Friday, December 25, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Jimmy: Why hasn't Richard Alpert taken his shirt off yet?
Tim: It's been, like, three seasons!
Jimmy: That's a disgrace. I'm sick of seeing Sawyer's tired leather pecs.
Tim: Why isn't this guy on the cover of every magazine created by humans?
Jimmy: Because his name is Nestor maybe?
Tim: If he's married I'm gonna barf.
Jimmy: Oh! He's got a whole DVD special feature dedicated to him!
Tim: He better f**king take his shirt off in it.
Jimmy: I wanna see bush.
Tim: I did a Google image search of him and there isn't a single shirtless picture. That means none exist.
Jimmy: I bet [our friend] Brian has one.
Tim: F**king call him!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Tim: Wait, why did they go back to the island again?
Jimmy: So the other people won't die.
Tim: And why are they gonna die again?
Jimmy: Because of the island.
Tim: But how?
Jimmy: Because of the island.
Tim: You don't know, do you?
Jimmy: Who cares?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Hoo, boy, this Williamsburg Hasidic Jew-Hipster Cyclist turf war is the culture clash of our time, and it has something for everyone (or at least two types of people). Do you hate hipsters who ride bikes? Also, do you kinda hate Hasidic Jews? Congratulations! You now have more reasons to do so.
Further, do you really hate hipsters who ride bikes? Do you like to conjure false and hackneyed equivalencies between the two "religions" represented by this epic struggle? And is your name Tunku Varadarajan? Well, then, you should certainly type up a column and upload it to Tina Brown's online kitchen-sink clearinghouse of cloying claptrap The Daily Beast, because you are obviously a deeply thinking human.
Here's a condensed version of the hot war currently being waged: Williamsburg Hasids recently prevailed on the city of New York to remove the bike lane on Bedford Avenue for safety and religious reasons: not only did the lanes make a narrow street even narrower for cars, but the presence of young ladies on bicycles in various states of undress was rendering some Hasids unable to read their holy book while also driving a minivan because of boobs and such. Then a few Williamsburg bike riders cheekily repainted the lane one night and then got arrested.
Here's how Master Sensei Tunku lays out the case against bikers:
Cyclists . . . pursue a form of zealotry of their own. They have quasi-religious garments (Day-Glo jackets), they follow austere codes of discipline (exercise and low fat), they think they know the one and true way (cycling), and they demand special treatment for the Church of Lycra (bike lanes). Also, they trail a frightful whiff of sweat in their wake. (But the same can be observed, sometimes, on a sweltering summer’s day, of those who dress as if for a winter in Vilna.) More broadly, is it entirely surprising that respect for a religious community is often a challenge to hipsters who have been raised outside any religious tradition?
Ugh, has there ever been a more tortured effort at equating two sides in a debate? Yeah, and he also says that many cyclists "are eco-bombastic crusaders with an ungovernable contempt for non-cycling scum." (Mr. Varadarajan, I do indeed have contempt for you, but not because you don't ride a bicycle.)
As airtight as Tunku's logic is, I must point out the tiniest of gaping holes in it: some people who ride bikes actually aren't hipsters—even in crusty, crunchy, skinny-jeaned Williamsburg and its best gay friend Greenpoint (where I live)! I know this goes against Tunku's science, but it's true. And many people ride bikes simply because they prefer to commute that way, not because they are smug, dirty hippies who calculate their carbon footprint every evening before alphabetizing their Kashi cereal boxes.
Let's get something straight: bicyclists are often assholes. I say this as a bicyclist. At least once a day I see a fellow cyclist do something really irritating and dangerous. I myself have no doubt done things that are irritating and dangerous. One reason bicyclists are assholes is because people are constantly trying to kill them, even when they aren't doing things that are irritating and dangerous. If you've ever biked in this city you are familiar with the intense and naked hatred many drivers around you feel toward you. But whatever, I'm perfectly fine being called an asshole. But don't you dare call me a hippy.
I don't bike to save the Earth. I don't bike to feel superior to others. I sure as hell don't bike to show off my body's way with lycra or day-glo jackets, neither of which I've ever worn.
Here's why I bike: so I don't have to pay for a monthly MTA card, so I don't have to ride the terrible L train, and so I can start my day by having a good 45-minute workout before sitting down at a computer for 8-9 goddamn hours.
I don't give a crap if you drive a Prius, a BMW, or a freaking Hummer. As long as you don't hit me with it.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The famous Hello Kitty-Kewpie Doll rivalry has obviously gone off the rails. Kewpie, the more sinister of the two beloved cute-zilla monsters, is now upping the ante, enlisting the help of emotionally unbalanced but available fans to do its dirty work, as seen in the chilling image above of a Kewpie coterie in Tokyo hypnotizing a devoted follower with mesmeric chants of demonic and adorable evil.
This Kitty-Kewpie meow-fight is like Itchy and Scratchy multiplied by Bette Davis/Joan Crawford to the power of Sarah Palin/Katie Couric.
And Kewpie is obviously taking its cues from Ms. Palin.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
I wish I could say I'm surprised, but my cat Stella has a reputation around our neighborhood for getting wet 'n wild while we're not at home.
What did shock and sadden me, though, was the vast array of things she let Tiger do to her during their hookups: scratch her under the neck, for example. Kiss her on her wet nose. Cuddle with her in the bed. Squeeze her paws until she rasps. Feed her catnip from his buttcrack. These types of activities that all cat owners have a special and exclusive right to. Are no bonds sacred?!
Baby Jesus, please don't let there be a sex tape.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
As you know, a handful of clever Republicans recently declared a hunger strike to protest Obama's socialist agenda for America and the Middle East. They stood on the Capitol steps and vowed to not eat a single crumb until Obama had solved Iraq, Afghanistan, the deficit, the mortgage crisis, unemployment, and pig AIDS without hurting small businesses. But though they were smugly confident that the White House would not let them starve, they are probably giving their whole approach to policy making a rethink. Because, see, they now have not eaten in weeks, and no one--not one single person--has offered them as much as a Hot Pocket for their troubles. Perhaps they should have organized a sit-in at the congressional cafeteria instead? (They have Freedom Fries.) Eric Cantor is starving!
Senator James Inhofe (left) looks terrible but Kay Bailey Hutchison (right) looks worse.
Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh said they could not participate in the strike because they had just ordered a big tub of cheese fries when it was announced and anyway, they're just entertainers.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Oh, this video is terrible. And by that I mean awful. Eurovision, the annual Eurotrash song contest that gave ABBA its first taste of success in the 1970s, never disappoints in the "sequined and/or vested hilarity" department, and this year's winner, Norway's Alexander Rybak, is no exception. He's sure cute (for a fiddler), but he can't really sing and words can't really express how hideous this song is. Even by Eurovision standards this is appalling. By which I mean, obviously, that it's awesome.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Well, this is disappointing to say the least. Listen up, New York gays. I know you're down in the dumps about marriage equality being voted down by an otherwise completely unproductive state senate, but think of it this way: at least those tedious zombies in Albany don't (openly) wish to put us to death, yay!
If you believe in the "doth protest too much" theory of gay leanings (so to speak), then naturally you're under the impression that the entire country of Uganda is just chock full of self-hating homos. That's sad, but who cares about them? What about the Ugandan homos who have the nerve to NOT hate themselves (like this fella)? Well, if this bill is passed, they will be thrown in jail for life or maybe put to death, who knows?
Worse, y'all: This bill has broad support among the Ugandan public. And it affects more than just gays. If you know a gay and don't tell the authorities, you are guilty, so fess up queer-lover.
Worser, y'all: three noted American evangelicals who are active in the ex-gay movement (so to speak) are tied up in this mess. Read this.
Worser still, y'all: Rick Warren, the smug author of The Purpose-Driven Life that all of our mothers love and who has strong ties to Uganda's evangelical community, has refused to denounce this terrible bill, saying "The fundamental dignity of every person, our right to be free, and the freedom to make moral choices are gifts endowed by God, our creator. However, it is not my personal calling as a pastor in America to comment or interfere in the political process of other nations."
So basically, Rick Warren believes in the fundamental dignity of every person but doesn't want to speak out against dignified gays being killed by their government because that would be meddling. Hmmm. I wonder how he felt about the "political process" known as apartheid in South Africa in the '80s. Do you think he felt comfortable speaking out against that? And how about honor killings in the Muslim world? Does he not want to choose sides in that civilized debate?
In conclusion, Rick Warren is a hog and Uganda has forever forfeited its claim to my sexy gay tourist dollars, so there.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
It's so sad when good ribbons go bad. I remember when the pink breast cancer awareness ribbon attacked that orphanage in Cairo a few years back. When will we as a culture realize that it's a moral imperative that we provide these overworked awareness ribbons with the support they need before they snap and go nuts at a train station in Beijing?
Someone really needs to do something before a lonely and desperate Livestrong bracelet blows up a wedding in Tucson.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tim: So, you looking forward to Levi Johnston's spread?
Jimmy: Whose spread?
Tim: Levi Johnston, Sarah Palin's grandbabydaddy's Playgirl spread.
Jimmy: Oh that idiot.
Tim: Jimmy! He's an important political figure!
Jimmy: For who?
Tim: For schadenfreude lovers!
Jimmy: Who's Schadenfreude?
Tim: But don't you think this is hilariously embarrassing for Sarah Palin?! Aren't you just hungry for more dirt from him?! Don't you want him to have his own show?! Don't you see in him the downfall of her political future and the security of our republic?! [heaving, heavy breathing, coughing] Don't you?!!
Jimmy: He's probably nasty down there.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Who among us sexual humans with beating hearts did not buckle at the sight of this movie poster when we stumbled out of the L train one night and felt a surge of respect for gay film marketing consultants pierce through our vodka buzz?
"My sweet Lord," I remember thinking. "Jake Gylenhaal is just ravenous for his brother Toby MacGuire's awesome hot butt cheeks." I also remember thinking, "What's Natalie Portman doing in this picture?"
Yes, leave it to Natalie Portman to totally ruin a perfectly good homo-neurotic movie poster with her buttinsky ways. Why is she interfering with what is surely the best doomed twink love story poster since Querelle or, at the very least, Brother Trouble (link NSFW!!)?
I'm not letting Natalie ruin another exquisite moment in the history of cinema postering. It's too late for Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium to be redeemed by my expert Photoshopping skills, but it's not too late for Brothers.
I therefore present to you the only Brothers movie poster I will hereafter recognize as legitimate:
Saturday, November 21, 2009
I shed real human tears of joy watching this. Not the sexy kind that happen when you're jerking off, but still, real tears. Now you try not to cry, like a little girl.
Friday, November 20, 2009
In a most delightful way.
About Sarah Palin, a fan says:
There is something about that woman that has destiny, whether it's in politics, to be president, or to host a talk show.
Ok, it's fine if she's president, but don't give this woman a talk show!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Folks, if you've followed the Sarah Palin saga at all over the past 100 years, you'll know that conservative/libertarian blogger and avowed homosexual of the "bear" variety Andrew Sullivan of the Atlantic is obsessed with her and all of her provable lies. Many people find him off-puttingly monomaniacal about it, but I don't, because I myself am obsessed with her and the cult surrounding her, not to mention the fact that she tells a fib every time she exhales. So I really enjoy all of his posts about her and, honestly, wish he would bitch it up a little.
Yes, Andrew Sullivan is pissed, and not just at Sarah. In fact, mainly at John McCain, whose fault she is. And he's been dedicated to keeping a close tally of all of her falsehoods for easy reference ever since she was tapped for VP before crashing and burning last November. Things went quiet after all of the postmortem stuff and, except for when there was further idiocy to report on (her resignation last July, her cancelation of speaking engagements at the last minute, Levi!), Sully was able to return to his other hobby horses, like pushing for marriage equality, reaming the Bush administration over torture, and, of course, praising the Pet Shop Boys. But things started ramping up last week when the pub date of Palin's dumb book started approaching like a runaway station wagon with only three wheels.
There were Palin blog posts galore, yay! I couldn't get enough. Sully and I were soul mates, going down a road of complete and utter psychotic fixation, and we would not. Be. Denied.
Then, yesterday, his blog went silent after he posted a "mental health break" video of Lady Gaga doing some weird Lady Gaga shit at 4:37pm. I refreshed and refreshed and refreshed, hour after hour after hour, and nothing. Just a Lady Gaga video, still. I thought, quite reasonably, that Lady Gaga had killed his blog somehow. (She's got powers.) But then, today at 11:44am, Sully posted a message "To Our Readers" explaining the silence: he and his staff have been reading Going Rogue, poor things. Money quote:
We have had the book for less than a day. We feel we owe it to you to get it right - or as right as we can - until we post or publish anything. As readers know, we also differ on some key issues and intend to air them and thrash this out until we are confident that whatever we publish is as fair as possible.
At some point, we will also go back and make sure we have not missed all the evidence of the other lies that Palin is now peddling. We won't miss anything. But we ask for your patience.
There is a possibility here of such a huge scandal that we would be crazy not to take our time either to debunk it or move it forward for further examination.
We have only one commitment: to get this right. Please bear with us as we do the best we can.
In a follow-up post later today, he assured his readers that he would be back tomorrow, posting as normal.
Ok, Sully. You have been officially indulged. I'm with you on all of this, even though people across the Internet--all across the Internet, Andrew!--are calling you crazy, unhinged, and a pig f**ker. But I'm standing by you. We're in this together, even though I'm not doing anything.
But this better be good.
He's back, and still obsessed, yay! Tell it to the haters, daddy!
Papa lays it out.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
And now for something completely boring: inflatable flesh-sack and winner of the 2004 Pulitzer Prize for Smelling of Balls Karl Rove, George W. Bush's official underwear sniffer and political strategist (in that order!) is writing a book. It's title? No, it's not Sodomy: A Primer. It's even more unlikely: Courage and Consequence. These two words, of course, lose all of their meaning when typed into a computer by a demonic clown like Rove, so beware: many many many words will completely lose their meanings for us humans when this Fantasia of Fistulas is released next March. We will have to get by by talking through our buttholes, the way Karl Rove has taught us.
(Hey hippies: think of the trees that will give their lives to bring this book to print. Now cry.)
This book will not be fact checked because who gives a shit?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Good news, fans of the cuniculus undead: rat-faced troll Rudy Giuliani is doing the media rounds (well, the Fox media round) to complain about the Obama administration's plans to hold New York trials for the 9/11 conspirators. You'll be shocked to find out that after the World Trade Center Bombing in 1993, he held a completely different view! Watch this Daily Show clip, for proof:
|The Daily Show With Jon Stewart||Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c|
|Law & Order: KSM|
But that's not the biggest Giuliani news. SeeTimBlog can now confirm that the former NYC mayor's rodent-like face, oily outer coat, and long serpentine tail are making the above Great Horned Owl from Texas extremely hungry.
After seeing Giuliani's verminous face on Fox News, the owl was heard remarking to himself in the trees "God, I feel like I haven't eaten in freaking months after seeing that delicious piece of hell trash."
The owl went on to say that he hadn't seen "such a good looking plate of weasel relish since the '08 Republican presidential primary."
After being pressed, the owl did admit that it's their complete lack of self awareness that makes Republicans more tasty.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The world gets just a little bit sexier today with the release of The Divine Miss Sarah's soft-core porn odyssey through the swampy Id of American retardation. It's going to be like Heart of Darkness crossed with the down-home humor of one of those "Hang on 'Til Friday" posters, blended with the analytical public policy sophistication of the back of a cereal box, and then sprinkled generously with demonic possession. If that doesn't add up to "best seller" then book publishing really is dead.
Oh, and the catfight of the century is currently being waged between Sarah and blogger Andrew Sullivan, so you'll be wanting to check his site every five minutes or so to see get bloodletting updates.
I haven't been this excited since I happened upon Carrie Prejean's hairdresser at that piano bar/glory hole in Vegas.
Friday, November 13, 2009
An exciting day it is today. This is the very last Friday we real Americans will ever have to live in a world without a book by Sarah Palin. As you no doubt remember, this blog ran the very first interview with Sarah Palin after she was tapped to be John McCain's Vanna White last year. This was a watershed moment in blog journalism (blourgalism) and was the last good interview she gave.
You are probably already very familiar with the cover of her book (above) and the provocative title, Last-Chance Lust, not to mention all the lame parody titles (Lust-Chance Last? Chest-Lust Bust? Come on, liberal media, you can do better than that. Those don't even make sense!)
This book will be released Tuesday and will obviously be on the shortlist for the Booker Prize, the Caldecott Medal, and the John Deere Book of the Month Club. Fingers crossed, Palin will follow up her Oprah interview on Monday with another sit-down with yours truly, at Grant's Tomb, in the cafe. Come on, Sarah! I'll bring the condoms and biscuits! I'll also be happy to supply you with a copy of the questions I'll be asking ahead of time, so your trusty spokescomic Megan Stapleton can read them to you.
hat tip: Hilary @ Publish and Be Damned for the book cover research
Thursday, November 12, 2009
You know how when you see a big blond train wreck full of blood and guts and lipgloss and confetti you just can't look away? Because it is just so dazzling? Well that big blond train wreck, professional former pageant walker and fake boob display case Carrie Prejean, visited Larry King last night and set CNN ablaze with cagey bitchiness. Larry King is the talk show host known for never asking a question more probing than "And how was your day?" but Carrie obviously thinks that this is an inappropriate question, because why is Larry King such a victimizer?
Well Carrie is having none of this, so she takes her microphone off and starts chatting to an imaginary friend off camera. But like any child of God, she can't bring herself to just stand up and leave, because then how would she be filmed? And how will she spread her message of Christian sex tapes? So she just sits there and whines without a microphone but refuses to go away. Shouldn't a lady with a French last name be more sophisticated?
Carrie Prejean is totally ready to be our next vice president.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
I've just come upon a web technology that will change the way we communicate. It's called Xtranormal, and, if you're a writer, you can use it to give voice to all that idiotic typing you do all day only to be told by Random House "who are you and what are doing hiding in the mail room with the company dildo?"
Now, instead of writing short stories, submitting them to tediously negative and cowardly literary journals and such, and dealing with the requisite nasty emails from them saying to stop harassing them and stop submitting stories that they don't think are even written in English, we "writers" can offer the world our unpublished stories, in an audiovisual dimension, without the obnoxious and repressive standards that the gatekeepers in the literary world impose upon us.
As such, I present to you a story,"Boy Inadvertent," that I entered in Opium Magazine's "500-word Memoir" contest last spring only to be cruelly and utterly ignored, not even receiving a "thank you for submitting" or even a " this piece of shit blew, so thanks but no."
This powerful story of my life would never be heard from again it seemed. But then: Xtranormal. Thank you, Internet.
Y'all, it's been a while since I've posted on Siouxsie Sioux, my fairy godmother. Maybe it's the recent Halloween festivities that brought me back in touch with my love of eyeliner and lipstick, but I've been missing her. She helped me through my awkward teenage years and actually taught me how to give really good head to a vampire, so obviously I'm in her eternal debt.
Siouxsie, where's that next solo album, huh? Hurry up.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
You guys, it's not often I get serious on this blog, but I'm fixin' to get ready to be serious. My dad, Don Anderson—born in California, raised in Jamestown, NY and Rome, GA, and then settled in Gulfport, MS and then Raleigh, NC to raise a family—has Alzheimer's disease, and he and my mom were recently featured on Raleigh, NC's local WRAL newscast in a segment about dealing with the disease. They both look so awesome! He's got his trusty dog "Lillybit" that he carries with him everywhere (and who just mistrusts the hell out of me for some reason; it's ok, I don't trust her either). The work they've done on the house really looks great and there's a picture of my Aunt Gerry behind mom looking like a giant meringue in that hat, the way God intended.
There's also a gratuitous family photo in which I'm so obviously the gay son it's not even funny.
Dad, you look great on TV. And even better on the Internet.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Have you folks received this hysterical (in ALL senses of the word) email forward yet from all y'alls momz? About how a guy in Dutchland built a replica of Noah's Ark according to the building specifications that God laid out in the scriptures? Dutch Creationist Johan Huibers apparently built this flotation device "as a testament to his faith in the literal truth of the Bible." That's great for him and for all Christians, because now they have proof that the measurements laid out by God are structurally sound.
Now all Johan needs to do is gather together two of the same species of EVERY ANIMAL ON THE PLANET and tuck them away in their bunks in his new ark, take some pictures (no Photoshopping), and all of our religious doubts will be vaporized once and for all. Then we can all lose our shit and start talking to burning bushes, taking up residence in the bellies of whales, and, most fun of all, blaming women for eating apples and thereby forcing us to feel bad about walking around naked. Then we can start dealing with the muslins.
Is this guy friends with Sarah Palin on Facebook yet?
All I know is, Johan has definitely strengthened my belief in the Biblical truth of red sweaters and hot porn 'staches.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
TRUE! Sleepy. Very very sleepy I have been and am. But why would you say that I am mad, or whatever? 'Twas me, like a baby, in my loft bed aslumber yesterday morn, dreaming of doves, of cupcakes, and of Abercrombie and Fitch models, when what should steal away from me these pleasant sleepful visions in the dark early morning but the maddening crash of a maniacal organ, carried upon the wisps of a shivering October breeze, from somewhere in the grim outside world and delivered unto me as I struggled to remain behind the veil of sleep in my downy divan.
(Clicketh the clicky below to experience the unChristian sound that thrust me into wakefulness and caused my cat Stella to dig her tender talons into my eyebrows. Then continue reading)
What is this infernal sound mocking my heavy eyelids and sending my cat into convulsions of medieval scratching? It is the soundtrack to a child's nightmare. A particularly unimaginative child, for who has not heard this particular organ racket a million times in television commercials during the All Hallows' Eve season? TRUE! BUT! It is an altogether different sensation when one is resting comfortably in a cotton candy cocoon and one's eardrums are suddenly raped mightily by the dirge of doom.
Now this may be the point where you fancy me mad, or at least way too sensitive to noise, but I tell you I knew once the organ entered its second minute that its source was a place of unspeakable evil.
"That fucking school is fucking obnoxious!" my male companion lamented as he stomped through the dormitory half-naked and seething, opening drawers in the kitchen and closing them violently just to muffle the sound of the dreadful musical monstrosity seeping through our walls and into our dark and bitter souls.
Yes, it was the elementary school right behind us. The devil's own playground.
The vampiric utterings of the undead organ continued, and I submitted to its breathless noise my little silver Kodak machine, for as to capture some of its sinister rambling. Herewith, listen, and foreso:
'Twas a full hour later, and the fiendish death moan of the elementary school organ continued. I ate my toast while covering both ears! And still the diabolical dervish of noise seeped through my frozen fingers to molest my eardrums anew, with a ferocious vigor. TRUE! And NOT COOL!
With a pounding, putrid head and a palpitating heart, I dressed myself as best I could--for a gentleman must not forget to put on his pantaloons and pinafore, no matter how little sleep he's had. I grabbed my manpurse--for that is what it is called--and escaped the maddening dungeon of my dormitory, stumbling down the steps to the street four flights below.
If you still think me mad, you will do well to hear me out: outside my building and on the early morning avenue the infernal organ was louder and even more demonic than it had been previous to this, its meandering melody searching the air for virginal ears to violate with its frenzied harmonics and hellhound screeching. (BOTH!)
Rounding the corner, I finally came face to face with the wicked wreck of humanity that had inspired such a malevolent morning of frenzied phantasmic organ grinding (courtesy of a powerful sound system blasting the obscene noise): yes, it was elementary school children. Dressed in costumes designed by the devil himself. Lining up outside their school to receive candy treats from the PTA or some bullshit. They were diabolically adorable.
Look into their baleful eyes and tell me you do not hear the obscene, depraved hissing of a hideous and poisonous serpent of death.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Folks, it's not often that I recommend taking a trip to New Jersey, but the Loew's Jersey Theater certainly makes it worth your while. The Loew's Jersey theater is a classic cinema in Jersey City (where?) currently undergoing refurbishment by a team of cinemaphile volunteers, and it always has a great lineup of classic movies to go see on a rainy weekend. Plus, cheap popcorn, sodas, candy, and a pipe organ. And it's right near the Journal Square Path station, so you don't have to spend too much time in New Jersey.
This weekend they celebrated Halloween early with screenings of Carrie on Friday and Rosemary's Baby on Saturday. Jimmy and I went to see Carrie because we love movies with prominent prom scenes.
As you probably know, Carrie depicts the sad story of poor Sissy Spacek, a young high school girl who is tormented by her bitchy classmates, her terrible fundamentalist mother, and her period (not necessarily in that order). It's sometimes a hard movie to watch, what with all of the emotional agony and gym clothes, but thankfully at the end our hero Carrie gets to kiss Andrew McCarthy while an OMD song plays on the loudspeakers, and then a bucket of blood falls on Duckie (he likes it). Sadly, we never find out what happens to James Spader, but Amy Irving is scarred for life.
The pipe organ is the instrument of choice for New Jersey vampires.
Bunch of zombies in the lobby.
Invisible zombies up top.
Zombie/vampire candy machine.
Don't fucking touch this organ.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
As you all know, I am dedicated to covering male gymnastics wherever they happen, anywhere in the world. If there are gentlemen writhing around in golden undergear somewhere, I'll spread the word.
Male gymnastics sure do happen in the new video by El Perro del Mar, "Change of Heart." This is exactly the kind of entertainment I was hoping to get for my Sweet 16 Party 20 some-odd years ago. Maybe these guys can perform at my 40th?
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Every year on my birthday my parents call me up and sing happy birthday to me. This year I decided not to answer the phone so I could get the recording on my voicemail. It's a show stopper, and inspired me to assemble some photos and put together a short video in celebration of myself. (It only took 4 photos to adequately celebrate myself.)
Friday, October 16, 2009
You remember when you were a kid and you spent countless nights awake for hours in a cold sweat, laying in your bed, listening to the approaching footsteps of the maniacal, murderous escaped circus clown who is about to knock lightly on your door before letting himself in and eating you with cutlery that he brought himself? Those were the days, no?
If you were anything like me as an impressionable, spooked child, your mom was constantly giving you terrible clowns as presents--dolls, framed pictures, figurines--because she felt you didn't have enough horrifying neuroses to occupy yourself with and really wanted to give you one that would stick with you. WELL GUESS WHAT, MOM!!! I STILL SHIVER WHEN I SEE A RINGLING BROS. ADVERTISEMENT!!!
Ahem. Anyway, I love clowns, as you all do. And while searching around today for that hot "2 clowns 1 cup" viral video i heard about on Twatter, I came upon clownz.com, a fun site with pages like Clowns in the News, Fun with Clowns (clown-themed humor), Stories from You, and my favorite, Threatening Letters, where I found this week's candidate for Epistle of the Week, in which a certain clown-sympathizer has taken umbrage at the site's celebration of the horrorfication of the once-respected and not-at-all creepy figure of the clown. Here's a taste:
My name is Jim Ray. While searching the internet for links to clowning-related pages, I was confonted with your page, and to say the least, I was extremely offended by your website... Now WAIT--before you go off and take this as a complete complaint, I want you to know that I KNOW you have (1) the right to expression, and (2) the right, frankly, to not like clowns. But literally thousands of children DO like clowns, and search for the word "Clowns" every day. While you do have the right to expression, you do not have the right slanderize the entire clowning industry, nor any particular "clown" therein.
This guy is pissed, and for good reason. Clowns are the last minority it's okay to hate. (Except for fags and fatties.) It's the civil rights issue of our generation. And I think the movement has found its leader.
One day soon the phrase "clown f*cker" will be a compliment.
Friday, October 9, 2009
You know how brunch on a Sunday sometimes lasts a really long time and you have a few drinks and then a few more and then end up in a hookah bar in the East Village and then someone gets out their camera? The above picture of my friends Mike and Ruth (taken by friend Desiree), is a shining example of the magic that can happen.
Now, I don't know from photography or photography awards, but shouldn't this get Desiree next year's Nobel Peace Prize?
Nikki Finke, abrasive and temperamental Hollywood journalist stereotype, is profiled in this week's New Yorker, and she does not disappoint. Though she disappointingly doesn't speak in all caps as far as I can tell, she does say things like this (keeping in mind she's a jew!):
"I used to say, and I meant this in a nice way, that my mother should have been a Nazi interrogator."
Finke should charge money for this kind of stuff. She gave it to the New Yorker for free!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
People, the killjoy lefty media is at it again, attacking our freedoms for their own ideological satisfaction. The Daily Beast's Sean Macaulay has written the most ridiculous opinion piece in the history of Internet jernalizm and it must be called out for its lies, damn lies, distortions, falsities, misrepresentations, deceit, untruths, and fabrications.
In his hit piece on the world's greatest ever invention, the Speedo, Macauley argues that the time has come for a ban on "offensively small bathing suits". I....I can't even relate to that statement. Is this Macauley character even human? What language is he typing? Where is his birth certificate?
Certainly Macauley has a point about the frightening and dangerous possibilities inherent in allowing someone like Rod Stewart or Carson Kressley access to the mighty weanie-bender, beloved by everyone with a pulse. That is because Speedos are not made for men such as Rod and Carson. They are made for men such as David Beckam, Ricky Martin, and some guy named Justin Gaston that I just found out about by reading this awful article.
If you just ban the Speedo outright, you may be saving yourself from having your eyeballs melt to your face at the sight of Arnold Schwarzenegger or Giorgio Armani or George Hamilton or Jack Nicholson in a sagging pair of colored underwear; but you also face the real, and much more chilling, possibility of never being able to witness this guy, this guy, or these guys in the blissful state of undress God intended them to maintain all day, every day, for eternity. This is not only a loss for us as individuals. It is a loss for us as Americans. A tragic compromising of our very humanity that I, for one, cannot countenance.
If we have to live in a world without the Speedo, the terrorists have already won.
Monday, October 5, 2009
You guys, this is just plain lazy. Manish Arora, a designer from India whose first name is a useful adjective, couldn't even be bothered to put actual patterns on
You know how you're completely devoid of any artistic talent whatsoever and then you go to an art show and you're all like "shit, I could do better than that motherf**king bullshit"? Well, this is kind of the same thing. Just show up at a Paris show with some hobo rags and your best slide projector, find an electrical outlet, and proceed to show the world your best shots of Brazil, Coney Island, or wherever you went last summer, projecting them onto some grandma panties you found in a trash can on the corner of Broadway and Houston. Then voila! You're a designer with vision.
In conclusion, the above photograph is a visual representation of the creative process behind Sarah Palin's new memoir.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
One reason that I'm a famous concert pianist and not just some dumb anonymous blogger is because I can play "Chariots of Fire" on a giant piano with my feet. Why it's taken me so long to get a show in midtown Manhattan doing this is a mystery, but thankfully FAO Shwartz offered me a 20-second slot on their Tuesday afternoon line-up, so suck it, Beethoven.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
"Remember, boys, if you're going to wear a tank top in Chelsea, make sure it's by 2(x)ist. And don't forget that any baseball hats you wear should be cocked to the side and pointed slightly skyward so that you can look at least 10 years younger."
Friday, September 25, 2009
Well it's official, I have a new secret girlfriend (sorry, Rachel Maddow!). And a new favorite foreign lady (sorry, new First Lady of Japan!).
As you may know, former teen star and current tedious evangelical dingbat Kirk Cameron has a new project he's really excited about which will officially debunk Darwin's theory of evolution by using a new edition of the book itself to "prove" his point ("the call is coming from inside the house" approach) If you've even seen one of Kirk Cameron's dumb youtubes, you know that he needs to be slapped and hard. Here's a notable one in which Cameron passes over the Crazy Reins to Ray Comfort (porn name?) so that he can explain how the banana proves that God
Anyway, this woman Christina in Romania is having none of Kirk Cameron's foolishness about the whole evolution thing, and she really deserves to win "Romania's Got Talent" for this 5-minute video she made of Kirk being a dumbass. At the very least she needs to be declared the new first lady of something (bananas?). There are lots of videos on her youtube channel that I will spend the weekend watching while sunbathing naked and flipping through the latest issue of Charles Darwin Unzipped.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
There is almost nothing to complain about with this movie poster. It has everything. A tortured choirboy. His mother the whore, who couldn't even be bothered to get dressed for the photo shoot. A blond wig, styled in a bob. And the tagline: "In spite of everything, she's still your mom." (But why isn't "still" in italics?!) How did this movie not set the world ablaze with its breathless and writhing family politics of a sexual nature? Please tell me this didn't go straight to DVD, because if a Hollywood studio can't find an audience for this smut then someone is not doing his job.
The bottom line is, America needs to see this movie. It will heal so many wounds.
And I'm not even going to go into what I was Googling when I came upon this photo. It would reflect badly on me.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tim: So what are you gonna do on your day off tomorrow?
Jimmy: [moves right hand in the universal hand signal for 'jerk off']
Tim: I see. And what will you do after that?
Jimmy: [sensuously moves index and middle finger in a graceful, back-and-forth motion and twists his wrists slightly, performing the universal hand signal for 'double digit penetration']
Tim: Hmm. Ok, and after that?
Jimmy: [takes the same index and middle finger and wipes them both on his shorts once, twice, three times]
Have fun, Jimmy! (Wash your hands.)
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Even though my mom and dad don't read this blog--in fact, they've never been told it exists because it would lower their opinion of me beyond all repair--that shouldn't stop me from sending them greetings and much love on this, their
Aren't they freaking adorable?
Friday, September 18, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
You know, sometimes you've just got to go somewhere and be gay. Am I right? You've just got to do it. No matter how immersed you are in the straight world in your everyday life--working fully clothed? No Siouxsie or Madonna in the office? No bumps in the bathroom at brunch? No brunch?!--in the after-hours time period, it is occasionally necessary to go out somewhere in your neighborhood and just be a f*cking fag, you know what I mean?
Sure, not every gay has it in him to do this kind of thing day in day out. It's exhausting. But make no mistake, every gay has it in him to fag out at least once a month. It's why Kanye West freaks out at award shows (he may or may not be gay, but he's a total fag) or why Elton John suddenly wants to adopt a Ukranian baby, or why conservative columnist/blogger/author Andrew Sullivan posts Pet Shop Boys videos on his blog in between high-minded diatribes about cap and trade and deficit spending. He can't help it, because he's a big old fag. It's also why someone like me goes out one day and just stone cold joins a gym in Chelsea that features a live DJ who spins under the name Honey Dijon. These things sometimes happen when you're gay, y'all.
So it was in this spirit of gay necessity that Jimmy and I twirled on down to Sugarland, Brooklyn's second gay bar (there are two now), where they were having a birthday party for an 80-something-year-old drag queen ("Grandma"), hosted by our friend Brian, aka Lady Electrify. On a Sunday night, no less. I brought my real camera, because I knew my camera phone wouldn't be able to withstand the onslaught.
This photo should win a Pulitzer for cultural commentary. That Hitler stache is powerful. It's too bad Michael hadn't put on his red armband featuring a wire hanger. That could have qualified us for a Peabody, for the journalism.
Jimmy trying to butch it up with help from a Brooklyn lager.
Backup dancers backing it up.
This pic for some reason reminds me of the haunted house ride at the NC State Fair.
Jimmy getting Electrified.
I was kind of offended that Brian didn't ask me to be one of his backup dancers, but on reflection I realized my awesome nipples might be too distracting.
But you know what's really gay? When you try to capture a short video of your friend doing a drag number and your camera starts all of a sudden shrieking about low batteries. This is what happened to me, folks, and it is nothing short of a tragedy, because Lady Electrify was doing "Walk Like an Egyptian." I was able to capture a few nuggets (below), and these short videos will one day be archived at the Library of Congress.