Monday, April 30, 2012

horrific injuries dept: big-ass truck edition

sorry for the long silence, loyal reader, but i do have a good reason. last tuesday i was in a terrible bicycle accident that fractured my index finger and robbed me not only of my beloved fingernail but also of a lot of blood and buckets of little girl tears. it was painful!

it's the world's oldest story: bicyclist approaches the intersection of Houston and 1st Avenue and sees that a truckosaurus is blocking the bike lane, bicyclist stays behind the truck as it turns left and, as it slowly moves forward, looks behind him to see if there's any oncoming vehicles so he can go around the truck to continue straight on 1st, bicyclist turns back around and sees the truck has inexplicably stopped, bicyclist swerves to avoid hurtling into the truck but instead slams into the back, bicyclist scampers to get out of the street only realizing when he gets to the other side that his hand is a blood fountain and his finger looks like it was gnawed on by a wild boar.

cue ambulance, waiting room, waiting, blood, white hot pain, waiting, x-rays, stitches, sutures, hair, make-up, wardrobe, nausea, all of it. the photo above is of the aftermath of my residency at the bellevue emergency room. i also have photos of my finger, but they will make you hurl, so i'm holding back and not posting them. obviously, after such a harrowing experience followed by two days of painkillers, one-handed typing, and worrying whether i'd ever play my viola again, i needed a drink.

on friday i went to the bellevue hand clinic and they made me a splint that looks like a ballet flat. people think it's adorable, which undermines me utterly, because what my dancing finger shoe hides is a world of pain and horror. I'VE GOT NO NAIL AND MY FINGER LOOKS LIKE HELLRAISER! how am i supposed to make people appreciate this when my finger constantly looks like it's about to break out into song and do the two-step with Mickey Rooney?

in conclusion, sad face.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Jukebox: Primitives!

Okay, I'm ridiculously excited about the Primitives' new album Echoes and Rhymes, which comes out at the end of the month. It's a covers album of obscure pop songs from the 60s and 70s, and above is the first single. You might remember the Primitives from their 1988 hit "Crash," but they're so much more than that! Their first album Lovely contained a ton of bliss pop nuggets that were equal parts Blondie, Jesus and Mary Chain, and Shangri Las. Yes. Go get it.

Their last release was last year's fab EP Never Kill a Secret, which I wrote about here. Go get it. And this new album is their first full-length in 22 years. (Good GOD, 1991 is that long ago?)

Full Primitives coverage here.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Dear H&M on 5th and 18th, Please Hire Some More Staff/Get More Registers, For F**k Sake

Now, I love H&M, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Those who know me know I'm no clothes horse. If I look good when I go out of the house, it's purely by happenstance or accident or, perhaps, because of H&M. I love that I can just go in there, find a piece of clothing I like (like the stretchy cotton collared short-sleeve tops!), and then just buy it in five different colors, and BAM, I'm all set for however long it takes me to wear them the fuck out.

But, H&M, there are limits to my enthusiasm. Let's be clear: yes, I do visit your 5th Avenue store (at 18th) regularly whenever I'm in the mood for some stretchy cotton, but the thing is--and I think most human folk will agree with me--standing in a line this long to buy f-ing clothes is not something I wish to do. It's just not. I'll wait in a line this long to see Dolly Parton. Or to get some good gumbo. Or to watch Michael Fassbender eat a corn dog. But, H&M, I will not wait in a line this long to buy your stupid clothes, as much as I want them clinging to my body.

I stopped by yesterday to pick up a few things because I need to replenish my warm-weather wardrobe. As usual, I had to bite my tongue and deal with having to wait in your stupid long line, which stretched all the way across the entire f**king store, well into women's wear, and nearly to the door. Above is a photo of how close I was to the register. Below is a picture of how close I was to the exit. Is this acceptable? No it is not. I don't care how delightfully and efforttlessly bitchy your cashiers are, I'll take my business elsewhere because this is New York City and this town is fully of bitchy cashiers ready willing and able to get me out of their damn store as quickly as possible because fuck me, right?

Get your shit together, H&M, Jesus.

Friday, April 13, 2012

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Keith Haring Exhibit at Brooklyn Museum

Eighties gays that we are, Jimmy and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see the Keith Haring exhibit here in Brooklyn, and it was stupendous. So many dicks, y'all. So many dicks.

Three cocks, a heart, and a bunch of squiggles. Reminds me of the night I lost my virginity.

This one also reminds me of the night I lost my virginity.

Some Pig.

Such a cutie.

Just your normal everyday drawing of fallen angels f**king some dogs they found.

If you know anything about me you know that I can't leave a museum without photographing any freely available naked male statues. This one was a little small for my liking--probably half my size--but still quite handsome.

Another non-Keith work, included for obvious reasons. Now, this... this reminds me of the smoke breaks Jimmy likes to take in between painting me in the nude. And yes, my butt is that milky white.

Jimmy was really moved by this exhibit, and he was dropping some mad rhymes about it on the way to see The Hunger Games afterwards. I must say, he was getting pretty jiggy with it in a funkified psychedelic situation.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

I've Started a Meme! (Must Credit Wonkette)

Hey, y'all, I'm internet famous for one day because my last post was picked up by the mighty Wonkette, yay, I'm gonna be rich! (Page views can be traded in for cash, right?)

See Tim Blog hasn't seen this much action since it spent the weekend as a fluffer in Palm Springs back in 1978. (Our arms are still sore.)

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Smug Racist John Derbyshire's Got Me Thinking...

First of all, dear readers, I must apologize for placing a photo of a woefully unattractive old shitsack at the top of this post. It is lamentable! The shitsack in question is John Derbyshire, who, though he sounds like a bit player in a hilarious Jeeves and Wooster romp by PG Wodehouse, is actually a right-wing cartoon character who writes regularly for low-minded newsletter The National Review.

Yes, the horrifying collection of pixels above is of a maladjusted old fart who just hates black people so MUCH. Thankfully the internet gives him ample space to articulate his racial preferences, and last week he decided that he would, for a laugh, perform a stunning riff on a timely topic that has been much discussed and written about in the wake of the shooting death of Trayvon Martin: "The Talk" that black parents have to have with their male children to prepare them for their lives of being on the wrong end of the law/neighborhood watch all day, every day, forever, even if they're just walking down the road during halftime to get some Skittles.

So Derbyshire sets to typing and comes up with a "Talk" of his own, titled "The Talk: Nonblack Version," in which he gives sage advice to his children about how best to treat the entire black population of the country with complete and utter contempt. Amazingly, in the fallout from his screed, TNR fired him, probably for being too overt. (They like their racism subtle, in the style of a Limbaugh or a Drudge.)

But anyway, Jimmy and I were talking about this tonight and Derbyshire's really got us thinking. What if we were parents and had to prepare our children to fear/loathe an entire group of people? What group would we choose? Breeders, obviously!

Jimmy and I will never have children, of course, because we really just prefer cats. But if we did end up with child, "The Talk" we would have with our gay offspring (once they are able to communicate in full sentences/text messages) about the dangers of 97% of the population would probably look something like this:


(1) Many people refer to "heterosexuals" as "straight." The better term is "breeders" because they are always going around having babies all over the place. Beware of them. They might try to get you to babysit while they go out and make more babies.

(2) Of course, Breeders should be treated with respect, just like any other person. But there are certain times when also they shouldn't.

(3) Breeders are statistically in the majority, which is why they have to be watched. They are power mad, and super paranoid about any non-Breeder feelings they might be having. These feelings usually manifest themselves in some dumb bullshit law or other that will restrict your right to marry the person you love. This is one of their favorite things to do, in fact, because they are spastic.

(4) Religious, right-wing breeders, especially, just cannot stop thinking about gay sex. They think about it more than you, just accept it. If you ever need some good/disgusting porn, just hack the computer of the most religious man on your block. He will have a mother load on his hard drive.

(5) Because they are so shifty and capricious, when you must deal with breeders, use statistical common sense:

(5a) Avoid concentrations of breeders not all known to you personally.

(5b) Stay out of neighborhoods that are heavily breedery. (Park Slope, most but not all of Utah)

(5c) If planning a trip to a beach, amusement park, or concert venue at some date, find out whether it is likely to be swamped with breeders on that date. If you do not plan in advance you may find yourself at a megachurch, a tailgating party, a football game, or the Country Music Awards. (They do not sell poppers at such events.)

(5d) Do not attend events likely to draw a lot of breeders, like hot dog eating contests, funerals, Big & Rich concerts, and confirmations.

(5e) Never go to Jamaica.

(5f) If you are at some public event at which the number of breeders suddenly swells, leave as quickly as possible. Such events might include a spring break beach party in Daytona, a Rick Warren book signing in Tulsa, or any bar in the Meat Packing District.

(5g) Do not settle in a district or municipality run by breeder politicians. They will never leave their wives for you. Never.

(5h) Before voting for a breeder politician, scrutinize his/her character much more carefully than you would a gay one. Because, really, if a dude sucks dick, he's got your best interests at heart, just vote for him. (Unless he looks like John Derbyshire.)

(5i) Do not act the Good Samaritan to breeders in apparent distress, e.g., on the highway. They will probably just try to sell you some khaki pants out of the trunk of their car.

(5j) If accosted by a strange breeder in the street, like Phyllis Schlafly or Tony Danza, smile and say something polite but keep moving. They just want relationship advice or a free haircut.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

You don’t have to follow my version of the talk point for point; but if you are gay or lesbian or some combination of the two and have kids, you owe it to them to give them some version of the talk. It will save them a lot of time and trouble spent figuring things out for themselves. It may save their social lives.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

My Camera Phone Will Not be Denied: Magnetic Fields, Beacon Theater, NYC

Went to see the Magnetic Fields the other night at the classy Beacon Theatah, and what they lacked in adrenaline and synths they made up for in good old fashioned loveliness. They played my favorite of their tunes, "Smoke and Mirrors," from the album Get Lost. And yes, they are this blurry in person.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Campaign '12: Time for the Nation's Senior Citizens to Start Being Terrified of Obama Again

Well, folks, get your eye pokers ready, it's time for the OBAMA WILL EAT YOUR RELIGION AND FREEDOM ALSO right-wing listserv emails to go into overdrive. Will I have to have a daily email exchange with my mother about how the people that lied to her yesterday about Obama also for some weird reason lied to her also today? Probably. And these exchanges will likely feature me asking Mom who Saul Alinsky was and why he's so scary, I'm pretty sure of it.

It seems like it was just yesterday that I had undertaken the Sisyphean task of convincing a life-long knee-jerk Republican to think of her children and grandchildren for just one damn second and not vote for Sarah Palin to be Vice President of the United States. For a while now I've just thought about that time as a terrible nightmare. Now I know that no, it was just yesterday. Today is another day.

So now that the presidential election is gearing up, momma has hit the old Facebook and turned it up to 11 with a spastic message to the world from Planet Breitbart, one that, let's be honest, could use more exclamation points.

SIGH. Folks, I spent day after day during the campaign of '08 refuting every lie about Obama my mom would forward to me: that he was a Kenyan, a secret Muslim, a Black Liberation Theologist, a Manchurian candidate bent on bankrupting America, the best friend of Bill Ayers, a radical redistributionist, a blame-America-firster, the list goes on. I was usually able to refute whatever nonsense she forwarded to me after spending about thirty seconds on Did it help? Never! I always got the same response from her: "I don't know what to believe." Well, I'd say one thing you don't do is continue to trust folks who are proven liars, on the email. That's a good place to start. But, sure, go ahead and remain on all those swampy, paranoid listservs, they obviously give you something that I can't.

Anyway, after all my effort, momma still voted for Wasilla drag queen Sarah Palin to be Vice President of the United States.

But it didn't end there. After a little bit of a breather, during which mom and I had an unspoken agreement that we could not talk about Obama lest I immediately die of a brain aneurysm, mom entered the fray again with a hilarious email message, subject headline OBAMA COLLEGE ROOMMATE SPEAKS OUT, which she sent to all of her children.

zzzzzzz. What? Oh, sorry. Thought I was in the movie Groundhog Day for a minute, so I figured I'd get some sleep because WE'VE HEARD ALL THIS NONSENSE BEFORE AND JUST BECAUSE YOU REPEAT IT OVER AND OVER DOESN'T MAKE IT TRUE, GAH! (I hear Republicans respond better to all-caps.)

Here we go. Can I stomach the idea of engaging with momma in another campaign season of utter paranoid nonsense? Or do I tell her we'll have to agree to disagree on basic facts about the world? The former will give me hives and nightmares about being dipped in ranch dressing and shoveled down Rush Limbaugh's gaping throat. The latter will give me a sad. Because that means that mom will continue to believe that, for example, Obamacare is a socialist deathtrap that will destroy freedom fries, and her diabetic son will believe that it's actually quite a necessary piece of legislation because he's lost his job and signed onto his huzband's shitty/expensive health care plan (which he wouldn't have been able to do if Republicans had their druthers because gay marriage is such a threat to idiotic straight people), but what if his huzband loses his job?

But! As Shakespeare once said, "It is better to be sad than to be tortured by nightmares in which you are stuck in the gullet of a jowly racist hobgoblin."

No hope.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Beatrice Podcast Interview With Moi

I recently had a discussion with Ron Hogan of Beatrice about my book Tune in Tokyo, and I didn't up calling anyone a slut, prostitute, or a feminazi, so I consider it a success! You can listen to it here.

It's part of a new podcast series Ron is doing called Life Stories, in which he talks to memoirists about writing and how they approach their work. His very first podcast in this series featured an interview with Heather Donahue of Blair Witch Project fame (she's got a memoir out about her transition from acting to becoming a marijuana farmer)--so I'm in good company!