Goodbye, Cruel World.

I love you, Carwash.
I love you, Chulo.

I'll never forget any of you.

Come visit me at the new blog:
www.crashcoursenyc.wordpress.com

The Morality will continue. The Carwash will not. It just seppukued.

It was so good.

Holy Shit.

See it. I won't ruin anything for you... Just know that it has about 30 lines of dialogue total and more bloody mayhem than all the other Rambos combined. And a Burmese kid gets bayonetted. Okay okay! I won't ruin anything else... Promise. Just go see it.

Be My Husband and I'll Be Your Wife

Shit's rough sometimes. You know? And it's really easy to get trampled by your own misfortunes and blow them up, in your own head, to monumental proportions. You lose sight of the things in life that are good, because you're shitty and depressed and all you want to think about is how terrible everything is. (By the way, I have a point, I swear. There's a reason for the protracted saccharin diatribe.)

Case in point. I lost my job a few weeks ago. And that's crappy, right? On top of that, it was right before I was due for a loooong trip back to my hometown to visit my parents. And as if sitting around and feeling lazy and sorry for myself isn't bad enough, add to it a thousand pounds of parentally-induced stress. "You should be looking harder. Do you really need that second helping of turkey? I certainly hope your next boyfriend isn't going to be one of those artist types again. I bet your other coworkers already found new jobs. You just haaaaad to live downtown, didn't you. You never come visit us any more." At the end of which, even the sanest person can be expected to want to blow their fucking brains out of the back of their head. On top of that, I'd managed to catch my roommate's bronchitis of Ebola-like proportions right before I left ("You have that cold because you don't dress warmly enough, why don't you wear the sweaters we bought you?") which all summated in me seeking refuge in the pink-bideted, floral wallpapered downstairs bathroom at least three times a day to have sobbing, blubbery mini-breakdowns. By the time I packed up my meager possessions (including three brand new sweaters I will never wear) and wrapped up my coughing, post-nasal dripping mucused corpse for the journey back to New York, the prospect of braving Christmas travel traffic in my pathetic state didn't even faze me. I wanted to be home. NOW.

Here's what I'm getting at.

The sight of the Manhattan skyline, after any journey, is enough to make my heart sing. This time, in my drugged and downtrodden condition, after six days of endless beratement, it actually brought me to tears. Not kidding, I actually cried. Like a bitch, I shed a tear at the sight of New York City. And it made me realize that no matter how bad things get, I always have my boyfriend New York. I knew that my apartment was just a short subway ride away, and that once I was there I could get all comfers cozers in my bed and have chicken soup, Diet Coke, TheraFlu, tissues, and cough drops delivered to my front door in about 20 minutes. I realized that in spite of being a cranky sniffly unemployed piece of shit, there was still something to be happy about. And that's important for cantankerous sarcastic fuckers like you and me to remember from time to time... We desperately want to hate the world always, but there are some things that are just unwaveringly good.

Like New York. Good lord, I love New York.

And here's why. Because everything is a phone call away. Groceries, pizza, hookers, drugs, Chinese food, cab services, you name it, and it can be at your doorstep in 30 minutes or less, and when you're sick and no one is around to take care of you - you can take care of yourself using only your handy touchtone phone. Because no where else on the planet can you experience the singular act of people watching like you can on the NYC Transit subway. Because on any given night of the week you can walk into any given number of downtown bars and choose any one of about fifteen eligible, gorgeous, well dressed brilliant men and take them home with you if you wish. If not, you can take down their phone number and begin the courtship dance that will eventually lead to a meaningful and mutually fulfilling relationship. Because in New York, girls change into their comfortable but unsightly shoes when they get to the office, and their 5" stillettos are the provenance of walking down the street. Because you're incapable of being outside and alone. No matter what time of day it is, people are on the streets, walking their dogs or babies or girlfriends. Because no other city in the world has its own code of conduct, and although sometimes people overstep the bounds of Newyorican propriety (see earlier rants), living here you learn to respect others and they, in turn, respect you. Because here people smile at you when you walk down the street for no reason. Because people have somewhere to get to and they're always on the go. There is no slow, leisurely walking here. People have places to go. They're always busy, always engaged. Because there are four movie theaters within walking distance from my house. Because Famke Jannsen lives on my block and she is fucking gorgeous. That woman is a six foot tall smokeshow and when I see her walking to the bodegs she always grins. Because I'll never, ever, ever run out of shitty, future-less artists to piss my parents off with. Because all my best friends are here, and they love it as much as I do, and sometimes we'll go out and spend the whole night just laughing and drinking and being happy to be in just the greatest fucking place on the planet. I mean that sincerely. No matter what, I will always have New York, and we'll never leave each other. If I could marry this goddamn city I would, in a fucking heartbeat. Life could be soooooooooo, so much worse.

I love you. Seriously. I fucking love you so much, New York.

I blame the gayness of this post on the fact that it's the new year and I'm feeling all inspired to change my life and start fresh. Also I've just endured a few weeks of parental torture and I am finally free to be back to normal and alone with the city I love. Promise that by the next post I'll be the crabby bitch on wheels you all know and love.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Like You Care.

After an arduous journey through endless literary bureaucracy and journalistic red tape, I have ended my quest to become the published genius you all expected me to miserably fail at being. The back-and-forth with the would-be domain holders of my blog's purpoted new home has been so extensive and drawn out that I've single handedly (double-fistedly if you count Chulo) decided to pull plug on our negotiations and return to the original netherregion... The Carwash. In case this needs further explanation, I was asked to cease all writing in public mediums, including here, until we had completed negotiations. Well, when I wrote that last entry, in April, we were supposedly a week or two away from the bitter end. That was six months ago. I'm tired of waiting. So... We're back. I guess. And I'm sorry if I've dissapointed you, either with my lack of content or my lack of ability to make something of myself.

A big fuck you goes out to an online mag whose name starts with a "G" and ends with a "You've Got to Be Out of Your Goddamn Minds if You Think You're Special Enough to Jerk People Around Forever Just for the Minimal Satisfaction of a Few New Readers Who Don't Give a Shit Anyway." Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, Editor Mark you're cool, Fuck you. I'm out.

It Would Appear That I'm Bringing Sexy Back. (Yeah.)

OK, big news time.

(And might I just disclaim the weirdness of the fact that I am voluntarily choosing not to disclose this information to people who know me in real life and don't read my crappy blog?)

News the First. I haven't been able to talk about this for a while and I really still can't say much, but I have been approached about doing some actual, serious, professional writing. It all stemmed from someone reading this very awful blog, telling a friend who told a friend who told a friend who told a columnist. We are still working out the kinks but that is what has kept me from posting, they asked me to give it a rest until a decision was made. Aaaaaaaanyway. I've been writing like a fiend (like with a pen and paper - I know, it's crazy), and hopefully very soon I will have something to show for it. Once again, I would just like to say that I am regularly astounded by the number of people who read this thing. I started it a really long time ago to just keep in touch with friends and now it's a scary but cuddly and benevolent monster. I am eternally grateful for every single person who clicks on here every day and worries when I am gone. (Don't call the cops!) You are all wonderful, and I will of course keep you abreast of any cool new things that are on the horizon that you all might be able to partake in. Thanks for your patience as usual.

News the Second. I am single. For the first time in a very long time. Most of you will not be shocked by this news as you probably thought I always was - my personal life only makes cameos on this thing. It's literally been a coupla years for me and I kind of don't know what to do with myself... But I think maybe documenting it will be an interesting experience for all of us. How about THAT?!?

News the Third. I haven't been completely lazy in the interim. I have a few entries that have been brewing in the wings for quite some time now, and I will be posting them in all their verbose glory very very soon. I hope you will be pleased with me.

So, that's the haps...... Yaaaaaaay and it's good to be back! Love you all.

I thought you all might enjoy a picture of my chubby double chin on this Tuesday afternoon.

Chulo asked me to say hi to everyone.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chaaaaanges.

Some very big things are happening, boys and girls.
Some very new and interesting things.

I try not to get too personal on the blog but I may be breaking that rule soon. Not sure for the time being. But...
Some very big things.

In any case, I am cooking up some great stuff for you guys.
Some stuff for the boys especially.
So stay tuned. Okay?

You guys are great.
Attica.




P.S. I set up an e-mail account for the blog. See my profile. I know the readership is four-fold that of the people who leave comments. Whatever, be anonymous, I don't care, but I'm sick of you fuckers bugging me in real life. So just write me there if you have Carwash questions/comments/complaints. Deal?

Just to reiterate...

I fucking hate LA.
(That's little Hobie Buchannon there. You betcha.)

MySpace Loser of the Day Bonanza and Some Real Talk.

I hate LA.

I've always had a distaste for it, and after witnessing it first hand when I went to visit friends there a few years back I was sure. Sure New York is gritty and dirty sometimes, but the LA grime is so much worse than NYC's gscumbaggery. It's got a seedy, desperate, plasticky quality to it that we will never be able to duplicate. At least New York does a halfway decent job of painting on a facade of economic equality and harmony between the classes. In LA, there are three types of people: the super wealthy and entitled who get chaffeured to their homes in the hills; the desperate artists/actors/musicians/models/dancers who are barely making ends meet doing odd jobs; and the homeless, the masses of them huddled into parking lots and Skid Row who are largely ignored and treated like scummy strays.

Let's return to that first category. The rich of LA and the surrounding area (like the OC, blech) are basically spoiled bitches who were entrusted massive amounts of wealth from their hard-working parents and grandparents. Since most present day residents are second or third generation inheritants, they've already established a standard of complete disregard for tact, class, humility, gratitude and hard work. Their spokespeople are the children of the grotesquely wealthy, lazy little shits who are only famous for being ostentatious and spoiled. The Davises, the cast of Laguna Beach, the Simpsons, the Jenners, Lindsay Lohan, the Hiltons, Britney, Nicole Richie, Kim Kardashian... What do all these people have in common? First, they all seem to have the IQ of a housefly, and unabashedly wear their stupidity like a badge of honor. They exercise only the most irresponsible types of behavior and make displays of their loose morals and drug use... (Not that there is anything wrong with those things, but I keep it in my bedroom.)

Let's take for example that dumb bitch Paris Hilton. God, I can't stand that moronic hoebag. What has she done that has had any type of positive impact on the world? I'm not even talking about charity, I'm talking about any kind of contribution to humanity or society at large. Let's pretend for a second that she has an actual career. The Simple Life? Yeah, that was a gem. One in which she showed her intellect and compassion. Her crappy book co-written (I mean ghostwritten) by a columnist? That's all about how to be more of an annoying demanding princess? Good luck with that Booker Prize, you retarded slut. What about her movies? "The Hottie and the Nottie," "National Lampoon's Pledge This!" and "Bottoms Up..." All sure to be Oscra contenders this year. Now let's analyze the other facets of this prissy slutface. Thanks to our friends at ParisExposed (not to disregard a lifetime career of idioticism), we can now compile that she is a) a frequent drug user, b) a racist, c) an Anti-Semite, d) a complete idiot, e) a herpes carrier, f) a liar liar pants on fire, g) an immoral tramp, and h) a prolific amateur pornographer. Yeah, Paris's pants ain't exactly Fort Knox. On top of everything, she routinely looks like a bag of smelly ass with Ed Hardy's vomit all over her and a wonky eye.

Yet how is it that she perpetually gets media coverage? I understand that at this point the publicity and her whores-in-waiting has essentially been boiled down to people making fun of her and reporting on her indiscriminate antics. Don't get me wrong, I love me some Dlisted, but I am starting to believe that all the press she and the rest of the Hollywood Libertine Brigade get is fairly dangerous to the youth of America. If you go on Paris Hilton's MySpace page, the comments section is riddled with notes from her adoring female fans, twelve and thirteen-year-olds gushing to the effect of, "OMG, Paris, you are my idol, I wanna be just like you when I grow up." How is that not alarming? Thankfully I don't believe in children, but if God forbid I have a daughter, and she declares that she is a Paris Hilton fan, guess what. Her little ass is getting beaten nine ways to Sunday.

So, parents of America, I have a proposal for you. If your daughters so much as offer an inkling of admiration for one of these entitled call girls, please do as your parents did and utilize the switch. Do not spare the rod. And... One more suggestion. How is this young lady for a role model for America's youth?

(photo courtesy of Perez Hilton)

America Ferrera is beautiful. Sure, she's a little bit of a fat ass, but she's got a gorgeous face and big pretty boobies. On top of that, she is an accomplished actress at a very young age, and is currently in college studying for a double degree business program. (Sidebar: Paris Hilton dropped out of high school and made a sex tape instead.) She is intelligible and well-spoken, she doesn't have an ear-grating catchphrase, and she's never made porn. She's in a relationship with only one dude, they don't live together and she's open about her sexuality but not to the point where you know what her cooch looks like. She drops the occasional F- or S-bomb here and there, yet is still able to talk to Barbara Walters coherently. Lastly, she's friendly, cute, and likeable.

Can you say ANY of those things about Paris Hilton? No? Just ONE of those things?


Fuck those stupid bitches.
America is awesome. (Insert Trey Stone saying "fuck yeeeeah" here)
Please. Tell your niece about her and strap her to the couch when Ugly Betty is on.
Please? Thanks.





And, just to reaffirm that idiots exist on every plane of famousness....
Here are some new MySpace Losers for you.

Enjoy and revel in your normalcy!

1) Boo loves her some chocolate. Check out her sons' names.
2) David flexes for Jesus. Jesus and his GTO.
3) Oscar is the worst kind of gay. He perpetuates everything I wrote about above.
4) Masumi is basically my nightmare come to life.

Street Etiquette.

I know I promised less ranting in 2007 (which is off to a great start BTW) but I just can't help it.

What's with people these days? Even with my worthless Eastern European pedigree I know better than to do certain things when I'm out in public. When you occupy space with other strangers, and especially in New York when the you to stranger ratio is about 1:23000, there are just certain rules of conduct to be followed. If not for the sake of propriety, at least for the sake of maintaining order. Here's the rundown.

RULES OF THE STREET
1) When it rains in New York, it fucking pours. And since the island is on an incline, all of the water and sewage and debris seems to run into Lower Manhattan, where I live. Circumnavigating the puddles and streams of grey water is task enough, but carrying an umbrella is also necessary since it literally comes down in quarter sized dollops by the million. Now, remember that you've also got 23000 strangers on the street who are also carrying umbrellas... And the little Asian girls who are like a foot and a half tall just lo-ho-houve carrying those gigantic golf caddie ones. So here's the deal: if you're walking with a shield, when you walk by someone else, you raise it or lower it in order to prevent it from shredding your fellow commuters. And if you're carrying one of those the size of a football field, guess what. You're walking in the street, by your God damn self. If I had a dime for every time I've been scraped by the eye or jabbed in the waist by a wayward brolly... I could buy a Slurpee.
2) Teenaged girls love nothing more than linking arms and attacking the sidewalk six to a daisy chain, blocking essentially the enire thing. That would be enough, but on top of that.... They're teenage girls. Who grew up in New York. Meaning they giggle too much, scream over one another, wear jeans so tight and camel-toeing that it makes me wonder where their mothers are, and collectively walk at the pace of the slowest one, relegating anyone behind them to slow down in tow. They make me want to put about twenty feet of space between us and then Red Rover right through the middle of that shit, smearing their little faces on the pavement. (Bitches.)
3) Speaking of people taking up the entire sidewalk..... Oh my God, these women and their fucking babies. An infant is roughly the size of a football. Does your little bundle of sunshine really need a stroller that's as big as the Pentagon? Why must I be punished because you were drunk and therefore horny and let your absentee husband pork you without your diaphragm? Is it my fault that the one time he has a twinkle in his eye and finally a boner, that twinkle turns into a little shit machine nine months later, and now here we are and you and your brat and his flying goddamn saucer of a crib on wheels are taking up the whole sidewalk? Is it fair that I have to be late to brunch because your careless ass got knocked the fuck up? I don't think so. Either get a stroller that is no wider than Little Lord Fauntleroy over there or teach him to walk a year early. Jesus Christ.
4) I've never really understood why men take it upon themselves to hock loogies, but I understand it to be one of those simple facts that I just have to live with. However, is it necessary to dispose of them in plain view of others, and right on the sidewalk no less? I generally like to avoid eye contact with passerby, so I tend to look at my feet as they make their way along the streets. And there's just nothing quite like seeing a nice big pile of vomit-inducing green phlegm surrounded by a tiny pool of bubbling spit, sitting there like a little mucuous sunny-side-up egg. If you must loog, gentlemen, and if you must insist on making that sound where you dredge snot from your bowels, then please look around to the left and right to make sure no one is watching. And when you evacuate it, do so in a proper receptacle; a trashcan, a subway grate, a flower planter or that lady's yappy dog will all do nicely.

RULES OF THE UNDERGROUND
1) This one drives me crazy. When a subway makes a stop, doors open; travellers departing get off the train, arriving passengers then board the train. Common sense. Right? Wrong. On the NYC Metro, people routinely barrel into the train, wildly looking for a seat, before the people in the back have even had a chance to approach the doors. It is so fucking rude and it drives me absolutely bananas. It also causes people to sometimes miss their stop because the operators automatically close the doors as soon as the influx has entered. The biggest offenders are a) elderly Chinese women, b) old white dudes in suits, and c) trannies. It makes me wish for Bruce Banner powers. Just wait. Okay? Just keep your fucking pants on until everyone has gotten off, making room for you and your disco boots.
2) And speaking of common sense.... Walking in stairwells. You stick to the right side. That way people are neatly organized into one-directional queues. Common sense. Right?!?!? Not here, friends. Here's it's a fight for survival. I love nothing more than to get off the C just as the F downstairs has ejaculated it's enormous load of passengers, and they are now making a mass exodus to the upstairs platform. I stand at the top of the stairs like Noah at the gates of the Arc, helpless until the last creature has concluded the vestibule-consuming stampede. Only then can I politely make my way to the downstairs trains, on the right side of the stairwell. Dreadful.
3) I'll keep this one short. When the train is full, that's it. Doors close, you wait for the next one. If you try to shove your way in when there's clearly no room, and I happen to be right at the entrance, guess what? You're getting punched right in the babymaker.
4) And what's with people bringing enormous objects on the train with them? So you found a crappy couch on a sidewalk on the Upper West Side, congratulations. Must you bring it home with you (to the East Village, no less) in the middle of rush hour? How about you, Bike Messenger Dude, all geared out with your giant retard helmet and your grippy gloves and your Under Armour? If you're such a ride head with your giant fancy two wheeler there shouldn't you be riding your bike instead of taking the subway? And what about you, lady? It wasn't enough to dominate the sidewalk with your baby car, now you have to stuff that giant thing into a train too? I'm sorry, those kinds of endeavors should be the sole provenance of the lonely ass 6 train on the weekends. Selfish.

The Year in Review.

A tumultuous year indeed. A lot of shit happened, some people died, some people did outrageously dumb things, and I had more life experiences crammed into this fateful year than probably the course of my entire life up to this point. 2006 was by far one of the worst years of my life, but that's the nice thing about the last digit changing, isn't it? 2007, with it's completely meaningless new '7,' holds the promise of a millenium. I have decided to use it as a catalyst for change. But this is not a 'resolutions' post. 2006's been a doozy, and I thought a recap might be in order. So let's begin, shall we?


2006 WAS AWESOME

1) MySpace. I have been an upstanding member of the MySpace community since April of this year. I was late to the game and I know that, but whatever. I think it speaks for my character that it took me quite so long to take the plunge.

2) The War of Terror. I mean, on Terror. Oh, hold on... That wasn't awesome?!? Damn you, FoxNews! Does anyone else think it's funny that the so-called War on Terror has been reduced to its most common denominators? It's been boiled down to the concepts of fear (Iraq, al Qaida, persons who wear turbans and burqas, anyone with crude oil) and freedom (America). It's just a ridiculous shit show and I'm sick of hearing about it.

3) The year in employable Reds. Let's see. The King Republican is busy cooking up Armageddon over in the Middle East. One Republican swindled 85 million dollars from Indian casinos. One Republican shot his closest advisor in the face at point blank range. One Republican advised the president that it's OK to throw the notions of privacy and personal security to the wind and wire-tap all our phones. One Republican used his electoral campaign to launder Russian money and misappropriate it for personal use. Granted, there was one misstep on the Democratic side... A Democrat got caught catching multiple furtive Internet gropes with underage boys. Oh, no, wait.... Fuck. FoxNews fucked this one also! That was a Republican too.

4) The year in getting served. In 2006, a lot of media succubi finally got what they had coming. It is not often that the undeservingly famous get their comeuppance. Anyone getting their comeuppance is worthwhile, but when the whole thing plays out like a soapy opera in the public eye, it makes for delicious television. Like when that fat waddly c-word Star Jones 'quit' The View, just to have the dragonlady Barbara Walters announce the day after she left that she'd known she was not being renewed for months. Or when Federline finally got served (literally) with some long overdue divorce papers, right after his album completely tanked. Or when Bill Clinton single-handedly embarrased FoxNews. Or when Rachel Zoe got exposed as a wrinkly drug dealer and got fired by everyone. Served! Served! SERVED! SERVED!!!

5) "It's maaaaaade out of peeeeeople! Just keedding!" I would have preferred some type of prolonged torture at the hands of his own people, but... Ding dong, the Sloba's dead, the Wicked Slobodan of the East is dead.

6) The legislative process finally works out. Another new thing was that I became a freshly-minted American in 2006. Not to sound like an ungrateful sycophant, but I really never gave two shits about being an American citizen. I had a Green Card, which basically afforded me all the rights of a naturalized American, with the exception of being able to vote and apply for American Idol. But it just so happened that I was essentially handed a citizenship just a few days before the local elections. Well, I took it upon myself to get registered and vote, and I am so glad I did, because I, and others like me, manyhandedly returned the control of Congress to the blues. Hallelujah. On January 1st, Congress is Democratic, my special man Eliot Spitzer takes control of New York State (that's the sequel to All the King's Men waiting to happen), and the lovely and talented Ms. Pelosi become's the country's first female (not to mention Democratic) Speaker of the House. New World order, bitches.




2006 WAS WIGGIDY WIGGIDY WIGGIDY WACK

1) MySpace. While it has proven to be an endless resource in so many ways, there are just certain things about MySpace that should be regulated. I feel that a bulleted list is necessary.
~ My first beef is with people who load up their page with enough HTML code to crash a computer at the Pentagon. Can you really not live if your page doesn't come alive with animation, sparkly bunnies, special cursors and porn-site color schemes at every click? Grow up.
~ People that refer to their page as their 'Space.' Newsflash, dork - your page is nothing but a homogenous blip on a massive server. This is not your special place to write really bad poetry and put up your crappy drawings of mythical creatures that are really just pictures of you with pointy ears and fangs and ET fingers as interpreted by a five year old. No amount of fantasizing about the importance of your 'space' is going to make you any less of a chronic masturbator with bad skin, so let's just stop it. Okay?
~ Enough with the friend requests. I'm talking to you, TransAm253.
~ Sweet Jesus Christ, the pictures. Oh, for Chrissake. Using a photo that stretches the limits of PG-13 nudity will not make you any more sexy or any less overweight. Using one where you're shirtless in your bathroom taken with a camera phone will not mask your pitiful, mindless existence in the Midwest. A picture of you wearing a cape and a ton of eyeliner while mugging earnestly will not bring you any closer to your dream of being Count Dracula. Giant Dior sunglasses and a pout will not convince the planet that you didn't buy them at the Korean. Wake up. You work at Wendy's. A 50 Cent wallpaper doesn't make you any less of a Caucasian tub of lard with idiotic cornrows. Putting up pictures of you and your boyfriend don't make him love you again. Putting up pictures of your baby doesn't make you any less of a deadbeat dad. Staring into the lens like your tortured soul is about to pour out of your eyeballs don't make you any smarter or more interesting (it does, however, make you look constipated). Kissy faces don't make you adorable.

2) Ridiculous word hybrids. Surely, 2006 was the year of the portmanteau. If I never hear another Tomkat or Brangelina or Vaughniston (are you serious? Vaughniston?!?) I'll die happy. What's next? Romijerryoconnell?

3) The emergence of Williamsburgers. Listen, I have no problem with Williamsburg. It's a quaint, clean enclave in Brooklyn with really good restaurants, hot boys and sometimes rowdy, boozy parties. I also have no problem with people, even the painfully hip types that tend to populate my fair city, until I get to meet them and hate them personally if applicable. What I do, however, take issue with, is people from Williamsburg. They walk around like a bunch of uniformed clowns. The dudes looking all fragile with their cardigans and their painted-on stretch jeans that constrict their junk and their really expensive sneakers that probably smell like death and their devil-may-care scarves tied dashingly around their skinny, pimply necks and their patchy facial hair and their ironic motherfucking glasses. And the girls with their sweaty, unbrushed hair and their sweaty, bleeding makeup in Technicolor shades running all over their sweaty faces, and their polyester dresses (in which they are, no doubt, sweating) cinched at the waist with the widest, brightest belt they could find at the flea market, and their emerald green fucking leggings tucked into an ugly pair of your grandma's boots, and on top of everything just pile on enough seventies costume jewelry to oufit a neighborhood yard sale. Jesus Christ.

4) That dumb cow Kate Moss. What a fucking waste of humanity that dumb bitch is. Unfortunately, humanity is also a fucking waste, proving singlehandedly that the rich and famous are completely exempt from consequence. First of all, her sweaty, bovine-faced junkie boyfriend is a walking ad for abortion. (Seriously. Imagine having really awkward smelly lanky sex with Pete Doherty for a second. Okay? Now go ahead, I'll wait for you to vomit. Go on, I'll be right here when you get back.) Excellent role model for your kids, Katie. Secondly, does anyone even buy the 'it was just this one time' song and dance? Kate Moss has been doing massive amounts of blow since puberty. Then she gets caught cutting lines on camera - congratulations you dumb bitch, now the whole world knows you're a miserable human being and an unfit mother. And then, she picks up four major advertising contracts and (insert unbelieving head skake here) wins Supermodel of the Year?!?!? What the FUCK?!?!? Is the rest of the world doing massive amount of blow too?



In any case, enough with the ranting. New Year's was awesome, I went to a party down the street from my house, got to wear a real slutty dress, got pretty massively shitfaced for free, danced a lot, and got kissed at midnight. Topped off by a stumble home and blissful sleep at the hands of my Swedish foam mattress. It was a great way to kick off the new year. 2007 here I come. YEAH!!!

(My adorable friend Devin laughs while my roomie gets mercilessly hit on in the background on New Year's Eve. Note the red Solo cups full of cocktail. Awesome.)

Reality Check Friday

I had a physical on Wednesday.

I haven't had a physical in years. And while I was worried that my results would reveal just how much all the cheeseburgers and booze and sleeplessness have affected my health, the ante was significantly upped when my super-hot Asian lady doctor said, "sooooooooo... do you also wanna get tested for STDs?"

Now... I am very responsible. I categorically don't believe in unprotected sex, I'm not a huge slut, and I'm generally uncomfortable sleeping with strangers, so I pretty much have nothing to worry about. But I knew that it was high time I'd gotten tested, and I tend to be on the worrisome side of life and I think about it all the God damn time, usually followed by a cold sweat and hand shaking. So when my hottie Asian asked, I timidly accepted.

Imagine the needle on my panic radar when I found out that the day that I am supposed to get my results, today, is World AIDS Day.

I crapped my pants.
I CRAAAAAAAAPPED MY PAAAAAAAAAAANTS.

At around 11AM my worry got the better of me and I called the office. "Hi, I was supposed to get my results today, I was just wondering if they were in yet."

Dead silence, the kind that's the audible equivalent of a cold hard stare.

"Last name? Yeah, your results are in, but only a doctor can read them to you. Hottie Huang will have to call you personally." (You bitch, bitch, you stupid fucking bitch. Whore, whore, bitch, whore, I hate you, stupid slut bitch.)

"OK, could you just let her know that I am shitting my pants and to call me back as soon as possible?"

"Uh huh." Click. (Stupid whore bitch whore.)

Followed by the most excrutiating five hours of my mother humping LIFE. Is it really necessary to make people wait with baited anticipation? Seriously. If she's not going to call me back right away, just LIE to me and tell me that they're not in yet, rather than letting me think that she's taking her sweet ass time because she's bracing herself to give me some really awful news and trying to find her herpes pamphlets. How hard is that, you fucking cunt of a receptionist? Needless to say, the beautiful Dr. Huang called me today, and in her lilting voice like swan song confirmed what I already knew, which is that not only am I STD-free, my cholesterol is extremely low and my urine is the cleanest she has tested in months. With that stamp of a clean bill of health, I hung up the phone and immediately started bawling with relief (like a bitch).

The point is this: now that my uncontrollable crying and twitching has subsided, the sense of disarm and peace of mind I feel is truly unparallel. I am so so so excited to sleep like a baby tonight, not tossing and turning at the hands of my restless mind. People, please. PLEASE. For the love of God. It's World AIDS Day, and this year's theme just happens to be "Accountability." HIV and AIDS are no longer a death sentence if treated, and it is your responsibility to stop the spread if at all possible. Please go get tested. Seriously. Take it from me - the relief you will feel is absolutely positively priceless. Please, with a cherry on top. Thanks.

HIV Test Site Locator for the U.S.
LabSafe - International Mail-in Testing
Worldwide Testing Resources

MySpace Loser of the Day

Please kill yourself.

I'm sorry, it's not that the research department is lazy this week, it's just that I can't stand this pompous colostomy bag. Oooh, look how tough I am. My girlfriend is holding a gun to my face while Kevin Powell busily clicks away in a Hollywood Hills studio. I must be tough, you gotta be tough to get a ridiculous facial tattoo to that would get me fucking killed after 25 minutes in Bushwick. It's the only way I could think of to distract people from my bioconvex bulldog forehead.

But guess what. Before he was The Game, he was J.T. Morgan and he was getting DUMPED BY HIS GIRLFRIEND ON NATIONAL TELEVISION!!!! A haaaaaa ha ha ha haaaaaaa!!!

Find Attica

...Looking unflattering somewhere in here. (Hint: not naked.)

Get ready to pee pants......... NOW.

First, to appease you for no postey long time, here is your MySpace Loser of the Day. Enjoy.

I only hit her because she makes me
Honorable mention: look at his first photo/caption


Secondly, I have a wonderful surprise recipe for you all.

1 part the genius of Joe Carnahan
1 part Ari Gold on massive amounts of crystal methamphetamine
1 part desolate, depressing Las Vegas dry-hump landscape
2 parts miscast stars of hip-hop
1 part Ben Affleck with carnival man-stache and
leatherdaddy accessories
5 parts glorious violence with a healthy helping of gore
1 part greatest Mötorhead song of all time
3 parts booze-fueled sociopathos
2 parts aging character actors playing according to type
4 parts armament
1 part total dreamboat Ryan Reynolds
Attention deficit disorder (to taste)

I beg your pardon. What is this the recipe for, you ask? Only the greatest movie of this decade. Well, I wouldn't know per se as it has yet to be released, but holy shit. I mean, did you watch the trailer? HOLY. SHIT.

If Bill Clinton Was My Dad...

... my heart would be in perma-coronary arrest from the pride about to burst forth from my chest. (I would also be an amorphic chinless wonder in sensible shoes.) Suuuuuuuuuuuuure, he did his best Peter Finch in "Network" on a public news broadcast. Well, I guess you could call it news, it is Fox & Friends. But isn't that maybe what this country needs? Someone to go on a shut-the-fuck-up type tangent and lose it on national air? Someone to point out to the reds in a language only they understand what a mockery our administration is?

I tried to post a clip of the video here, but Faux News is deleting them from You Tube at lightning speed. Sorry folks, you'll have to settle for the bradcast from their official website. Enjoy.

We're a Bunch of Pussies

Holy Shit.

I've been so out of it at work the last two weeks that I've taken to poking around MySpace looking for the world's biggest loser. So far, this kid is winning. He's a Christian, has a Peter Pan complex (literally), thinks he's The Crow, works at Disneyland, quotes in Latin, and has anime as his background. Jackpot. I may keep the search up and keep you all posted.

Ahahaha hahahahaha hahaha

Comfort Zones and Newfound Devotions, Pt. 1

During my little respite there, I had the grave misfortune of being forced into a trip to America's Playground, Las Vegas. In spite of the six dollar ATM fees, complete lack of smoking laws, temperatures rivaling those of Hades, uncontrolled tourist traffic (in sweaty herds of drunken conventioneers), and at every turn, boundless seas of gigantic asses perched on high chairs pissing their hard-earned moneys directly into ravenous slot machines, I tried to maintain high spirits. I'd never been there, but I'd heard tales of magnanimous all-you-can-eat buffets, whiskey-fueled partying, strippers, and the idea of walking through the hallowed grounds where the likes of the Rat Pack once convened for similar activities had a certain edged appeal. Whatever.

I should have known better. The harbingers of things to come greeted me at the airport. Seriously, what the fuck happened to the idea of jet-setting? When I was little, my mom used to put together her travel toilette the night before a flight, and it always involved heels and makeup and dashingly tied printed scarves and impeccable sets of Samsonite luggage. Apparently, I missed the memo from the airline letting me know that it was Asshole Day at Delta and that I should dress accordingly.

This guy was the first offender. Yup, you guessed it, it's the Illigitimate Son. Actually, all the benchmarks are there; the oversized clothes, the Chinatown sneakers, the gold chayun fresh out of the nickel presser assembly line coupled with other assorted gold-plated man jewelry of course, the blue-red-white-black power combo, and the oversized sunglasses to hide the look of pained longing in his fatherless eye. But whatever, I figure - we're in the Bronx, he's probably just assorted remnant New York City trash. This guy sexually harrasses me on the subway every day, no biggie.

But then this piece of shit shows up. You know, the Left Coast has it's own brand of very specific asshole that never shows up on our side of town, probably because we consider them to be, you know... homosexuals. The difference between him and the assorted NYC dicks is the fact that he actually pours countless hours of grooming and probably fair amounts of cash into looking THIS GAY. Guys in Vegas have this certain slimey, smarmy, shiny quality that's so much more repellent than the overt forwardness I'm used to - at least that's honest. These guys try to impress you by making themselves look good - which is so gross to watch and even grosser to listen to. If you were there, you would know that this guy a) was on the phone very loudly booking reservations for his VERY IMPORTANT CLIENTS at SPAGO and it has to be for TONIGHT, YOU GOT IT? He flies in at EIGHT SHARP and if it gets FUCKED UP he'll FUCKING KILL SOMEONE; b) was wearing a subtly open-weaved jersey that just hinted at his professionally tanned six pack abs and color-coordinated boxer shorts; c) had on one of those obnoxious fucking Ed Hardy trucker hats with the rhinestones on it; d) was basically faking the funk of a VIP even though his frat tattoos penciled him a complete fraud. Disgusting.

And then there was this. I mean, are you fucking serious?!?!? Can't you just see them making out lists of "Dad Colleges" and "Kid Colleges," and then cross-referencing them to make a Venn Diagram that would eventually become this trip? And Mom having to sit there the entire time even though she'd rather be doing the dishes, but she has to be in the same room because the kid is still attached to her by the umbillical cord? Do you realize that this poor bastard has never even had a girl in his room at their moderate two-story home in Long Island? And that if by some grace of God he actually gets to go away to college, he'll have to commute from his Aunt Alexis and Uncle Rich's house in Reno? And he's more than mildly embarrassed by his sweet matching Little Lord Fauntleroy suit there, and all this agression will one day come pouring out when he's hate-fucking his wife well into their third year of marriage.

But Vegas itself...
As soon as we stepped off the plane, we were greeted by Arctic temperatures and a heavy stench of stagnant cigarette smoke. And the din. OH MY GOD, THE DIN. For some reason, all slot machines are tuned to some note in the key of B flat major, so that at any time all the slots accord to create this otherworldly, constant, CONSTANT chord that is in perfect tune but sounds like mind-numbing, never ending dissonance. It's the creepiest, and it sort of follows you around everywhere you go, because this is a trend throughout all the hotels and casinos and your sleep for the duration of your stay. Then, you step outside to get a taxi to your hotel that's half a mile away (price tag: somewhere in the $30 range), just to realize that the sub-zero temps inside are orchestrated by what must be the world's biggest air-conditioning unit. Since my friends are considerate and booked the reservations at a moderately swanky hotel, we expected that our temporary digs would provide at least a moderate deviation. Oh no. You walk into the lobby, and smack in the middle of the floor, stretching in every which direction, POW! Slot machines! Poker tables! Craps games! Freezing cold and the stench! And the din! THE DIN EVERYWHERE!!!

Comfort Zones and Newfound Devotions, Pt. 2

And the nightlife was no different. I was rudely led to believe (thank a pantsful, MTV) that Vegas is glamorous and sophisticated once behind the velvet ropes. But no. Do you know who was waiting in the same lines, shilling out the same outragous cover charge as everyone else?

Your dental hygienist. She has decided that she is tired of being single, and that tonight she is 'really going to let her hair down' and 'party until dawn with her ladies,' Her Ladies being...

Your other dental hygienist with the gut like the rear of a slab-sided Buick...

...And the two portly sisters that work at the bank, the one on the left being The Fatter But Prettier One and the one on the right being The Smart One Who Smells Oddly of Fungus. As you can tell, they are also letting their hair down tonight, because the fatty is wearing a color that doesn't occur in nature and enough makeup to camouflage the entire Khmer Rouge, and the Smartypants is wearing sparkles and decided to leave her bra at home today.

The good news is that once within the club, my dear friend Lindsay and I were lucky enough to stumble upon the only bartender in the joint who was from New York (okay, he wasn't hard to find, black button down, sideburns, studious eyeglasses), who sensed our despair and introduced us to a very special drink. It's basically four parts vodka, one part sweet vermouth, and one part olive juice - like a bastard martini of sorts. Mind you, it's far from delicious, but it's not exactly offensive - tastes kinda like ocean water. The brilliant part is that the about 95% booze is virtually undetectable, and if you have three of them in rapid succession, Vegas starts to become a pretty fun place, and you're compelled to do things like drag your friends to take pictures of you in front of the Flamingo so you can be like Dennis Farina in Crime Story, and even allow completely random black teenagers to jump into cadence with you.

Comfort Zones and Newfound Devotions, Pt. 3

I'd be amiss to say that I don't love travelling, and that it's not totally awesome to see new places. However, as a freshly-baked American, I think my first step into subliminization is shaping up to be settling into a comfortable disdain for my fellow countrymen and women. I've seen a number of new places in my new land over the course of this year, and each has dealt me a fresh, disappointing blow in the face of my already difficult and self-deprecating reach toward patriotism. Point is this: upon each new return home (and as much as I do complain about it), this is the sight that fills me with a mountingly tremendous sense of relief.

So to you, New York, I say thank you. For being my home away from home away from home. For being a microcosm of civility and esoteric hermeticism. For being so vast in such a small space. And to all your boys and girls who put in such an effort every day to make the city even better looking.

And thank you to my friends. Not only the ones who made the trip to Vegas absolutely bearable, but all of you who have been so supportive during a difficult time. Thank you.



And most of all, most importantly... To my new friend the Bastard Martini.
Thanks for helping in Vegas, and let's definitely stay in touch.

My endless love,
Attica.

From the Bottom of My Heart.

Thank you.

Everyone who's called, everyone who's checked up on me, the random strangers that have e-mailed me with well-wishes (that I had no idea read this thing), boys, girls, family, weirdos, Canberrans, thank you. Truly. I am so touched.

Big one. Back to normal.
Tomorrow.
Okay?

Big love.
Attica.

Sorry, Dudes.

Hi Nikki et al,

I'm sorry about the delay again. I have been going through some personal/familial issues in the last coupla weeks and haven't really had the funny in me. Please know that, as usual, I appreciate your readership, and I will be back in good spirits and blogging away very very soon. Just gotta take care of some stuff real quick. Don't stop loving me.

Because I love you.
Attica

This Week's Kill List.

1) The thousand misspellings of the word girl. "Gurl?" "Grrlllllll?!?" It's GIRL, stupid! No amount of bastardization of the English language will empower your womanhood! You don't make yourself seem any stronger, more secure with being a womyn, or closer to breaking the glass ceiling. You just look like you are barely writing at a second grade level. Jeeeeesus!
2) Saying 'itch' instead of 'scratch.' Aaaah, the most infuriating linguistic pet peeve ever. You need to itch your foot, do you? You need to actually cause your foot to have a distressing tingling sensation? Are you a masochist? Stupid.
3) Cab driver liar liar pants on fires. And by that, and this is a New York specific thing, I mean cabbies that simultaneously turn on their idle middle light and their 'Off Duty' light, then stop when you're hailing, thus making you miss other passing cabs that are legitimately for hire, and don't let you in until you tell them exactly where you're going - and double hex points go to the ones that say "no" and drive away because they'd have to drop you off three blocks out of the way from the most direct route to the taxi depot in Queens. Thanks for making me wait another ten minutes on the off chance you might make another four bucks and no tip, you douche.
4) Subway pervs. And disturbingly enough, this is a phenomenon that is veeery common. Case in point: last Wednesday I was on a very crowded F train heading home after a very long work day. As usual, I am standing in the doorway and leaning against it with my side - I don't like the middle of the train because you have to hold onto a railing of some sort and I'm a crazy germophobe. Okay, maybe not a germophobe like my mom or anything, but I prefer not to sweep the cellular skin rubbish of hobos and children with my bare hands. Aaaaaaanyway, the doorway is a danger zone in and of itself because it tends to be the most crowded, so there's lots of surface touching between travelers. On this particular day, I had the misfortune of standing scrunched next to a particularly malodorous Hispanic man. (No, not the Elderly Puertorican - this guy had more of a drunk, paint-spattered migrant day-laborer kind of vibe going on.) As I'm standing there, I realize that the guy is kinda rubbing up against my leg a little. Gross, right? So I shift into the spare inch of space between me and the other person I'm sandwiched against, and move away from smelly hand-for-hire. A few seconds later, he's right back in there, sidling up to my thigh, rubbing up, rub rub rub. Rub rub rub rub. This time I give him a dirty look, and he just smiles lecherously. So I bury my stiletto into his toes and he stops and turns into a corner. Fine. But then... As I'm exiting the train, he turns to me and full on exposes the fact that his fly is unzipped, and there's just a tiny bit of exposed hairy flesh, and I realize that he was beating off in the corner the entire time. And the sad thing is, this type of shit happens EVERY DAY. I hate you, perverts.
5) The phone call. Hey, Unemployed Friend. Once and for all, when you call me at work and say, "Soooo..... What are you doing?" Answer: MY JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOB!!!
6) Proud bloggers. More particularly, people who are open, even public about it, call themselves bloggers, hell, I even saw a guy the other day wearing a Blogspot t-shirt with the word blogger in big letter proudly splayed across the chest. These people fill me with mild guilt, furor, some homocidal tendencies, and general anathema and confusion. I don't like it when I feel that way.
7) SNM soccer. Dear Serbia and Montenegrin soccer team: one day soon, your whole family's gonna die. Have a good trip home, fuckers.
8) Jared Leto. Once upon a time, Jared Leto was a dreamboat actor whose seminal character Jordan Catalano loomed like a Titan in my nocturnal fantasies. Today, Jared Leto is a pretentious douchebag actor-musician who wears a ton of eyeliner and creates sub-par pop dribble as the frontman of his vanity project 30 Seconds to Mars. When he's not hanging out at cool industry parties or fucking starlets or doing massive lines of blow off of the toilet lid or shopping with his stylist for just the right ironically trendy hoodie-attached-to-a-button-down-attached-to-a-blazer, he's probably a furious masturbator and I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he was addicted to Everquest. Or gay porn. Or gummi bears. (Oooooh, gummi bears...)

The Ides of June.

I'm not really sure what's happening to my life. I think God hates me big time. Which is monumentally unfair, considering that aside from the cussing and the drinking and the premarital extracurriculars and the occasional harmless theft I'm actually a really good person. I figured the mid-mid-life crisis was enough punishment for all the things I've done, but the powers that be have decided to put Attica to the tests this week.

I went to the beach for my first Fourth of July as an American (which I hated more than my Fourth of Julys as a furrner), and when I returned, I was blown away by the number of things that had gone horribly, horribly wrong without any participation by yours truly. I found out that one of my best friends has betrayed me awesomely, for no apparent reason. As I was reeling from the shock of that one, I got a voicemail (a VOICEMAIL!!!) from work letting me know that they are reshuffling things yet again, and that I'll be losing the only part of my job that allows me to actually be creative (insert barrel of gun into mouth here). And if that wasn't enough, another one of my best friends, unrelated to the first, basically never wants to speak to me again. And guess what. THERE'S MORE. LOTS. Nothing I can reveal without compromising identities, but it was just as much of a multi-level scrotum-squeezer, rest assured.

It's ironic, because I put a lot of effort into avoiding the cunty pitfalls of being a girl - all that back-stabbey gossipy nonsense - and yet.... and YET.... What a mess I've made of things.

I am resolving to straighten my life out by the end of the summer. New job, functional relationships only, remove all toxic friends from life, stop being so damn trusting, fewer alcohol units, go to gym, clean room and self on a regular basis.

P.S. I was right about the 25 conundrum. Check it out. ABC News: The Quarterlife Crisis

Never Again. But Really This Time.

This is what nightclubbing in Nashville looks like. Awkward, overweight rednecks whose dance moves resemble epileptic seisures, impressing pearl-earringed buffies who perpetually wear white. Probably rightfully so, I shudder to think.

When he realizes that the vestal virgin probably won't budge, he just moves on to the slutty drunk chick in the American Eagle tank top who's busted so many moves tonight her pits are drenched with sweat. By the way, the girl sitting next to them in the paisley skirt kept flashing our table crotch shots full of fur. I wish I'd captured it on film.

And of course, you can imagine what a relief it was to know that even in the reds, Jersey was still reprezentin'. Kinda made it feel like home. It's not a nightclub without a douchebag meathead with a ubiquitous Kangol on his giant cueball noggin, smoking Parliament Lights. Plaid pants are a good look for you, Dom, or Vic, or Sal, or whatever the fuck your name is.





But thank God for Billy. Would you just look at that punnam? Would you look at that face? How could anyone ever be mad at this guy?!? "Billy, I know you effed my girlfriend and a stripper that you paid for with the money you stole out of my wallet at the same time, and I know that you ate all my really good leftovers, and I also know it was you that ordered countless hours of porn to my Pay-Per-View... But I forgive you, man. Let's go get a beer." To which Billy would giggle and say, "Eeeeys-howl."

Guess the Scavenger Hunt Ended in One Fell Swoop.

So, you're Attica, and you're walking home from the garment district. You're taking 7th Ave., your least favorite route, because there's a police roadblock. As you pass Fuse Studios, you realize that..... Holy crap..... Wait..... They're ALL THERE! Seriously, click on the picture! There's the Puertorican, actually spending quality time with his Illegitimate Son! There are the Day Traders, trying to blend in their casual apres-work attire! And G-Unit! Oh my GOD, G-UNIT!!!! There's like ten of them, all salivating and rubbing their privates through their oversized jean pockets! And there's the leering overweight Italian looking at something like it was a big sweaty veal parmesan marinara stromboli with extra veal and parmesan! And some horny Asians thrown in there, and a whole bunch of white businessmen trying not to look turned on, it's like a virtual smorgasbord of dirty, filthy pervs!!!! And you're Attica, and you're thinking.... Wait.... 6/6/06 was a few days ago. Was the Devil too busy, and is now smiting us with the End of Days like, a week late?!? I MEAN, WHAT THE FUCK?!?

And You're All...

"What could possibly be causing my summer photo project to end early? What kind of insane promotion have the Fuse folks cooked up that would cause this kind of furious predatory mass staring contest?"

And then I was like, "Oh."

Dagger!

I can't seem to find the little cord that connects my digital camera friend to my computer. Which is a dagger and a half because yesterday I had the BEST PHOTO OP of all time. I promise to hunt breathlessly tonight and hopefully have a gem for you all tomorrow. It's great.

Happy Apocalypse Day, everyone!

Don't die!

For Chrissake, Grow Some Dignity.

Sometimes I'll wake up late and rush out of the house and forget half of the contents of my handbag in various corners of my room, most often my music, wallet, and self-respect. Today was one of those mornings. And on these mornings, when I have nary an iPod nor a book to amuse myself with during the commute, I play this little game. At every stop, I pick the hottest girl in my particular coupe, and then smile at her and see what happens. Usually the results are hilarious, and it's usually pretty easy to spot my target since the late-morning shlep tends to ship only the downtrodden masses. Well, this morning was probably easiest of all, unfortunately I didn't even get to play because I spent the whole ride being a completely unwilling observer as a fourty-something Jewish woman with wiry hair and a blubbery waddle plucked hairs off of her chin with a pair of tweezers, until she got off at 42nd Street, in plain view of about thirty people. Without a care in the world. She just sat there, with her tongue in her cheek, like when you're trying to mimic a blowjob to your friends, feeling for strays with one hand and annihilating with the other. It was the grossest, most disturbing rubbernecking of my entire life.

Ugh. Bitch made me lose my favorite game. For good.
Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh (shudder).

Mid-Mid Life Crisis

I think I'm having one.
I don't usually get serious on this thing, so just bear with me, OK?

Is anyone else going through this or am I the lone asshole (aaays-howl) having trouble reconciling my life?

Everything is pretty OK, all things considered. I mean, I don't have dental insurance, but aside from that everything is alright. But it seems like everything that's been happening lately has been blowing my mind to such a degree that I'm having trouble waking up in the morning. And I'm not even talking about things on any kind of a grand scale, I mean it's not like Apocalypse-is-coming type shit. It's more like.... Okay, yesterday I came to the realization that I worked a nine-to-six job. Not unusual, mind you, or anything that I didn't aready know, but then it hit me. And it's not like I sit around doing sweet TPS reports all day or anything, I have a creative job in a creative field, I sit around playing with clothes and drawing and listening to death metal all day. But still. I have to show up before 10 or risk a lecturing. And I can't leave before 6. And the realization of that fact was so staggering that it made it really difficult to get out of bed all of last week. It just feels like... medicority. I mean, is it just me? If I just start drinking more will it be better?

Is anyone else going through this?

And it's not just work. It's work, it's friendships, realtionships, family, it all just kind of feels like work. I went home to my parents' house last weekend, and being sheltered in this tiny protective bubble in which there's always food on the table and my mom does my laundry without me even having to ask, it was so easy and such a relief. Don't get me wrong, I don't for one second forget why I left in the first place. But this is the alternative. Which begs the question... Is there another? I feel like I've been asleep for the last six months. Every once in a while there'll be these little pockets of adrenaline that will make me jolt and remember that at one point in life it was always lively and fun, and now it's just... stilted. And long and boring. It's not any kind of a relief that I feel like I've become a total bummer, and that this persistently shitty mood that I've lodged into is affecting other people. I am hoping that this is just what happens when people realize that they're entering the twilight of their youth. So is it just me?

OK, this is all too weighty. Here's a picture of Vlade and Kelly Bundy to brighten everyone's mood.

I promise I won't do this again. From now on we are going back to nothing but poop talk and pictures of homeless people. Okay? Thanks for reading.

Boy, Is My Face Red.

I'm sorry, everyone. I went away to the reds again. Chulo was supposed to let everyone know, but he's been so swamped with planning my jet-setting for the year that he totally dropped the ball. He has been reprimanded severely and placed on employment probation. Watch your ass, Chulo. In the impasse, I've received an overwhelming number of e-mails asking me what the hell the deal was, and how you all thought I was back on track with the blog writing, and all of that. I'd just like to say for the record that I thought about three people total read this thing, and that if I'd known I was disappointing quite so many people my dilligence would have been on an upswing, so please accept my sincerest apologies and gratitude for your patronage.

Highlights from Nashville:
1) Something that I will refer to as 'titties in my face.'
2) The discovery of a little known local gastrological gem called 'Frito Pie.' They open a bag of Fritos and stuff it with melted cheese and deep fried ground beef and a ton of black bean chili (the gross cheap Hormel kind out of a can), and then shake it all up, pour it into a cardboard boat, and serve it to you with a spork. You can get a Frito Pie, a Beast and a cheesewurst (brats stuffed with American) for less than four bucks. Granted, you have to go into a sketchy alley full of dudes to get it, but TOTALLY worth the momentary fear of the unknown.
3) Billy. Billy is a young man (about 350 lbs.) with the sweetest disposition and manners. I met him outside the Frito Pie place at two in the morning and he offered to be my Southern gentleman protector for the evening. He said he wanted to save me from all the 'assholes' in his lazy drawl. The second that word came out of his mouth, I knew we were friends for life. I made him say it about ten times that night. "Aaaaaeys-hooowl."
4) Listening to Gordon Gee, the Mormon chancellor of Vanderbilt University, lecture about 5,000 God-fearing red-staters about the merits of the morning-after pill in a keynote address. If I had a dime for every 'ooh' and 'aah' and innapropriate I overheard during the speech, I would probably make enough to supply blow to the set of The O.C. for at least two seasons.

Have pics, will post soon.
I think this will be my last trip to the South.
Damn, it feels good to be home.

Dear Diary...

I've been drinking.
Heavily.

Happy Saturday, everyone!

Love,
Atticus

Sex(ual Harrasment) and the City.

Fuck you, douchebags.

I'll be the first to admit that every once in a while, like, say, on a very hot day, my boobies are a little on display, and while the harrasment is never deserved, and I don't agree, let's say... I understand. (Insert Chris Rock clip: "Now, I'm not saying I'd ever hit a bitch... But I'll shake the shit out of one.") But on a day like today, when I'm buttoned into a wool coat from throat to mid-calf, there is absolutely no reason for me to get catcalled at. I'm terrified at the prospect of the impending summer heat, when I'll stop wearing jackets and the hemlines will go up, and it's just gonna be, eh... Pandemonium.

Now, God loves the women of New York. He's given them career goals and their own incomes and shapely legs and college educations and amazing wardrobes (with personal styles to boot) and sprinkled them with book smarts and amazing powers of deduction. So you would think that the men would take it upon themselves to not necessarily admire, but at least respect these women in turn. But no. Oooooh, no. It is (I think) actually impossible to walk more than five blocks without at least one heebee-jeebee inducing incident, no matter what part of town you're in.

In New York the sexual predators actually fit very neatly into a few categories. I'm making it a priority this summer to photographically offer evidentiary support of the existence of each particular type of douche that troubles the women of this city. It's on.

THE ELDERLY PUERTORICAN
Found in: alley behind the bar, stoop in Brooklyn, Puertorican Day Parade
If you could draw a cartoon of what a Nuyorican Puertorican would look like, and you added about 20 years and a short stint with methamphetamines, he would be this guy. He wears a two-tone doorag (no hat) and has the Reeboks with the embroidered little Puertorican flags on them. He also has a little flask of Ruble inside a paper bag sitting in his jacket pocket. And he leers in the kind of way that makes you start walking faster. It's not even worth yelling at this guy because it will just make him more aggresive.

THE ELDERLY PUERTORICAN'S ILLEGITIMATE PUERTORICAN SON
Found in: seat across your on subway, smoking in front of Lincoln Tech at lunch
He's still not old enough to drink, but that's all he talks about doing because (duh) he doesn't have a dad. He bought his Jesus piece on Canal Street (it's nickel with plastic rhinestones in it - he didn't spring for the CZ because it was an extra $20, and he wanted to spend that on the fake Rolex). All his clothes are a generous three sizes too big - he wears the t-shirts that look like dresses. He loves anything with a picture of Al Pacino as Tony Montana on it, and especially covets his best friend's leather jacket with the black/white Scarface poster on the back in whiteout. Like the dad he never met, he also has a two-tone doorag, but he uses it to matte down a frizzy ponytail over which he wears a baseball hat that has all the stickers and tags still on it. He doesn't actually have the balls to approach a woman, so when you walk past he utters, "God bless you, Ma" under his breath. He's staring directly at your ass as you walk away. These guys are easy to spot because they wear red, white, blue and black almost exclusively.

THE DRUNKEN DAY TRADER
Found in: Hiro at 3 AM, Lower East Side on Saturday night
While he's the most kempt, he's also the most dangerous, because his very important day job gives him an inspired sense of virility - probably why about 35% of his sexual encounters qualify as date rape. The good news is that he only comes out at night, so chances are good that you'll have about five guy friends around who are drunk enough to give this guy a beatdown if your honor needs defending. When he's in hunting mode, he looks like a toned-down version of a BNT import: ton of gel, diagonally-striped dress shirt (collar pop optional), a smart pair of slacks, and the same shiny pair of Gucci loafers that he's been replacing since his mom bought them for him for Christmas in 1995.

G-UNIT
Found in: selling own CD in Union Square, buying Swisher Sweets at the bodega
While this guy has probably actually shot someone before, he's not nearly as threatening because he's used to a different brand of woman (the kind that will scream bloody rape and/or sue you for child support). Like the young Puertorican, he's a mutterer, but while the young Puertorican will try to appeal to your sweeter side with his God bless yous and Have a nice day Mas, G-Unit will straight up tell you that that ass look good in them pants. You may think it's sexual harrasment, but to him it's 'holla-ing.' He won't mess with you if you tell him to back off, although he will call you a nasty ho and then (duh) mutter into oblivion. He's got the kind of menacing stare that looks at you, looks you up and down, then looks through you and inside you, and knows exactly what you look like naked. Do not make eye contact with this guy, or you'll be taking Crying Game showers for a week.

I Fucking Hate Your Mom.

She was in front of me at the grocery store yesterday, wearing her favorite Conway-issue green velour jumpsuit. The clingy fabric outlined every ripple in her cellulite, only made worse over the years by the birthing of you and the rest of the fatherless bastard gang. Worst of all was the fraudulent logo emblazoned across her backside, which quivered and palpitated like a pair of dueling bowls of Jell-o with each thunderous step and made me want to lose 20 pounds immediately. She was arranging her fat into a leisurely pace when she saw me heading for the checkout, and promptly quickened to a gravity-defying canter so that she could get in line before me and avoid having to wait the 45 seconds it would take to ring up my pack of gum and US Weekly. To tell you the truth, I could have gotten there before her, but I have a shade of respect for the disabled.

Clearly this was more exercise than your mom had gotten since the last time she was able to see her feet without sitting (roughly 1992), and a gross ring of sweat had lodged itself on her brow. She didn't bother wiping it away since reaching for her forehead places an unnatural tension on her arm chub. She puffed and started unloading her shit as I exchanged an uncomfortable glance with the Korean shop owner guy.

I had to wait for five minutes for your mom to get her shit together enough to place about five mega-caloric items on the counter, and another five while she produced a wallet that she had to wade through her monstrous blubbery thighs to find. And another five still while she heaved the bag down and actually rotated her hippopotamic person enough to be able to head for the door by following a straight line.

It made me want to take her picture and show it to little boys so they know what hell awaits them if they don't peer pressure their future wives into a ten-year eating disorder.

Dude, fuck you and fuck your mom.

Back!

After a lengthy recovery and many return trips to the pharmacy, I am heading back toward the world of the living. Sorry for delaying.

So half of the inside of my face is missing. Sounds like I'm deformed, but no. I am even prettier now than I was before, if you can imagine that. Well, it's not missing, per se, as much as it has been removed from my person. And yes, I did ask if I could keep the things they took out right before I went under the knife. At that point the anesthisiologist was well into doing his thing, and I only remember hearing the following words: "hygienic," "illegal," "suit," and then there was darkness. And then I woke up and my visage was covered in bandages. My head's turning radius was small, granted, but I'm pretty sure I managed to scan the entire receiving room, with nary a test tube nor Petri dish nor Mason jar with my organs in it in sight. I'm pretty sure everything went the way of the bio-hazard pail. Sorry folks. Pretty much everything from then until a few days ago was a fuzzy Vicodin haze. Yes, I have leftovers. No, you can't.

Oh, I do remember performing a bit of home surgery around Day 14, and again at Day 25. Took out my own stitches, the latter time in a particularly mucuous fleshy bit. Note to readers: swallowing large quantities of own blood will lead to a stomachache no amount of Tums will cure.

The hours were many to pass, and only in the confines of my tiny New York apartment, so there won't be many pictures to share. I did, however, manage to snap this for my brethren in loofahing. It's OK, Fist. It's gonna be OK.

It's Gonna Be OK.

Dearest readers,

Attica has asked me to inform you all that the blog is down while she is recuperating from undergoing a medical intervention. She is OK. You shouldn't worry, it's routine stuff. She is currently on bedrest and heavily sedated, so large amounts of pain withstanding she's doing pretty damn good. She apologizes for the lull and hopes to return to all of you soon. She also swears to attempt to retain ownership of all things that are surgically removed from her person, and photograph and display them here for your amusement. Thanks again for your continued support.

With regards,
Chulo
Morality Carwash Liaison of International Affairs

R.I.P. Harold.

The nicest man in showbusiness.

You can contribute to the Harold
Hunter memorial fund here. The
proceeds after final expenses will
go toward skate camps for kids
and recovery programs.

My Hero.

This is what all people from my country look like.
Like sweaty gypsies with guns who are PARTYING.

More Mariah Hateration

OK, so at this point it's not a big secret that Mariah Carey is a little bit of a nutjob (diva demands and terrible wardrobe choices aside). But apparently so are her fans. There is a fanatical group of Mariah fans calling themselves Team Lamb (shouldn't it be Team Butterfly or something?) who are calling for all Mariah lovers to bomb the new Madonna album on websites and "unite to lower her sales." (Ridiculous.) Now don't get me wrong, I think Madonna is a dusty cougar who's past her prime, but Mariah's newfound hip hop princess doing her best Jenna Jameson impression persona is like the weirdest spectacle I've seen in a long time. This from their super secret website:


1/20/06
Madonna is going to appear at the Grammy’s to perform her already flop single, “Sorry.” Her purpose on being there is to take the spotlight away from the true Queen of Pop, Mariah. We will be gathering at a secret location that day (please email us to get involved). We will harass all of Madonna’s fans who are awaiting for her arrival on the red carpet. We also know one of the producers of the show, who has something in store for her during her “Sorry” performance.

Craig Goes to Cielo.

And he leaves his monkey suit behind in the crash pad. Because Craig is a MAN.

Never Again.

I think I've corrected my Internet and bandwidth woes once and for all. No more long dramatic pauses, I swear.

Do Not See This Movie.

Why? Because it is complete and utter horseshit. For starters, the damn thing is exactly 58 minutes long, which, for my money, qualifies it to be a short film. I first read about it last week, and it seemed to have all the trappings of a fine cinematic experience: a director I respect. An interesting plotline. A creepy, truistic toy factory trailer. Best of all, it's based on a real story, and the casting director went to the actual town and casted the film from the local townspeople. (It shows.) But be warned, my friends, high brow cinema it is not. The pace is excrutiating, so much so that at one point I started picking at a scab on my hand to keep myself from falling asleep. The shtick is fascinating at first, but it becomes so tedious about 15 minutes into it (which is, luckily, already a quarter of the movie) and the story is so erratic and uninteresting that I spent the entire time wondering how soon I would get to go pee and what I was going to wear to work tomorrow. Awful. Just absolutely awful. You know, I saw Alexander, and until last night that was the worst movie ever made, but even Alexander had some redeeming qualities (gratuitous bloodshed, homoerotic tension, Rosario Dawson boobies). But this piece of sweaty turd takes the cake, and I defy the directors of the world to top it. I'd really like to know what kind of goofballs Soderbergh was on when he decided that this was a good idea. Fucking horseshit. We went to ask for our money back afterward, and the girl at the counter without any protest just handed over two free tickets and said, "you should really call Magnolia Films and complain." Then she slipped me a box of Jujubes under the counter.

Awful.

Oh Mah Gaaaaawd! Ya're From Noo Yawk Ceetee?

Dearest readers,

Attica (a.k.a. Chin-gina) will be departing New York this afternoon to visit with friends in the red states. She has asked me to relay that she has packed her camera and will provide visuals upon her return. She has also requested that the readership be assured that they will not need to worry for her safety while she is traveling to enemy territory - fear of Democrats runs deep in the cold, cold blood of the natives there.

Thanks for your patronage as usual.
Have a nice weekend.

Regards,
Chulo
Morality Carwash Liaison of International Affairs

Famous!

I'm going to get Horace Andy and Dawn Penn to do a crazy collabo. I can't really think of anything better existing in life, ever.

What I Love This Week

1) Russian Fashion Week. As if routine executions, communism and embezzlement weren't enough, those motherfuckers just keep proving that they do everything right. Fuck! Not only did their designers put American designers to shame, to SHAME, do you know what they passed out as swag? Disposable cameras with shots of 'models backstage' (read: bucket ass nekkid) as starter pics already on there, brownies imported by UPS from American bakeries (no joke) and cigarettes. One designer had his models wear cock-head masks (the bird, pervert) and fight each other on the runway. Jesus. It's like a hedonistic Donatella Versace paradise over there.
2) Terrell Owens. He is what my 6 year old cousin would refer to as a dumb-dumb. As if pooping his career in San Francisco wasn't enough, and decimating his Philly career on top of that, now that he's suspended he won't stop talking shit. I think that him and Dennis Rodman and Ron Artest and Marv Alberts should start a Special People Club and have weekly meetings somewhere in a treehouse in Minnesota with a publicist. And the best part is that after each infraction he realizes what he did, and then he's like, "Oops! Do over!" My favorite T.O. quotes this week:
"I'll watch the highlights every now and then, but as far as watching the game, I don't need to, because I feel like I am the game."
"At the end of the day, I don't have to worry about what people think of me, whether they hate me or not. People hated on Jesus. They threw stones on him and tried to kill him, so how can I complain or worry about what people think?"
"I feel like a basketball player in a football uniform."
"Like my boys tell me, if it looks like a rat, and it smells like a rat, by golly, it is a rat." (Referring to a rumor that teammate Jeff Garcia is gay)
"To be honest, I think I'm a little better than Randy Moss. OK, a lot better."
"I'm probably not as bad of a guy as I've been reported to be. I'm not that jerk."
3) Googling James Braunstein. Oh, you don't know who that is? Oh, OHKAY. He's the guy that dressed up like a fireman on Halloween night, set a stairwell fire in a hot girl's apartment building, knocked on her door pretending to be the FDNY, knocked her out, and then had fun rapey time with her for 13 hours straight. http://www.nydailynews.com/front/story/362631p-308896c.html I love how the entire city was up in arms about how it was probably a gang member or a scary Mexican sex offender. Then it turns out that the guy is a white-bred Berkeley graduate, a playwright, a published author, and an upstanding member of the Upper West Side Jewish community. And then everyone was like, ".............................oh." If they ever nail this guy, and I hope to God that they do, I think they should let the girl he raped have a go at him for 13 hours straight. And then they should ship him off to our friends in Russia for routine torture.
4) The boys of Canberra. Hello, boys. We are doing fine over here.
5) Jihad Couture. There was a seminar held at the Nordstrom in my old hometown last weekend for 'women of modesty.' According to the good folks at the department store, Muslim women should show their flair for fashion by covering their heads with Hermes scarves and Yves Saint Laurent kidskin gloves (for a good Muslim shows no wrists). Pretty awesome, considering the burqa is supposed to be the modern day equivalent of an all-consuming potato sack. Fuck.
http://www.eveinblack.com/
http://www.femmesarabes.ca/
http://www.arabesque-hc.com/active/aw0474a.htm

I don't know about all of you. I'm moving to Russia.

The Only Thing That Would Have Improved It Would Have Been an Appearance By Motley Crue...

... and maybe a hooker or two or five. I mean, it had everything. Way way waaaaaaaaaaay too much drinking. Really slutty lip gloss. Unscrupulous old men hooking up with girls damn near half their age (I mean it). Memory lapses. A model. Attractive young men wearing ties. Attractive young men who'd blown through an allowance's worth of cocaine. The closing down of a bar (times two). Really sexually forward Eastern European young ladies. And of course...




... what would a jubilee be without a trip to the emergency room?


That's me. Yours truly, right there. Attica in the flesh (the exposed inside out flesh).

OK.
This is a little hard to talk about.







OK.








I had a sexy dream about Nick Cannon.









I don't know why or how it happened, but it happened. And I don't remember many of the particulars (there was a car, we talked about my mom, and then jungle fever ensued). All I know is that I woke up in a cold sweat with an incorrigible crush and then I Netflixed 'Drumline.' And I've spent my entire Saturday looking for reruns of Wylin' Out on TV Guide Online.

Seriously, what's next? The Apocalypse?!?

Something's... Wrong.

This would be the greatest website ever if I could shut up that nagging voice in the back of my head that says, "Wait... Isn't Kelly Osbourne a fat little piggy in real life?"

http://www.paperdollheaven.com/dolls/kellyosbourne.145.php

Parts Unknown.

Dearest readers,

Attica will be enjoying a much needed mental health break in the upcoming days. She has departed for an undisclosed tropical location and will return after a short stay. Providing an offer of marriage by a local is not placed on the vocational table.

Thanks as usual for your kind patronage.

Warmest regards,
Chulo
Morality Carwash Liaison of International Affairs

Help Me Decide How To Spend My New Money.

And don't ask where it came from, just know that it's there.
Please bear in mind that activities are contingent on both my need to stay employed and the necessity of acknowledging my serious lack of vacation time.


Your options are:

a) Paying off my massive accruement of student loans.
b) Paying off my massive accruement of credit card debt.
c) Hiring Motley Crue to play my 25th birthday party (it's on a Friday and there will be cake).
d) Microwaving a kitten, followed by the successful concealment of evidence by persons other than myself (hush money alloted for)
e) One really serious BBQ.

I am open to other suggestions... But not really.

Nashville Welcomes You!

Let's start with the airport because it certainly does a good job of setting the mood for the rest of my trip. I took a gander at the Meditation Room, and there were actually sluggish Christians kowtowing at a giant cross on the wall. Terrifying.

Thanks for the info, Cap. I guess I'd better take my AK-47 out of the brown paper bag I was planning on transporting it across state lines in.

Groceries in Nashville Are Just Funnier Than Elsewhere.

If you're from the Northeast, it'll remind you of your childhood and what you used to call your friends. (Aside: I really like jam.)

I'm not sure if this is racist or just hilarious (given it's Nashville, probably both).

Taylor Has the Best Sex Eyes.

And a sweet fuckin' rack too. And that d-bag sitting next to her is trying to flag down a waiter, when what he should be doing is trying to find a way to chain her to the wall, because this is the luckiest night of his life and he has no idea.

Look at the Girl. Would You Look at the Girl?

She wasn't even trying to look this way, the sex just spontaneously erupted all over my camera.

In the Hot Tub. Poppin' Buh-ba-lee.

Click on picture to read funny twist cap caption.

This is the kind of champagne I imagine being served on the sets of Fat Joe videos. I know it looks like whiskey, but that's just the artificial peach flavor and a little F&D Red 40.
(Sorry it took me so long to post. The trip ended in a hazy blur followed up by a 14-hour car trip back to the blue states and a lot of puking.)