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).