i love you, jean grae

How's everything in the pimp business?

dimebags, dames & dives

Every once in a full blue moon I feel the overwhelming urge to abandon the sulky catacombs of my homebody existence and go out for a prowl on the town, fashioning myself up like a renegade Jezebel. The intoxicating promise of liquid provisions and unwashed meathooks pawing my person is not my true incentive for straying from home. Believe me. Copping a squat on a wobbly piss-soaked and duct-taped stool while the thuggish growl of a lead-bellied bluesman vibrates off the jukebox is more up my alley.

If I were loitering at a krusty dive with a jukebox and a pocket full of spare change...

Lots of spare change...

These dingy dirges would pretty much be right on the money, honey.

Submerge yourself in the swampy sounds and get ready to feel woozy with love.

Time To Get Tough - The Aggrolites

100 Yard Dash - Raphael Saadiq

Midnight Blues - Detroit Cobras

Is It You? - Vic Ruggiero & Lisa

Got To Give It Up - The Dirtbombs

You're Wondering Now - Amy Winehouse

Where Eagles Dare - The Misfits

A Little Bit of Arson - Matson Jones

Four Kicks - Kings of Leon

If Love Is a Red Dress (Hang Me In Rags) - Maria McKee

Pure Dirt - Dragbeat

Boogie Chillun - The Gories

Hand Springs - The White Stripes

Uptown Top Ranking - Althea & Donna

Gentleman Junkie - White Zombie

Anti-Love Song - Betty Davis

It Happens All the Time - Wanda Jackson

It Was You (Outtake) - Aretha Franklin

Need U Bad - Jazmine Sullivan

Dance Hall Music - Murder City Devils

Dollar In My Pocket - The Come Ons

I Can't Stop Thinking About It - The Dirtbombs

Corpus Christi - Miss Derringer

23rd & 2nd Avenue - Vic Ruggiero

Too Hot - The Specials

Wreckless Love - Alicia Keys

You Can't Turn Me Away - Sylvia Stipplen

objet d'barf

Some people curiously collect tiny spoons, salt & pepper shakers, dishes, dolls, depression & dust. As far as I can recall, I have never really been an avid collector of anything. However, upon examining my possessions after a recent foray into what I like to call Adventures in Spring Gleaming (not really), it has become apparent that I actually do tend to a garden of crummy collections:

Hair Bows

If you ever see me up at the Wag mulling over the many hair strand intermixing devices that exist in aisle 6, promise me you'll make it your priority to slap me silly and call me Jackie Shawn. It appears I have enough elastic bands, barrettes and bobby pins to adorn even Crystal Gayle's glorious waterfall of tresses, and you know that lovely lady's locks can really rock a ponytail or twelve, o-kay.

Tabloids

In an attempt to go all green like the other kids and excel at my lifelong dream of being a curmudgeonly penny pincher, I've decided that I'm just going to have to make due with reading my collection of last year's gossip rags and pretend the juice is still legit. And guess what? It will be. If I told you Angelina was expecting a new handbag a new baby and Jennifer Love Handles still likes hamburgers (no judgement) you'd probably believe me.

Incense

I have scientifically calculated that the number of incense sticks a woman burns is positively correlated with the number of cigarettes she chain smokes. Since I have given up that ghoulish habit (90 days and counting) I no longer need my hefty supply of heady wands and cosmic cones to cancel out any lingering carcinogenic cancer funk. Now I can actually put my sticks to good use as mini makeshift timers. One wand is equal to approximately 25 minutes, the amount of time necessary to relax poolside and achieve that luminous UVB-induced summer glow I've had my eye on.

Ding!

chocolate bunnies r cool

Eatin' snacks & takin' naps, hellz yeah!

Hope your Easter spread was scrumptious.

how stella got her tube packed

I used to work at DC's very own fabulously grungy castle of counterfeit dick, The Pleasure Place. Often times when slurping libations with new amigos, I blurt this tasteless fact out into the universe, which usually either makes people a) chuckle mildly or b) cringe as though they just shoved a 12" plastic pleasure plunger up their punani. As professional purveyors of porn, my fellow sex workers and I have been sassed, flashed, and gay-bashed, but it wasn't until recently that I came to truly understand the power we wielded over our pervy patrons. Out of curiosity (that's what they all say) I recently walked into a rather dimly-lit dick den and the experience enlightened me to the fact that locking eyes with the no-nonsense clerk lounging against a wall of proudly hung strap-ons can make your confidence shrivel faster than my ovaries after a Flavor of Love lip lock session. I thought back to the many times I seemed to take sadistic delight in staring down the steady influx of shifty miscreants on a mission to masturbate. Now it was my turn to assume the position. I timidly offered a half-hearted hullo to the stroke at the register, but that asshole was too busy analyzing the gaping flesh that flickered on the TV mounted in the corner. First off, no fair. Back in my day, we used to limit our porn watching to lunch breaks only, where we could enjoy it with a sandwich and soda like a reasonable person. Secondly, his air of disregard toward my existence made me feel rejected. As if I were the cretinous dolt in this duo, sheesh!

This shift in porno power caused me to hearken back to when I was the head bitch in charge. This meatball didn't even know how to truly live it up while on the clock. I recalled the days my cronies and I used to engage in spirited dick-slap battle royales with massive jelly-coated double dongs. I pondered the time the sweet transvestite threw a bottle of lubricating goo at my head before screeching out of the store with a handful of reading materials and a penis pump. "I'll get you next time!" I shook my fist furiously as my faithful comrade James soothed my weary temples with a pair of vibrating vag eggs. Ah, memories...

If nothing else, I gained valuable insight from my clever customers who knew a thing or two about turning tricks to make their money stretch. Take, for example, the mustachioed lady who, upon purchasing a single cock ring, magically produced a soggy bill from her sagging, sweat soaked bosom. "Keep it," I muttered. Voila! You might have swindled me, lady, but I got the last laugh that day. That ring you took home will never fit around your colossal balls.

mac 'n sleaze 'n tater twats

Beloved tenderoni, just look at yourself. Your hypnotic cheddary charms complement parmesan's perverse perfection like a truly potent paramour. I'm incapable of resisting the lava-hot lure of your neon orange ooziness. Throw some sturdy noodles into the mix and behold this tasty threesome. You take my taste buds on a fiendish odyssey that's practically pornographic in its explicitness. Just thought you should know this before I eat you. xoxo

P.S. No, seriously, guys. Does this post make my font look fat?

la bella mafia

If you're feeling sleazy and have any desire to read a fascinating and thrilling saga devoted to sex, drugs, glamour, murder and the Mafia, I suggest you get lost in Jackie Collins' series chronicling the fantastically naughty Santangelo family. My girl Lucky is killin' it in these juicy page turners with enough slick, sexy intrigue to hook you in and keep you chewing for days. Equal parts sagacious mob princess and tireless tycoon, Miss Lady manages to do the damn thing in all her tawdry high-heeled, glossy red talon glory. I won't dish too deep on any of the key plot lines, but where the hell else can you escape into a world that switches effortlessly between classic '20s NYC gangsters and '80s Las Vegas casino pit bosses? Shoot, even early '90s Hollywood gets some sparkly, big haired, blue eyeshadow lovin' by the third book, in which Lucky reigns rightfully supreme over Panther Studios in typical roughneck Santangelo fashion. Jackie Collins is a hell of a writer, and her dazzling creation of Lucky "Lady Boss" Santangelo has proven to be the fictional character of my wet dreams.

P.S. The Lady Boss miniseries was pretty scandalous as well, with Kim Delaney couch-cast in the role she was clearly born to play.

repressions of a beauty product slut: smell this

Even though it's still only April, I'm choosing to ignore the snowdrops and icebergs (still!?) plaguing my existence and instead focus my attention on the subtle signs floating through the air that indicate summer is right around the corner. Summertime is a special time indeed, a span of time in which I can bust out bottles of my two favorite fragrances and spritz away with heated abandon. My dressing table is twinkling with purrr-fume bottles, among them a variety of bright juiciness and dark sensuality: Dior Pure Poison and Dolce Vita. Chanel Allure and Coco Mademoiselle. Stella McCartney's Stella... Roses, patchouli, coconuts, candied yams, gasoline, ganja, oh my! Fragrant scents are truly glorious and I could forever expound upon their inspiring effects on my sensitive olfactory epithelium. But I digress. Perfumes are not simply something to be splashed on and forgotten. Truly primo potions provide an almost meditative experience in which I must contemplate heavily to understand the depth and true complexity of each note. Sound gay? Keep reading.

Let us begin with the lighter fare, Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue. I don't exactly recall how I became entranced by this wondrous fragrance, as I wasn't attracted to the bottle, I'm not particularly drawn toward floral scents, and blue is probably my least favorite color. But the combination of bluebell, white rose, jasmine, amber, musk, and Granny Smith apple is fresh, feminine and absolutely heavenly. If you pinched the cheeks of the fluffiest white cloud in the sky on a hot spring day, not only would it giggle like the Pillsbury Dough Boy binged out on nitrous oxide, it would also surely smell like Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue. The amazing thing is, for such a smooth, pure, light fragrance, the scent lingers softly on your wrists all throughout the day. To put it another way, if you suddenly felt the urge to punch someone in the head, it would really just be like a soft supple aromatic kiss on the lips.

Now, if you're looking for a deeper soft-Oriental blend, I have tried them all, and the most compelling concoction I can put you on to is Missoni's eau de Parfum. I can inhale this heady aroma and instantly travel across time and space to a sun-drenched all nude Italian beach. This is one sizzling, luxurious bouquet of bergamot, magnolia, gianduia chocolate, amber, peony, rose, persimmon, loquat, and bitter orange. Don't be turned off by the chocolate and orange notes, because this isn't one of those cloying garbage scents like the ones you purchase on a marijuana-fueled whim at a Bath & Body Works during an aggressive mall-walking escapade (guilty!) It's more reminiscent of an Easter basket Willy Wonka would throw together while acid-tripping on a mouthful of Everlasting Gobstoppers. In other words, it's totally unexpected and dripping with magic.

raining cats? you open the skylight, i'll get the relish

Back when I was a shorty, 30 minutes of corny jokes and canned laughter was like a high grade dose of kryptonite for me. It caused my pink plastic eyeglasses to violently convulse off my face and weakened my bladder to the point of no return. I pretty much embraced all sitcoms, even the boring ones that did nothing for me (ahem, talkin' to you, Cosby fam... THEO). I should have been a live audience guest during show tapings, because a sign commencing laughter would never have been necessary had I been invited. I was a cheesy mothafucka and it didn't take much to git me rollin'. Back then, I daydreamed about kickin' it tableside and splitting a can of creamed corn with Dan & Roseanne Connor, playing poker while enjoying a travelin' pizza with my man Alf, and flicking frying pans at Pops with my lil' homie Baby Sinclair. Like my young fossil friend, I too take every chance to take a pee in my pants.

I also used to imagine swapping glamour tips with Endora of Bewitched, who I knew to be the glitziest dame of all in my own private hierarchy of bitchin' small screen broads. One thing I luvs is a sparkly bitch, and that trashy witch knew how to work, honey, with those queenly jewel-toned robes, dazzling pinkie rings and campy liquid lined eyes. Who really cared about that mopey huzzy Samantha and her lame dick sucking ways? Dullard Darren could suck my left one, but the supremely elegant Endora could get 'em both if she wanted.