Traitor! I wish upon you, Alopecia!

The Caveman breaks Miss Stacia's heart.

The Inevitable Comparison?

The Bonz throws in her two cents in an office email:


"Look! It's stacey on experimental fashion friday!"

Experimental Fashion Friday

My office has a corporate casual dress code that aggravates my pinstripe allergy and fuels my aversion to garments requiring ironing and dry cleaning. Perhaps it’s because I’m a temp, perhaps it’s because I never want to be mistaken for your typical office drone, perhaps its because the rules of workplace dress are, in my opinion, kind of ridiculous and passé, but the implicit stiffness of corporate attire provokes my fashion rebelliousness.

Since the company I work for hasn’t even adopted “Casual Friday” as a reprieve from the inanity of A-line skirts and cable-knit sweaters, I’ve implemented my own weekly fashion recess. Deeming the last workday of the week “Experimental Fashion Friday,” I have begun to integrate funky items that have no conventional role in the corporate uniform into my Friday ensembles with the hope of creating looks that are both adventurous and felicitous to cubicle servitude. About 5 or 6 experimental ensembles have been pulled together (usually on Friday morning with about ten minutes to catch the crosstown bus) with mixed results. Truth be told, there have been a few more hideous, clashy misses than visionary, trendsetting moments, including “The Purple Outfit,” an eyesore-inspiring combination of a hyperpatterned green and purple lycra dress, a purple velvet blazer and mahogany (purple enough to matchy-match) knee-high boots. The Eggplant Overkill was the first official outfit in the EFF repertoire and even in my most hung over future EFF moments, it will be difficult to top.

I am going to try and document future Experimental Fashion Friday ensembles here on Collections are Dangerous. Feel free to let me know what you think. Success or miserable failure? Either way, be sure I’m having a hell of a lot more fun in whatever freakish combo I’m sporting than I would be in a fucking button-down:

Gawgeous!

I also just realized that I unintentionally got dressed for temple this morning:



You know you’ve been infected with Modern Jew Pride when you mistake synagogue chic for corporate casual.

Face it Miss Stacia, you’re a Jewey Jew.

First, there’s the headline. Then there’s the focus of this article on a charity event produced by JEWCY, the Semeticentric fashion and lifestyle company for which I used to do PR. Add in the commentary by Jackie Hoffman (I worked on a benefit show earlier this year in which she was featured) and the requisite quotes from Melville’s very own Rabbi Gellman, whose breath at my bat mitzvah service rivaled the onions in the cocktail hour herring, and you get one too many high-profile-Jew links for comfort in this game of Six Degrees of Stacia Jonesberg.

Today's Corrections:

In yesterday's Corporate Eats column entitled "Never As Good As The First Time," regarding her sampling of a sub-par second-day cupcake from the Buttercup Bakeshop Miss Stacia Jones wrote, "In spite of my complaints, for the love of the cupcake, I'd do it again tomorrow."

Upon surveying today's day-three cupcake stash, Ms. Jones has retracted this statement. She reportedly peeked in the Buttercup box around 9:15 this morning and immediately recoiled in disgust proclaiming, "Not for a million dollars. These things could kill someone."

Ms. Jones is, however, accepting donations of fresh baked goods, from Buttercup or elsewhere, for blissful consumption and future review in her column.

Corporate Eats: The Holiday Cupcake

Never As Good As The First Time

Isn't it the curse of corporate-sponsored food flow that the workplace is blessed with an overabundance of treats one day and left to wither in snacktime drought the next?

Anxiously awaiting rumored Popcorn Factory deliveries, the gourmet spreads of yesterday but a crumbly memory, I was forced to curb today's mid-afternoon sweets craving with a questionable second-day Buttercup cupcake. Admittedly unimpressed with the bakery's freshest offerings, I was not surprised to find that by 2:30 this afternoon, yesterday's dense chocolate cake had taken on a texture mildly akin to sawdust. The icing, congealed and crusty from overnight exposure to Citi air, retained the harsh, acidic flavor of tarnished metal, presumably the biproduct of the freakishly unnatural (as in, "Should I really be eating that?") Christmas food coloring. The hardened sugar did seem to have less tooth-staining power on the second day, a major plus considering my desire to conceal the scarfing of a cupcake significantly compromised in quality.

The sad reality: In spite of my complaints, for the love of the cupcake, I'd do it again tomorrow.

Hit that spot.

Start reading Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs while listening to Amadou & Mariam's Dimanche à Bamako the next time you board the crosstown bus.

Miss Stacia’s Hanukkah Wish List: The Christian Edition

For some reason I think Mama and Papa Jones will have trouble throwing down for:

The Metal Bible: I’ve been saying for years that it would be beneficial for me to give the Bible a once-over and you can’t beat an edition that lends you teen-punk credibility while transforming God’s word into a handy tool for striking down sinners on the subway platform.

The Jesus Dashboard Dazzler: You would think this item would be totally useless for a car less, Jewish city-dweller, but the thought of sticking this sucker to my work computer and monitoring the resulting confusion and unease makes me think it would be worth the $7.95.

A Chastity Ring: I know it’s a little late for this, but I’m willing to go Born-Again-V for the privilege of donning a sweet wedding “placeholder” and throwing a promise ring ceremony complete with laser light show. Even Mitzvahpalooza didn’t have one of those.

N.B. Read the article on the growing popularity of chastity rings in today's Times. You won't be sorry.

All Hail King Howard

I’ve always felt an allegiance to Howard Stern, “king of all media,” champion of strippers and "retards" alike. Although many refuse to accept or acknowledge his talents, Howard is one of the most successful entertainers in history. He is one of the few in the business who speaks from brutal honesty and truly does what he wants, sometimes to be funny, sometimes for the sake of making a finer point, sometimes just to be contradictory for the fuck of it – it really doesn’t matter. The man sticks to his instincts – perhaps all you can rely on in the business of causing controversy – and rides them for dear life through a sea of midgets, crackwhores and 40-year-old virgins. The Robert Crumb of talk radio, Howard has an eye for the freakish, the perverted and the intriguingly disturbing. He’s simply trying to bring his circus together and will finally get to do so, under a bigger tent with no FCC restrictions, this coming January. I have been waiting for this since the days of my crap-ass Long Island commute and I’m not the only member of the infamously warped Jones family who has been counting down the days.

The media blitz that inevitably trumpets upcoming celebrity projects irritates me, even if the attention is lavished on someone I adore (last month’s suffocating coverage of Sarah Silverman spoiled just about every good joke in Jesus is Magic), but I will probably end up reading every last article on Howard and his Sirius debut. You should start with this week’s excellent profile in New York Magazine while I ex today off the calendar and attempt to rationalize a $300 purchase in anticipation of the triumphant return of “Anal Ring Toss.”

See What Dazrazzle Sees

This past Thursday, the sublime Dazrazzle and I attended one of the last performances of See What I Want to See, a two-act play based on the stories of Ryunosuke Akutagawa, at the East Village’s Public Theater. The production starred, among others, Idina Menzel, who won a Tony as the Wicked Witch of the West in Wicked and played Maureen in both the Broadway and recent film productions of RENT. Although it made perfect sense, Daz and I were quite startled to have an A-grade celebrity sighting at the show and as a shameless media/gossip junkie I began to compose a mental checklist immediately upon recognition for my very first Gawker Stalker entry. Friday morning I sat down at my desk at 8:30 on the nose and drafted a succinct summary of the encounter:

I was standing outside the Public Theater last night around 7:45 talking to a friend about RENT, the movie, waiting to see one of the final performances of See What I Want to See featuring Idina Menzel (Maureen from RENT) when Rosario Dawson walked past us and into the theater to support her co-star. My friend had just finished dispensing her opinion that "Rosario was obviously the weakest voice in the cast." Smooth timing on that. The big-screen Mimi was simply dressed in jeans and knee-high shearling boots and has an absolutely beautiful face. She was also sporting funky black hipster frames à la Colin Meloy and a chic, short haircut. She was very laid back and friendly and seemed to know a lot of people working at the theater.

I left out the part about Daz’s constant hyperventilating (“Stacey, I’m still a bridge-and-tunneler. I’m not used to this!”) and our hushed bathroom gossiping about the absence of Jason Lewis (only to find Miss Dawson at the end of the bathroom line - again, the timing...). Those tidbits I planned on reserving for the elite members of my blog readership circle. Turns out that my Gawker posting may be viewed only by the eyes of Miss Stacia fans as well because Gawker’s server keeps rejecting my damn email. So much for my Gawker Stalking dreams.

A few words about the show: Daz and I bought tickets the day of (for only $25! God bless the undated student ID…) and ended up with partial-view seats that were actually pretty amazing. The theater is a high, open space with a rectangular stage, flanked by the audience on three sides. Daz and I sat stage right, second row and our view was blocked only by a slim and fairly navigable support pole. Until the start of the second act that is.

The two acts opened with Idina and her lover in traditional Japanese robes seductively singing, purring and groping through numbers called “Kesa” and “Morito” (referring to the lovers’ names). Each song opened with the title character fondly describing to the audience the night on which he/she “kissed my lover for the last time,” and built to a striking climax in which passion and life peak and die in the same instant. These happened to be my favorite numbers of the show, partially because of the bewitching melody and flawless vocal performance of the actors, partially because of the passionately executed, sexual choreography (Side note to Idina: I’ve never seen anyone perform on his/her back with such impressive range. Bravo.). While singing, Kesa and Morito entangled their bodies on top of two deep rouge curtains that hung from the back corner of one side of the ceiling and draped forward diagonally across the stage, underneath the actors' twisted bodies. The effect of the fabric was quite dramatic, suggestive of bold, simplistic Eastern aesthetics when hung, and fluid as a bloodstained river when yanked down at the end of each act’s opening song. Too bad Daz and I were caught behind the curtain at the beginning of the second act. Hence the true nature of the partial-view classification:




The blockage only lasted a couple minutes and was probably even preferable to the raunchiness of Kesa and Morito’s forbidden liaison for the Daz who, unlike her crude companion, tends to get a bit squirmy around such displays. But most of the partial-view crew was less than thrilled by the crimson partition, however temporary. As the curtains were hoisted to the ceiling in front of us during intermission Daz’s flamboyant and overly social neighbor cracked a groan-worthy, “Instead of See What I Want To See, they should call this play, Can't See What I Want To See.” Har har har.

The rest of the night was chock full of the usual amusements including a barrage of quips from Daz about her heritage (“I feel ashamed. What Jew hasn’t seen Fiddler?”), her out-of-control Law and Order addiction (“I think I recognize that guy from Law and Order! Oh my god it says here the other guy was on Law and Order too! I’ve totally seen that episode!”), and her uncontrollable disgust at one actor’s inability to control his body’s various secretions (“He spits on EVERY syllable Stacey.”).

To be fair: The spitting actor – who also starred in both Mighty Ducks sequel blockbusters, D2 and D3 – could not get a sound out without projectile spitting all over his audience and co-stars. Not to mention the disturbingly sweaty (as in dripping onto his partner’s bare chest) sex scene. Poor wet, slimy Idina.

That's pretty fucking big.

Once upon a time I teased the existence of photos comparing the world's largest banana to Sally, the office Barbie doll. After months of twiddling my thumbs in ignorance, I finally figured out how to free these glorious images from the undeserved isolation of my cellphone memory bank for your viewing pleasure. I recommend you take a step or two back from the computer, take a moment to really get a handle on the size of your average Barbie doll, and revel in how a simple girl ever wielded a fruit this large.

Mon Frère, L'Artiste

Waiting to sign papers with mom and dad at the bank, Adam excercises his creativity in a loving portrait of his oldest sister:

Welcome, Miss Stacia

Attention Faithful Readers:

I have recently undergone a name change, anticipating a future career in pornography in which the name "Dominique Dero" might be quite useful. So say "sayonara" to Miss Dero for now. You shall meet her again on her rise to lovemaking fame.

Sincerely yours,
Stacia Jones

The College Man: Heartfelt Birthday Wishes

Left on my Voicemail (very sleepily) at 4:09pm:

Adam: Heeeey Stacey………. I just woke up……..happy fucking birthday.

Birthday Transit Playlist

Crafted to induce ecstasy on the short trip from my cupcake-laden office to my much-anticipated dinner at The Red Cat.

“These are the Fables” – The New Pornographers
“Reno Dakota” – The Magnetic Fields
“Touch The Sky” – Kanye West
“Extraordinary Machine” – Fiona Apple
“Chicago” – Sufjan Stevens
“The Denial Twist” – The White Stripes
“Good Day” – The Dresden Dolls

You Live in a Zoo

My afternoon phone conversation with the lovely lady who birthed me:

Mom: What was I doing seventeen years ago today?

Me: Tell me…

Mom: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! (grunting labor noises)

Me: That’s nice mom. Except I’m twenty-three.

Photo of Coworker Flashing Devil Horns at Wedding Party Instantly Validates Onion Article Addressing "Metal Hand Sign Abuse"

"If your head is neither banging nor thrashing, you should not be throwing the sign..."

Weddings are stupid.

Unless you’re my little sister and you want one (Rachel, we’ll discuss this later.).

Personally, I’d rather take the money that would have been spent on an excruciatingly frilly, impractical, one-time-wear-only dress, food that looks better than it tastes, thousand dollar flower arrangements that die the next day and a DJ who will inevitably play Gloria Estefan’s version of “Turn the Beat Around,” and take a month-long vacation somewhere fucking awesome. Like Greece. Yeah.

To seal the legality of the affair, the fiancée and I will pull together a jolly quorum – the fam, good friends, and maybe a cute pet or two (I can’t deny my mother the joy of dressing Shayna for the occasion) – and saunter over to Town Hall to sign some papers. When I push through the doors of the building (in a white mini-dress?) I hope to exclaim something along the lines of, “Let’s do this!” The whole thing will take ten minutes. Then everyone will head over to the bar for pitchers. No vino allowed. It’s my wedding and everyone will drink Black and Tans.

Oh, and absolutely no little kids. At all. Not at the ceremony, not at the party. Sorry, but you’re gonna have to leave the criers at home. You popped ‘em out, so now you’re responsible for figuring out what to do with ‘em while the rest of us have a good time.


N.B. I am fully aware of the possibility that in the future, love will dilute my cynicism. But it's highly unlikely.

The Halloweenies

Sort of Awards. Sort of Not. I use colons. You’ll get the idea.


Courtesy of your favorite 80's redhead.

Best Male Costume: Richard Simmons. The Tae Bo tape looped at the party and Mr. Simmons' real curly fro lent this masterpiece its authenticity.

Best Female Costume: Ummm, Peggy Bundy.

Best Duo Costume Idea: Double Dare Contestants. Complete with “DD” t-shirts, elbow and kneepads, helmets with cups on top (for catching random slimy objects), little red flags and homemade GAK.

Best Lesbian Couple Costume: Martha and Ellen. Daytime TV, back-to-back! Ellen sported a suit with white sneakers and Martha passed out “prison bars” (carefully plated mini Snickers on toothpicks).

Best Non-Gay, Gay Couple Costume: Cop and Jailbird. Two random guys (both) named Dan show up at the same party, one dressed as the punished, the other as the punisher. Sheer coincidence? Or a hot "chase" waiting to unfold?

Most High-Maintenance Couple Costume: Bacon and Egg. Costumes made out of foam with hole cut-outs for the head, arms and legs are hilarious to look at. And SUCK to wear.

Best Group Costume: The Nina, the Pinta, The Santa Maria. Traveled with a spandex-sporting Christopher Columbus.

Most Creative Homage: Hunter S. Thompson, post-suicide. Hunter and I probably passed about 4,000 “Fear and Loathing" fans over the course of the night and only the homeless guy in front of the deli on St. Marks and A called out in recognition. “Hunter S. Thompson with a bullet in his head! Genius, man!”

Predicted Costume Hit of the Year: Napoleon Dynamite. Vote for Pedro.

Actual Costume Hit of the Year: Hasidic Jew. Vote For Schlomo.

Ratio of Hasidic Jews to Napoleon Dynamites spotted over three-day period: 4:1. If men use the same costume choice logic as the majority of women in this city (dress to get laid), this means New Yorkers assumed your average rabbi gets laid more than the freakishly charming, monotone high school nerd.

Most obvious reaction to the Peggy Bundy Costume: Putting your hand in your pants. Hint to the men of New York City - try harder.

What to call Peggy when you can’t quite put your finger on it:
“Jersey!” (Not far off.)
“Long Island!” (On any other day, so very true.)
“The Nanny!” (Most embarrassing to hear screamed at you from across Avenue A.)
“Marge!” (Too much weed dude.)

If the stiletto fits...

There is no one who loves Halloween more than yours truly, Miss Deroextoradinaire. I am the kind of girl who begins to contemplate costume possibilities in August and meticulously assembles the entire ensemble by October 1st. I’m the kind of girl who scours the Internet for tutus and swan stuffed animals to piece them together in a detailed and surprisingly recognizable reproduction of Bjork's swan dress. The kind of girl who seriously frets over the way her jet-black eyebrows interfere with the boldness of her red Peggy Bundy bouffant.

With Halloween falling on a Monday this year, there’s no telling when the most sensational celebrations will hit the streets of Manhattan. As far as I’m concerned we’re on the brink of a three-day holiday weekend. This city-snob has even agreed to spend the better part of her Saturday night across the B-Burg bridge (which goes against her party instincts), so it must be Halloween. The Dero has already been shed in favor of a campier, trashier persona. See you when the incessant libido dies and the birth control runs out.

Oh AL!!!!

Dream a Little Dream

Tara McPherson documents heartache in a color we can all understand.

Behind the Scenes: The Colbert Report

Who knew my little Dazrazzle wielded so much power in New York broadcast ticketing offices? After securing us seats at a taping of the historic but increasingly uninspiring Saturday Night Live (not even guest host Napoleon Dynamite could save this puppy), my favorite social circuit board squeezed one of her juiciest contacts for four tickets to newly sprouted satirical news show, The Colbert Report. Colbert is truly a rare talent with the comic fluency and monster cajones to successfully helm his own brand of caustic current events commentary, but although the series shows much promise, it was the taping experience itself that provided last night’s oh-so-priceless moments.

Five highlights:

1. Standing on line to get into the studio in front of the guy that invented the "jump to conclusions mat" in the movie “Office Space.” It took our collective pride as privacy-respecting, non-celebrity-worshipping New Yorkers (lie to yourself Dero, its okay) not to turn to him and say “Jump to Conclusions Man, that movie epitomizes the lives we’re currently living.”
2. Lisa Loeb's bladderific declaration. As the bespectacled folkie emerged from a black sedan in front of the studio building, (effectively ruining the “big surprise” that she would sing five bars - of hmmm, I wonder what song - to complement one of Colbert's jokes) she declared quite loudly in the face of Daz’s younger brother, Francis Xavier XXIII, “I have to pee so badly I can’t hold it anymore!” See America, C-Level, one-hit-wonder-penning celebrities are just like us!
3. Stephen Colbert’s entrance. We got our first taste of the manic anchor as he bolted into the studio, halted center stage facing the audience, and pushed off to complete seven perfect turns in succession, spotting like a prima ballerina. When asked to recall what song was playing during this Fame-worthy entrance, my girl J-Faust replied, “Sorry man. I really don’t remember. I was busy being dazzled by his turning.” To which Daz added, “Totally dazzled. I imagined it was Waltz of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” Note to Colbert’s mother: Those years of tap dance training you put little Stephen through really paid off. Note to Stephen: The middle-school beatings were worth it. Every pre-teen girl’s juices flowed for that lone male in dance class.
4. The pre-show audience question-and-answer segment. Before entering the studio the audience was advised to formulate “funny and creative” questions to ask Stephen before the taping. The best question, and the one I wish I’d asked (later to be used as a response by Colbert to the unbearably lame inquiry, “What’s the funniest question you’ve ever been asked?” ) went something like this: “One time on the Daily Show you made a comment about how you like to sexually harass your interns. I have my resume here with me now and I was wondering if you would hire me.”
5. The way Colbert refused to pronounce the hard “T” at the end of word "Report." The postulated commentary from Bill O’ Reilly (or “Papa Bear” as Colbert has him lovingly nicknamed) on this technicality: “The Colbert RAPPORT? Fucking French bastard.”

Learning with Asterik's Music Monsters

Asterik Studio's family of musical ogres, creatures and freaks, imagined for a recent Bumbershoot Festival print series, immediately conjured memories of my very favorite childhood learning devices, The Letter People. Used to impart the basics of sound and syllable to five and six year olds, the monogram-sporting Letter People and their goofy, inflatable effigies were each assigned a letter-oriented trait and related song to help kids learn the alphabet. By the end of my first year at Chestnut Hill Elementary it was clear that Miss A said “A’choo” and Mr. T had Tall Teeth.

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had my pleasantly plump Kindergarten teacher used Asterik’s Music Monsters to lay a musical foundation as well:

MR. WRIGHT: “Alright class, repeat after me. Mr. Iggy Pop Pioneered Punk Rock.”

CLASS: “Mr. Iggy Pop Pioneered Punk Rock.”

MR. WRIGHT: “Does anyone know what Mr. Pop is famous for?”

JOHNNY: “His punk and hard rock innovation and crazy stage antics?”

MR. WRIGHT: “That’s right Johnny! But class remember, just like with matches…”

JOHNNY: “Don’t cut yourself with broken bottles in the name of rock n’ roll without parental supervision?”

MR. WRIGHT: “You’ve got it! Alright Michael, play that vinyl…”

PLAYS “SEARCH AND DESTROY”

MR. WRIGHT: “ Now repeat, Ms. Mavis Staples is a Singing Soul Sister.”

CLASS: “Ms. Mavis Staples is a Singing Soul Sister.”

MR. WRIGHT: “Now who is Mavis Staples? Jenny?”

JENNY: “Mavis Staples is a soul and gospel legend, once a member of pop group The Staples Sisters.

MR. WRIGHT: “And can you name one of The Staples Sisters’ number one hits for me?

JENNY: “I’ll Take You There!”

MR. WRIGHT: “You got it Jenny! Hit it Mike!”

Office Obscenities

This afternoon on my way back to work from the bank I ducked into a deli for a healthy snack and was assaulted by the largest banana I had ever laid eyes on. My coworker (shoot-the-duck) Vannessa has often bragged about a banana she purchased in the pre-Dominique days that was “so large it was obscene.” Certain this banana would trump any former obnoxiously phallic fruit brought back to the cubicle, I humbly doled out two quarters to bring my find back to the girls.

Obscene really was the perfect word for this freakishly engorged gorilla favorite. Measuring almost eleven inches in length and about three inches in “girth” at its widest, the yellow shaft promised to be a full mouthful for even the most accommodating lady. I chose to cut it into small pieces for consumption to discourage gawking stares. Forget eating the thing, even holding it while standing at my desk was embarrassing, prompting flushed emails to my sympathetic female coworkers reading, “I love that Mike walked by while I was showing Michelle my large banana.”

Or maybe it was the fact that I was taking camera phone pictures of the thing side-by-side with Sally the office Barbie doll that triggered my embarrassment. I was just trying to give my lovely blog-reading audience a proper sense of scale.

How to nearly kill yourself in eleven days.

Part I:
Party yourself sick with Miss Overindulgence.

9/14 – Rollerskating at the Roxy. Fuel up on margaritas and Mexican food. Lace up skates, skitter onto the rink and aim to take an innocent skater down with you on first fall. Feed the tank with two more Coronas while watching perfect coworker “shoot the duck.” Find inspiration in an Alicia Keys song and allow ballad-stimulated stylistic overconfidence to take you on a scathing ride on the wooden slip-n-slide. Medicate any injuries with Corona, without regard to the inevitable morning hangover.

9/15 – Kick off CMJ w/ The Billy Nayer Show @ the Knitting Factory. Meet up with German festival companion and metal connoisseur extraordinaire. Get balls (literal or figurative, whatever’s available) blown off by The Billy Nayer Show’s freakish rock fables and Dr. Seussian proclamations of love. Wish for dad who either plays the Autoharp or is willing to grow out a six inch long black beard. After drinking a few pints, allow embarrassing lack of stamina, still in the growth stage, to force exit before headliners Of Montreal take the stage.

9/16 – CMJ: Coco Rosie, Supersystem and !!! @ S.O.B’s. Confront early feelings of exhaustion and illness with The German. Opt not to drink any beer. Decide to establish a Franco-hip-hop cult in Coco Rosie’s honor. Vow to figure out what exactly this means the next time there’s liquor in the system. Graciously award extra rock-cred points to all those who make it to the close of !!!’s super-late, super-sweaty set. Follow greasy set with greasy food, no matter the time.

9/17 – CMJ: Rock n' roll poster show. Cream pants while approaching Jermaine Rogers, Justin Hampton and EMEK at their exhibition in the CBGB’s gallery. Chat with Hampton about New York pizza and Jermaine about the “awesome” interview on his website. Resist temptation to smuggle EMEK's Distillers poster , Jermaine's Morrissey and Hampton's QOTSA from a wall covered in a dizzying array of kick-ass prints. Miraculously escape the gallery purchaseless. Reward willpower with Hold Steady show at CBGB’s main stage. Glimpse glowing beacon of Hampton CMJ poster(just like the one he’s selling next door for $30) stapled to the club’s overpapered walls. Revel in good fortune and poster-collecting sentimentality while pulling an authentic Hampton screenprint off the walls of the most famous punk rock club in the city. Drink about six beers waiting for the Hold Steady to bore your tired ass to death. Drunkenly leave prized poster on floor of the club and curse the Yuengling gods.

9/18 – Mets vs. Braves at Shea. Secure third free bobblehead of the season (Willie Randolph, SCORE!), but still don’t get to see Pedro pitch. Watch the Mets run over the Braves in just over two hours, but forget to put life on the line with jumbo stadium hot dog. Tempt fate with raw bar and three-course seafood dinner at pop’s expense instead.

9/19-9/21 – Work crappy job. Try to speed-read book for book club. Do laundry, scrub the tub, gym obsessively and watch a lot of Iron Chef. Attempt to take a quick breather before…

9/22 – Dinner at Blue Smoke. Begin drinking at 6:30 and continue drinking upscale BBQ joint’s fine house ale until the close of the meal at around 10:00. Sample 60 percent of the appetizers on the menu and 40 percent of the entrees. Calculate later that you have consumed almost an entire pig in one sitting. Follow said gorge with requisite brownie sundae. Roll home to retire with intense pain from block of meat in stomach. Contact the rabbi and consecrate yourself a newly Kosher Jew.

9/23 – Kick off New Yorker Fest w/ readings by Stephen King and Michael Chabon. Note correct pronunciation of Michael’s last name for uninhibited use in future conversation (shay-bawn). Wonder how King’s mousy voice is so effective at churning your guts in terror and suspense. Simultaneously gag and beam at the King/Chabon mutual love fest, prompted by inevitable “influences” question from the audience.

9/24 – Orgasmic Insanity: The Pinnacle Day.
Start with the New Yorker discussion forum on “Anarchy in Animation.” Instantly fall in love with the voice of Aqua Teen Hunger Force’s Meatwad. Watch a ten-year-old-boy flabbergast the panel with the most intelligent question of the afternoon. Silently take back criticism of parents who allowed ten-year-old son to attend a forum featuring the dirty mouths of Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Vow to never again miss a new episode of Southpark and to watch The Iron Giant along with anything above ten-year-old might suggest.

Join line of indie nerds in Times Square for “Stage to Studio” discussion mediated by the New Yorker’s pop encyclopedia Sasha Frere-Jones. Hide head in hands every time the nebbish journalist flashes Wu-Tang sign at the RZA (3-4 x’s). Nearly piss yourself as the RZA nearly pisses himself over Steve Albini’s producer-as-gynecologist metaphor. Ignore Ani Di Franco. Go home. Order the Wu Tang Manual on Amazon. Move Ghost Dog to number one on your Nextflix list. Buy the new RZA/MF Doom single on iTunes. Try to find a pair of the RZA’s boxers on eBay so you can fall asleep at night with even the ass-sweat of the genius Wu Master under your pillow.

Wave goodbye to opening act Brendan Benson and the Shins as you struggle to pull together last minute crew for overpriced White Stripes concert. Use lollipop sticks to hold up your eyelids on the train out to Coney Island. Smoke for the first time in two months while running on fumes. Trip out Woodstock-stylee. Climb inside your skull and reevaluate your entire life against the soundtrack of raw blues riffs and considerably improved drumming. Snap out of coma to acknowledge Meg’s ever-adorable, if atonal solos. Try to avoid pushy, explosive drunks fist-pumping to “Seven Nation Army.” Curse the day the White Stripes became a full-fledged stadium act. Click heels together and repeat, “There’s no crowd like an indie rock crowd.”

Ride train directly to Blue and Gold and take advantage of the sales like mama taught you (pitcher=cheaper than pint). Drink until Jack White appears to you in fringe and fedora, telling you to “run along home little doggie.”

9/25 – Beginning of the end. Welcome yourself to at least a week of recovery. Miss Overindulgence: “Has your liver ever tried to eject itself through your esophagus? It isn’t pretty.”

Part II:
Casualties of War: When overplanning kills your plans.

Wallace and Gromit (9/25): Curse of the Were Rabbit Premiere: Fell to the illness/Red Sox. Detox was crucial at this stage in the game and baseball on (the Sox were on ESPN?). W&G joins Corpse Bride, The Beat My Heart Skipped and Broken Flowers on the “if it will eventually go to DVD, its sadly not a priority” list.

Deerhoof at Northsix (9/28): Fell to the illness. Best way to beat the chills isn’t in a crowd full o’ hipsters.

Katherine’s Birthday Bash (9/30): Fell to the Red Sox. The Red Sox, a medium-rare blue cheese burger, and many, many pints of Sierra Nevada. Sometimes these things are beyond human control.

Across the Narrows (10/1): Fell to the illness/Red Sox. Resisted Brooklyn-fest because of lingering sickness. Exploited the liver for Varitek at neighborhood frat-fest instead. Should have been sitting on the Green Monster for the ridiculous price of the Coney Island ticket, or at least somewhere where the view of both TVs wasn’t blocked by un-tucked button down shirts and Yankee caps.

The College Man: Dealing with Real Life Issues

Adam calls up my parents yesterday:

Adam: “Dad, my watch is broken.”

Dad: “So you’ll get it fixed when you’re home over Thanksgiving, what’s the big deal?”

Adam: “Well it’s not a big deal, it’s been broken for a while – it’s basically just jewelry. But my phone just died too and now I can’t tell the time.”

"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."