamaguci’s wheeled alter ego. No…no, wait. I'm falling on my ass…

I trained hard for this moment of triumph, downing seven drinks of Mexican origin thirty-minutes prior to performance. I was sure the guacamole appetizer would heighten my sense of balance. Certain the vegetables in my wild card tacos would both improve my eyesight and directly feed my motor skills. And now I am polishing the floor of the Roxy with the knees of my jeans.

Oh the delicate balance of pain and pleasure as I slide across the wood on my kneecaps with the lumbering grace of an ice borne penguin. I am Nancy Kerrigan: frightfully injured, but a champion nonetheless. I am a girl who believes ice-skating and roller-skating are basically the same sport. A girl who knows the names of two professional female ice skaters and isn’t afraid to use them in the cheesiest, most obvious athletic metaphors.

It is the morning after and I am black and blue. Responsible party: the roller DJ who played Alicia Keys' Olympics-routine-worthy ballad, “If I Ain’t Got You.”

The Battle: Vincent Cary Fabtrano vs. himself

Rarely does an email have such potent entertainment value as this little gem forwarded to me by a coworker. From an achingly oblivious guy with whom Veronica went on ONE date, this marks the third in a series of gut-busting emails, too ridiculous to have sprung forth from a cognizant mind. Since this kid obviously needs an editor, I took it upon myself to draft up an amended version that is a bit more concise, employs correct rules of both grammar and spelling and leaves the advanced collegiate thesaurus on the shelf. Check out both versions below and decide which Vincent Cary Fabtrano has a better chance of getting the girl:

Dear Veronica,

I hope you are well. I am indeed. It has been quite awile since we saw eachother or I made "too forward" remarks which were out of line and not apporpriate. In any event, I think of you fondly even though we went out only one night. Your bright chatter and spirit were a pleasure to be a part of, and our conversations were deep that night at the bar, maybe too deep. It is a mad world, people searching for false identities, and chasing lies into superficial realms of daunted, limited contentment. Nevertheless, you poped into my head today amidst the chaos and I wanted to send you an email. I am living in Morningside Heights without T.V. or a computer and it is wonderful. I find myself reading a lot and working with children-they have so much to teach. I know the world is in a state of flux and it is magical to be a part of. I hardly drink anymore and find it rejuvinating for the soul. You are a very passionate kisser I remember well in the lobby of your building. I did! indeed felt a bond with you after that, it was passionate, and something I could feel. One must trust one's own feelings, true feelings over all else in a society bogged down with flesh oriented recognition. Veronica, I wish you all the very best:

Kindest Regards,
Vincent


And the email VCF should have sent:

Hey Veronica,

What's up? It's been a while since we've seen each other and I was wondering if you'd be interested in doing it again. I hope my remarks weren't too forward the last time we spoke. I know sometimes I can be an arrogant prick and my overzealous emails can be somewhat pretentious, its just that I liked you. I thought there was some passion in our kisses and was hoping to impress you so I could get your sweet little arse up to my place either for another hot make-out session or even just some rumination on philosophy or politics. You know how much I like to wax geo-political theories post-WWII.

I know sometimes my emails don't make sense. But I've been working with children alot lately (a replacement for hitting the bottle) and the one thing they've taught me is that love doesn't have to make sense. If I think you are the princess tasting of the fruit, I need to tell you, even if I'm not quite sure what I mean. Even if I'm not sure how to spell princess.

It's a mad world Veronica. Since I'm completely oblivious to current events I'll go out on a limb and say its a mad, MAGICAL world. I know you ignored me the last time I contacted you, but I can't ignore my hunch that you were just waiting for me, Sir Vincent Cady Fabtrano, to sweep you off your feet, away from the simple temptations of the flesh and into a world of neverending dribble masked as "deep" conversation.

Forward this email to all your friends if I'm wrong.

Kindest Regards,
Vincent

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.

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.

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.

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.

What's black and white and red all over?

When the White Stripes' Elephant was first released, a friend of mine asked me when the Detroit rock duo was going to "give up on the red and white thing and dress normally again." It seemed like a ridiculous question. When the White Stripes open their closets there are seven pairs of red, white and black pants hung next to seven red, white and black shirts. Like Charlie Brown or Nickelodeon's Doug, there is a uniform to be donned.

In cartoon cities, the weather always seems to warrant wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Since the White Stripes' introduction into the musical community, the climate of rock and roll has seemed well suited for raw riffs, endearing amateur thumpage and alternating black and white pant legs. So why bother spending time picking out different clothes every morning?

White Stripes posters of the past two years have often embraced the duo's tri-chromatic tendencies. The art becomes about reinvention of the theme, freshening an identity set in blood and soot and the absence of the like. Swirled peppermint lollipops, mammoth enraged scarlet elephants, close up photos collaged with crimson cityscapes, skeletons and detectives and heart-shaped guitars - all imagined in hues of cherry and newsprint.

I come to the White Stripes tonight because they have begun to announce plans for their upcoming tour. It only seems natural that the new concert posters absorb the rules and shades of their predecessors. But perhaps this year Satan will tempt poster artists to break the Stripes' garage god color code. If song titles are any indication, Latin America-bound cardboard should be on the lookout for a sapphire invasion.

Babes wear neon

When filtered through the cheap, radioactive x-ray vision of Lindsay Kuhn, hot chicks beckon with colors that burn holes through Cataract glasses. Charging classic psychedelia with a pulsating potency, this print is rousing enough to trigger electric acid flashbacks. A psychotic overload of funhouse motion on paper.

Three bears and some kick-ass instructions

The classic poster that sparked the obsession. Once was my holy grail until, like Harrison Ford, my super-spright, puzzle-solving, ink-and-paper posessed, detective ass tracked the sucker down. And choked out a quarter of a grand to hang it on my wall.

Thom Yorke: "You consumer bastard."



Bottom Reads: "Directions for use: LEFT image to be viewed while listening to AMNESIAC- track 2. CENTER IMAGE to be viewed while listening to KID A- track 1. RIGHT IMAGE to be viewed while listening to THE BENDS- track 9."