dapqueen

screenland!

2011-06-09T11:27:00.000-07:00

really, it's just too much to swallow

2011-05-18T17:53:00.000-07:00

If I've heard it once, I've heard it a zillion times. Yeah yeah yeah, I have dreadful taste in movies. I know. My appetite for cinema is basically the video equivalent of a take out pizza with extra cheese. Serve me up a slab of some crusty, queasy, sleazy & weird deep dish motion picture magical deliciousness that is thankfully devoid of any ingredient which could possibly be mistaken as wholesome, nutritious, or mother approved. I once got kicked out of the movie theater for projectile vomiting all over Julia Roberts' face during a traumatizing trailer for Eat, Pray, Love. True story. Would that technically be categorized as a splatter flick? Whichever way the barf blows, I'm still rating it a zesty two thumbs down (the throat). Splarf!

I'm suddenly feeling thuper hungry

Well, since you're such a GD expert, what sorta sleazoid scripts should I get my eyeballs glued to, already? Jesus.

I'm glad you asked. I suggest you select something that really turns your crank! Do you like bizarro campy art charmers featuring absurd protagonists who feather their frosted manes while whispering hushed soliloquies in quizzical Eurotrash accents as they simultaneously perform slow, sensual boogies that could perhaps be succored by the assistance of unlawful contraband, à la Liquid Sky? Yeah, me neither.

Excuse me while I Liquid Sky

If that makes you feel all daggy, perhaps, like me, you prefer standard slasher gore that's a little more meat heavy and generous with the plasma side dishes, saaaayy.... Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Blood Feast, the lesser Blood Diner, or even House of a 1000 Corpses. Squishy suppertime surprises, slow movin' hillbilly pussy magnets wielding ratchets & hatchets & hammers, oh my! And, oh yes, There Will Be Power Tools. Y'know, Camp Crystal Lake does seem like a pretty chill place to relax and experiment with doobie sparkage and pre-marital pudenda-fastening 'til you inevitably bite the big one and all, but it's Mamma's guts 'n gravy sammich & soup slurpreme that keeps my clicker in perpetual rewind mode. Yes, I own a VCR. No, you can't borrow it.

I'm WAY too stoned for this!

OR... Maybe you are the rare deviant bitch of my dreams who prefers the stylishly warped Giallo gemstones violently ejected straight outta the grizzled brains of eye-talian crown prince Lucio Fulci, such as New York Ripper or Don't Torture a Duckling (don't torture a wha...?) If that's your jam, you should probably feel shamefaced about your peculiar appetite for these '80s moving picture perversions, but nevertheless, I love and accept you with each one of my four beating chambers.

What? I just stepped on a duck. Golly...

do you know what today is?

2011-05-03T09:53:00.000-07:00

You're goddamned right.

love, adore, etc.

2011-05-01T19:03:00.000-07:00

Holy cats y'all! After what seems like a lifetime, I'm zapping myself back in time to a youthful place I like to call Easy Street, a sentimental stretch that slithers vertically erect on the edge of planet East Coast. I'm already in mad preparation mode, concocting extravagant glamour prescriptions for my juicy July escapade. A flight to Baltimore, followed by a drive to Brooklyn, we'll hit up Coney Island and Brighton Beach, drive back to D.C., then make our way down to Virginia Beach. I'm hoping to hit up all our old haunts & pioneer some new ones, too. If only we had time to include the elegant shores of Jersey and its glistening parade of orange pecs in our voyage! Damn...

My compadre in crime & I will be livin' it up like a couple of nitwit slobby bears as we roadtrip up and down the coast, gobbling up Coney dogs, strolling the boardwalk, wandering around in the scorching July heat in search of scrumptious wads of fluffy pink candy and two minutes of resplendent GGGG-force rollercoasting. We'll splash around in the delicious briny ocean and then trash motels galore with the refuse of six-pack suppers and fistfuls of uppers. What more could a simple hooligan like myself possibly want out of a wet hot American summer?

Wellll.... since you asked... we'll pay a visit to all our old digs, like Shoney's (for their gracious tolerance of our endless rounds of dominoes and rough language, as well as their enjoyably unique slant on suspiciously murky diner grub), the 9:30 and its more exploitation-centered unruly twin, the Black Cat (for a lip-smacking souffle of live ska shows and hot buttery nipples), the Pleasure Place (to chew the fat with the old gang, maybe stick around for a sticky story or two), and peep some zany killer-amok cinema at the Sand Screen for sure.

Can't wait for the galaxy of grimy & glittering adventures to be had! Getting pixilated in weird dive bars and kibitzing with wildly-accented New Yorkers will be the smokin' hot 7-11 queso on this super Americana burrito. Bon voyage, y'all!

summertime spelunking

2011-04-30T16:45:00.000-07:00

Having a mental drought these days. Feverishly working on my novel and I can't seem to separate my blogging silliness from the family of characters sprouting up in my brains. However, I've finally greeted the new millennium with gusto and joined the ranks of the Twitter brigade (still refuse to get caught up in the rapture of Facebook, though. Baby steps).

Big Jer took this photo of me today in between baby cuddling & burrito chomping.

literate smut: tinseltown - take 1!

2011-04-05T05:02:00.000-07:00

And A C T I O N . . . Some people may not know this about me, but I actually possess a PhD in Celebrity Exposés. I'd like to take a moment to present a brief composite of the research I've compiled over the past several grueling years spent devoted to conditioning my psyche with single-minded scholastic scrutiny into these indispensable case studies of tinseltown ethos:

Six Degrees of Paris Hilton by Mark Ebner

The good news: If you're a true glutton for punishment, but still can't stomach the notion of reading a book about an overgrown and underfed hotel scion with plastic hair and enormous feet, you'll be happy to know this gonzo tome has practically nothing to do with Paris Hilton. The bad news: If you feel you might be uncomfortable with any aspect of the truly filthy underbelly flopping uneasily beneath the Versace belt of Hollywood's neon six-pack of depravity, you will positively squirm at the sickening sequence of events outlined in this anthology of ballsy investigative journalism penned by showbiz super-sleuth Mark Ebner. I've always been fascinated by Hollywood's wolfish appetite for psycho starlets and their inevitable extermination from pop culture, but after reading this captivating account detailing the myriad exploits of presently-incarcerated criminal mastermind Darnell Riley and his posse of crooked California comrades, I have become damn near fanatical about soaking up as much diabolical lawbreaking juice as my wet-behind-the-ears little brain can absorb.

dapqueen gives it: 4 out of 5 casting couches

The Truth About Diamonds by Nicole Richie

An actual page-turning secret pleasure by Nicole Richie that hysterically dismisses the entire Hollywood faux-fawning/dick-stroking party scene in one jewel-sparkling swish of a bony wrist. This wry and catty satire provides a meow-wow look into the life of an on the rise B-lister who harbors some steadily escalating ill will toward a certain infamous celebrity racist (see above) she's been BFF with since kittenhood, as well as the rest of the aristocratic fameball bunch she regularly humps around Hell-A with (imagine: smokin' laced cigs in drug dens with Diddy; martini-swillin' at thousand-buck-bottle V.I.P. tables that come magically equipped with mirrored tabletops, thus rendering line formation in the powder room a mere inconvenience of clichéd '80s lore; and a top secret transmission of the mysterious world of haute couture's glitziest grimesters and its carnival of neurotic survival of-the-fittest riddles reported in exhaustive detail. Again, imagine: bingin', purgin', starvin', druggin', vom-ooping. Pop a TrimSpa, baby, spew one for the team, rinse, repeat, ad nauseam. Got that? Neither do I). With fierce characterization and attention to detail, Richie illustrates the fameballs' insoluble celluloid germination and punishes them with words for their assault on the festering tabloid industry that has by now given way to a full-blown rebirth of scandal sheets and digital defamers that have encircled all of our existences for nearly a decade. The result? An overflowing squirt of many new vast and torturous celebrity empires of idiocy, such as the golden-showered skinned Kardashian clan and all the rest of those loud annoying bitches on the E! channel. Bravo, Nicole!

dapqueen sez: 5 out of 5 casting couches

Star by Pamela Anderson

It has been an utterly disheartening experience to endure the constant scoffing people project upon the high praise I award this splendid fairy tale that depicts the ultra-shiny disco dusted planet that the "fictional" Star Wood Leigh resides on. If you've read enough bleak Bastard out of Carolina-esque accounts of cheerless family laments to last you a lifetime, this breezy beachside read might be a truly welcome respite. Solid gold, Pam. I feel that heat.

dapqueen shouts it from the rooftops: 5 out of 5 makeshift casting couches/tanning beds

sTORI Telling by um, hmm... oh! by Tori Spelling

Just... no. If you've ever tried peering into the soulless, money-hungry vacuum that is Aaron Spelling's darling daughter and imagined you might feel even a microscopic frisson of stimulation, you'd be dangerously mistaken. GIRL, PLEASE! You grew up in an opulent palace, starred in the '90s teen soap du jour with Shannen Doherty at the apotheosis of her wayward infamy, lived through at least one questionably successful schnozz-job, and your mom had a frakin' present wrapping room in the Spelling manor - yet even your ghostwriter removed herself from attempting to extract one peewee scrap of luminescence from the nebulous abyss of your personality? T, I totally had your back and you totally let me down! Why you gotta do me like that, T?

Cita, you tried warning me! What can I say? When you're right, you're right!

dapqueen murmurs: 1 out of 5 breakfast nook stools (that is where she landed those roles, right?)

Well, clearly I have exquisite taste in literature. Be sure to tune in for future installments of my exploratory celebrity probings! Next time I will include a shiny new cluster of firm but fair critiques, including the scintillating works of Leguizamo, Lords, and... Superhead? Cheers!

1 year today

2011-04-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

I knew I was feeling a sense of unease on Friday, a vague sense that regurgitation was imminent. And so it happened. I felt dazed, though unlike most times, I didn't feel any relief when it was over. It wasn't until Saturday afternoon I realized why.

When something shocking happens, we tend to force ourselves to do one of two things: Isolate ourselves from others, live like monks (without the self-discipline), fear our own shadow and voice and, depending upon how far we've descended, become sadly absorbed by our perception of how others must think of us.

Or, in contrast, we force ourselves to consciously design new coping mechanisms, reconfigure the ways in which we choose to define ourselves, become - and this is a big one - gloriously less aware of how we perceive the way we think others feel about us.

A lot has happened within this past year. Some of it is terribly shocking, and some of it is shockingly good. I've lost family members in a terribly shocking way. I've come to terms with my own feelings of self-worth in this world after becoming the victim of a shockingly violent attack. I've sought out neuro-therapy and seizure cures for the nerve and brain damage incurred during the attack. I've decided that I no longer want to identify with being a victim. I've made the decision to move back to an area of the U.S. that tends to conjure within me feelings of emotional bewilderment. However, I've also made the decision to let go of the helter skelter hare-brain who stalked my every move and gladly wielded way too much perverse power over my feelings of self-value. Although it's been a few years since I've seen his hatchet face in person, his wretched acts of destruction and psychological terrorism have long since followed me, strangling my every thought, leaving imprints on my every move. Just as he'd hoped for. I've made a solid decision to stamp him out of my life for good. If he ever does come back in any form, I can rest assured that I didn't invite him.

I used to cry a lot. Now I cry very little. I used to hide from the world, afraid to say anything, terrified to vocalize my opinions, my voyages, my successes, my failures. Now I'm tapping into my social reserves, lunging headfirst into (admittedly awkward) conversations with others, eager to learn new social cues. Whereas before, I would feel threatened by somebody who asked me to share something about myself, for the first time in years, I'm actually keen on sharing tidbits of who I am with those who ask.

When you suffer profound loss, you feel obligated to commit yourself to the darkest place you can find within yourself in an effort to somehow unearth some light. You forge an embittered path through the dark roots and thick forests of your mind and tread a delirious line between complete self-destruction and pretending you're normal out of a basic necessity for survival. You devise cockeyed methods for waking up in the morning to go to work: You will not cry at the drop of a hat, but you will shoot daggers with your eyes at anyone who dares cross you. You will not roll your eyes at your boss, but you do feel compelled to brazenly let your naked hostility shine upon anyone who has the nerve to bitch about a bad day that involves rainy weather or incompetent co-workers. You don't even realize the loss of clarity, the soul-crushing weight of negativity, the hopelessness you feel until the inevitable thunderbolt of heavy opaque darkness looms over you like a big black umbrella on a stormy morning burial. And then, little by little, some lightness appears.

Recently, I've experimented with a new kind of therapy called EFT, or Emotional Freedom Techniques. I would like to invite anyone who has ever been wracked with pain, feelings of negativity, grief, guilt, shame, sadness, or depression they believed to be incurable, to try EFT. It doesn't cost money, it doesn't cost much time, and it's honestly the best thing I could ever have done for myself. It seems kooky, but it works. Don't ask me how, I just know that it does.

Rest peacefully Grandmas, Grandpas, Aunties, Uncles, Cousins & Sharon Lee. Too much goodness went by much too fast.

slathered, smothered & catman crothered

2011-03-30T09:52:00.000-07:00

Another hastily penned sunrise scoop inspired by my elderly snoring kitty cat whose reverberatory internal furnace sounds like the primordial hard drive of Jumpin' Jack Flash on the fritz, followed by one too many late night X-rated chatroom confabs with Whoopi Goldberg after some feverish digital demonstrations of that fine inflated cocoa cushion.

WOO girl. Some things to go sit in the corner and ponder:

A) What I wouldn't give for the above-mentioned image to delete itself from my own internal storage apparatus.

B) Why do I always feel the need to interpret the contents of tasteful period-piece morsels of cinematic dynamite like Jumpin' Jack Flash and form inappropriate connections between the spunky lead character and the enigmatic co-star? I did it now, I did it with Ghost, and I see no reason to stop when I get around to catching up with Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit. Although, if it's anything like the first Act, the movie itself will be the inappropriate connection, possessing the outrageous gumption of confusing my brains with unclear ecclesiastical messages of gyrating nuns commingling with cloak-donning capos. All the while, my own face will share the leading role with a sparkling slab of saliva as it makes its way down my chin, since I generally save that magical crown jewel of VHS antiquity for when I'm fresh out of mellow-tonin.

C) What I also wouldn't give for Pissy Galore to re-route her catnap locales to a more discreet quarter within our quantum kingdom. On second thought. . . the faint mellifluous wheezing is pretty endearing, even if I am in constant fear of mindlessly petting her angel-soft pelt only to ladle great gobs of hearty semi-digested cat stew into my paws.

Does this look like the face of a pygmy beast prepared to make accommodations?

strip sequence

2011-03-26T22:59:00.000-07:00

Q: Why did DC hand Jack Kirby's scripting duties over to Gerry Conway?

A: He had better Kamandi English language.

Earlier this morning, against my better judgement, I exposed myself to the hellacious pun-ishment of the Mandalorian Merc-infested dweeb dominion that is Kansas City's Planet Comicon. If you've ever had the pleasure of attending a comic book convention with a friend, you already know how deliciously nerdy the experience can be. If you've ever gone to a comic convention alone, however, then you can identify with the level of terror associated with lingering in the admissions line to receive your bright red Yoda hand-stamp of misfit approval only to get speared in the gut by a lightsaber that is clenched betwixt the dangerous dukes of a hyperventilating hygiene-rebel with little regard for personal space.

I feel it is my civic duty to remind you meatballs that infiltrating the stomping grounds of rabid fanboys is not a joke. I don't advise going alone unless you a) have enough pocket change to purchase a tray of the stalest nachos ever invented in the hopes that your silent sogging munches will somehow magically invoke the ministrations of superpower invisibility; and b) possess a deep well of patience that renders you immune to such vexing rib-ticklers as the one described above.

Also, I blocked out don't recall his name, but I would like to express my sincere gratitude to the zany joke junkie who supplied me with that monotonic yet nonetheless priceless Kamandi groaner. According to Edgar Allan Poe, "The goodness of the true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability." Dude, you would have soaked your suspender-fastened britches if you witnessed the gnarled hodgepodge of humanity that skulked about the premises of that convention center. Thrilling highlights include...

Mega Monster Moxie

So, I'm fawning over some bloody disgusting DVDs and flipping through the supplementary literature surrounding the Troma booth and before I can even stab a memo into my blank bulletin board of a brain with a helpful reminder to practice conversational censorship, I manage to blurt out: "I would do anything to be in a Troma production!" to which the masculine mouthpiece replies with a slithering up-and-down assessment of my female form: "Anything, eh? Define anything. I don't see any reason why we can't make that a possibility, let's say... tonight? Heh heh heh." Awkward business card handoff and freaky one-eye blink ensue, and let me tell you, I could actually feel my face light up like Uncle Rudolph's progressively gin-blossoming nose at a familial holiday get-together decorated with tinsel and acrimony.

Nevertheless... Holy instant validation gratification, Batman! I'm honestly inclined to ignore the basic reality that it's his job to churn out identically charming retorts to the zillions of Troma-obsessed girl geeks who aspire to explore their cinematic chops in the realm of birthday suit B-movie bloodbaths, because it was actually the unequivocal horny highlight of my weekend! (You call it sad, I call it awesome. Go choke on it!)

And yes, to a certain extent, my head is in fact drooping at half-mast as a consequence of all the lessons instilled in me by way of Valerie Solanas' SCUM Manifesto. On the other hand, I probably did myself a complete disservice by not submitting to the cheeky chap's randy proposition of scrupulous oratory examination. If I had, my participation may have been required in the undertaking of a far more stimulating script than what I am able to supply to you at 10 o'clock on a Saturday night. Oh Ashley!

Olivia's Kindred Soulmate

A bitchin' Kansas City artist after my own heart, some of Jennifer Janesko's swoon-worthy subjects include Julie Strain, Dita Von Teese, and Echo Johnson, y'heard? Probably so, because in many ways, Jennifer's art is nearly indistinguishable in style from that of Olivia De Berardinis' voluptuous masterpieces, as they both tend to share a similar enthusiasm for breathtaking broads with jumbo juggs and impossible hip-to-waist ratios. I've often wondered if Olivia feels flattered or frosted by these inevitable comparisons. Either way, it was still pretty impressive to observe Jen sketching in action. (FYI, the photo above shows Dita posing with a soulmate of a different kind, as Janesko's website has made it crystal clear that the use of her images in any capacity is strictly verboten).

You're Solid Gold... I'll See You In Hell!

Racing heart nerd alert: Once upon a time I lived in D.C. If my best friend in D.C. was a comic book character who rocked the same outfit everyday, it would obviously be his yellow t-shirt emblazoned with the giant toothsome smiley face that proclaimed "Have a Psychotic Day!" This hysterical mantra derives from a button named Smiley that was formerly a pet rat belonging to the coolest (and most vicious) comic book character ever created: Evil Ernie. Before Ernie swung a U-turn and descended into berserko madness, he was merely another psychologically wounded schoolboy named Ernest Fairchild who was forced to deteriorate within the twisted confines of orphanage hell. After a brain transplant experiment gone awry, Ernest met a lethal demise that actually resulted in his subsequent rebirth as an undead teen psychopath capable of telepathically controlling the dead with his mischievous sidekick Smiley... a button. Trust me, I could go on and on about this demented serial slaughterfest, but I'll save Evil Ernie's adventures in lunacy for another inappropriate time (church basement pancake breakfast, perhaps?) The point is, the hotness that is Tommy Castillo was the coolest part of the convention, hands down. He sketched up a storm, cracked a couple jokes, and his artwork must be seen to be believed. He has since moved on to a plethora of other pen & ink projects that have mostly swept Ernie & Smiley into the dreaded dustpan of comic oblivion, but they still remain my favorite arcane duo of all time, mostly in part because of how much I enjoyed that threadbare t-shirt my friend used to rock like a proud uniform. Every time someone robotically moans "Have a Nice Day" and clearly doesn't mean it, you wanna take a wild guess at what I'm tempted to say in return?

Oddballs & Endcaps

The Bionic Woman (Lindsay Wagner) was there, as was Painkiller Jane (Alaina Huffman). I never did catch a glimpse of Reverand Steve Newlin (Michael McMillian) of True Blood fame, which really grinds my gears since I have been yearning for a glimmer of insight into the mind of the anti-vampire zealot whose influence has inspired many Karate-chopping corpse attacks ushered into action by a shirtless Jason Stackhouse. GearHead writer Dennis Hopeless was also in attendance, who I was surprised to learn is wed to Jessie Hopeless, the gloriously kickass superhero artist who designed and inked the strutting peacock tattoo perched atop my right arm.

cataleptic calisthenics

2011-03-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

(Or, more accurately, fond memories of grades 7 thru the rest of my junior and senior high school existence in which I conveniently skipped co-ed sports bra hell and jockstrap misery on a regular basis in favor of alternate nonconformist acts of pop-&-jocularity).

Bowling night commences this upcoming Wednesday, and you better slow your roll to a screeching halt when it's my chance to twist the wrist, because my personal rulebook explicitly states that my lane is the second-born lane of triplets, meaning I can roll a tornado right over your alley any time I sees fit and neither of my congenitally fused linear kinfolk can bump their gutters about it because, well, it's THE RULES.

That being said, it has been brought to my recent attention that my athletic prowess is comically nonexistent at best, downright fictitious at worst. To which I say... the fuck? Seriously folks, I can Crip-walk on ice skates and practice Kung Fu moves in the shower like I'm David Carradine sans soap-on-a-rope. (And by practice Kung Fu I mean invoke peaceful meditation between shower spigot and clitoral floweret. Ommmm-kay... Don't judge). But that's just not hunky-dory enough for some sportylicious booty-smackers who grasp and squeeze their fellow ball-handlers' hindquarters at head-scratching moments of gesticulatory excellence that far exceed the 12th grade, an age when most awesome people appropriately ditch their benchwarming duties in favor of new experimental pastimes, like smokin', sexin', and stealin', to name a few.

To all my draconian whistle-blowing naysayers, I have the following to declare: I'll stratospherically crush ya azz on a mini-golf course and combat you in a cosmic-bowl crusade to the finish, and when I do win, I vow not to be all IN YO FACE about it. Unless, of course, copious amounts of grown-folk brewskies and unsolicited douchebaggy companionship magically presents itself (and, let's face it, it always does). In which case, the previous statement is obviously no longer applicable.

Runners-up, polish off your tenpins and squish your ten (or so) toes into those lubberly bowling shoes decomposing nicely under your kitchen sink and I'll peep ya in your lanes!

did i do that?

2011-03-17T03:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

It's approximately 3:45 a.m. and I just awoke to the supremely thick and unpleasant surprise of combing my digits through a fresh pile of warm cat puke. In the rural locution of Mr. Hank Hill, "whut in the cat's meow is goin' on here? Is this yer idea of some kinda sick joke? Dhammit, Bobcat."

Aside from my apathetic pussy showcasing a glaring absence of shame in her spew game, the sludgy sensation immediately brought to mind the kind of kooky kitty regurgitation fantasy that would so obviously take place in some deviant realm of Doctor Claw's mind after a sensuous M.A.D Cat muff-walloping, followed by one too many nights of forced viewings of Grimalkin Island on Talon TV. You just know how that nefarious fool likes to get down, masterminding oddball projector-style screenings of late night double-features starring his favorite frisky four-steppers while he slinks back into a one-handed recline in that creepazoid throne he commandeers in the shadowy chambers of his clandestine lair. Jeepers! It gives me the gobsmackin' willies just thinking about it.

Sorry, family. I may still be partially comatose as I clack blearily away at my glowing terminal in the dusky gloom of daybreak. Apparently, kitten puke-fugues can cause, among other hurt and confused feelings, frenzied Inspector Gadget flashbacks and possibly even a delirious craving for some Cantonese-style bargain-basement kitten chow-mein (yeh, that side-eye is for you, gato).

P.S. Please don't tell Pissy Galore I was talkin' smack about her triflin' ass on da innerwebz or she might go all Mr. Bigglesworth on me and claw my face off so she can make use of my assorted orifices to hoard her exotic collection of catnips, among other unspeakable sticky-paw sundries. She be a miniature treasure reservoir, that cat.

reel unhinged

2011-03-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been trying to charge up my brains with a blitz of low-budget movie reels in an effort to fulfill my 2011 goal of becoming a more cinematically inclined bitch (thus escaping dreaded cable bills while simultaneously viewing bottomless bins of weird shit with the sole intention of smugly peppering my group conversations with irritating banter and cryptic one-liners that only other irritating people with limited social circles will pick up on, in which case we will then chuckle conspiratorially, and with one concurrent self-satisfied nod of our bloated heads we will have deftly concluded our complacent foray into any possibility of securing new playfellows). Now, on with the show...

Crazy Love - Directed by Dan Klores

Just... whoa. This unflinching documentary by Dan Klores explores the shockingly grisly and obsessive relationship between Bronx-bred hellcat Burton Pugach and cheesecake stunner Linda Riss. The extremely unpleasant and godawful testimony zooms in on the heinous Pugach and the unfathomable manner in which he chose to put the hurt on the ravishing Riss, a vivacious cub of only twenty years with whom the loathsome lothario promptly fell into a deep and pathological one-sided love affair. From the onset of the feature, I was downright drawn in frame after frightening frame by simply listening to the twosome account for their outrageous history with a pair of matching Bronx brogues. As the narrative began to transit through to the alarming apex, my senses were slugged like a shot of gunpowder tea to the dome after a 4 a.m. wake-up call. If you decide to go into this movie with no prior knowledge of the disquieting duo, I can guarantee you will be served a scalding hot slice of startling true-life drama that is so dreadful and vile and yet somehow even poetic that, like me, you might even squeeze out a confused tear or two. Don't miss this truly bizarre psycho-saga, especially if you have ever been compelled to remain in a relationship with someone who has vocalized a threat along the lines of if I can't have you, no one can. As the complex layers evolve, you'll recognize in Burt the boisterous, misunderstood but still altogether insane crackpot you may have once known. You'll shiver at the recollection of the wacky-in-love hoodwinker with the warped romantic ideology: the dark obsession, the profound loneliness, the inevitable crime.

I give Crazy Love high marks for the method in which Klores chose to direct this atypical love story: It shocks you with an unorthodox tabloid-style strangeness (with a dab of comedic diversion thrown in for good measure), not the archetypal spine-chilling schlock scariness that would have undoubtedly been an easier avenue to traverse. The archival footage whisked in with the wacko-whimsy score that endlessly loops throughout the flick winks at the tale's '50s-'60s timewave with playful peculiarity, so at least you're not totally quaking under your quilt by the closing credits, afraid to take a midnight pee.

Tune in tomorrow for a discussion of one of my new best-loved jewels of the Mexploitation multiplex. You know who I'm talkin' about, and you know he don't text.

roadtrippin'

2011-02-28T12:42:00.000-08:00

Hey Boners! I need some snax 'n jamz'spiration for my impending roadtrip tomorrow. Six hours of high-voltage deviance, high-decibel Danzig, and some dope Doug Stanhope truth-spewin'. Oh yeah, don't forget the black coffee from Kum 'n Go that curiously tastes like BEEF. I'll be sure to (someday) fill you in on my thoroughly compelling discoveries in a state-by-state recapitulation. Til then...

What she said.

aphrodisiac attack!

2011-02-15T11:55:00.000-08:00

Warning! Shameless slatternly self-promulgation ahead:

Check out this article I wrote for Examiner.com on what else? Aphrodisiacs in your cosmetics, of course!

Key in some comments, "like" it on Facebook, subscribe to my articles - this all helps me rake in, like, hella pennies.

And if by reading my article you feel tempted to obtain some of those beautifying inventions for yourself, click on the links provided and score them at my Amazon store.

Ok enough! Now grab an umbrella and make it rain already!

And like you even need to ask. Of course this is how I write my inspirational war paint testimonials. I just feel it adds a sense of comfort and support not often found in the standard recliner littered with stale strips of turkey jerky and ancient Dorito dust.

heartbreak cake

2011-02-14T01:03:00.000-08:00

One Day: Mutual affection enfolds asphyxiating grasp over intertwined limbs; silky sunsets and solid gold romance supervene; intense re-christening ceremony commences: now we are Baby, Honey, Sugar, a veritable saccharine snowballing of confectionary epithets.

Some Day: Paroxysms of sobbing, my peculiar inamorato vaporizes...

my mane girl

2011-02-11T23:21:00.000-08:00

Today I get to spend time with someone who is both lusciously foxy and endlessly entertaining. A pleasure to dish with and a dazzling babe of phenomenal virtuosity, she graciously bestows upon me the contents within her magical treasure trove: the gifts of coiffure, color, compelling conversation, and ice cold mutha-effin' 40'z. Oh, and did I mention her scissor swagger is the biz? This killer kitty somehow managed to brilliantly save me from a tragic haircut that to this day still gives me blood-curdling chills when I come across it in old photos right before ripping them to shreds. Ladies, unless you are a trained professional, don't even think about fashioning up some homemade kitchen sink Bettie bangs. You'll look unspeakably ridiculous, and I don't want to have to snag the snapshots to further illustrate why it's a bad idea.

So Jen, you know I've been having a brunette moment lately, but how do you feel about this look down here? Nothing too flashy, maybe just a few of the ends severed off.

xoxo kitty cat!

barnacles!

2011-02-10T17:42:00.000-08:00

Life under the sea is far superior to anything up top. My sole and innocent intention on my trip to the Chinese Cherry Buffet was simply to maw down on a pangaea of divine deep sea delights, such as raw baby octopus, mussels, squid, shrimps, scallops, and sushi of all sort.

Beautiful and charming these succulent mollusks and their sucker-bearing tentacles may be, gorging out on brimfuls of briny smorgasbord delicacies was like a self-serve invitation to hell. Afterward, I waddled out of the joint clutching my roiling tummy like the gutless punk I am. Why is it every time I encounter a seafood buffet, my eyes light up like a twerked-out Lite Brite on crack?

As the sinister brood of saltwater crustaceans swimming around my stomach were plotting the rigors of some seriously fucked up poisonous death threnody, I managed to take a deep breath and remind myself that mermaids do this sort of thing all the time.

Sir Eats-A-Lot may have sagely warned my ass to slow down on the fetishization of these lip-smacking deep dive delectables. He might have told me to slow off on the sea cucumbers. The spicy bowls of tiny-fish stew. The wasabi-smothered seaweed mystery wraps. He might have been right. As it is, my mouth tastes like an aquarium, and just in time for Valentine's Day. Sufferin' seahorses!

The Eeyore of the deep sea. I feel your pain, bro. I truly do.

my friends are so depressed

2011-02-10T16:44:00.000-08:00

I feel the question of your loneliness / Confide 'cause I'll be on your side / You know I will . . .

You ever really take the time to think back about your friends? Not your buddies-for-life friends, but the random pile of people with whom you've somehow formed a fondness for? I've been pondering this a lot lately. Why do I adore the people I adore? Who are they? What do they bring to the table that I covet so much - whether it's just being randomly cordial while riding the bus to work, or exchanging revisionist history over pints in a murky booze-induced haze at some hometown watering hole?

I'm proud to break bread with a multifaceted crew of characters: sometimes sweet, sometimes degenerate, mostly unsavory, always odd, and some even truly frightening. The most common theme of these relationships is that somehow, for some reason, we have always managed to drift apart. Sometimes I isolate myself from others for reasons I can't really identify. Sometimes these friendships turn into throbbing obsessions and no matter how much I try to will some sucker to stray, friends who were once friends can suddenly turn into wrathful enemies; fuming forces to be reckoned with, and boy do they want you to feel it.

Never before had the experience of making, loving, listening, eavesdropping, admiring, and even steering clear of friends been more of an eye-opening experience than when I worked for a few years at D.C.'s notorious Pleasure Place. It was at the tender age of nineteen that I would come to find out which personalities I find truly magnetic. I've come to know and befriend a mixed bag of both sweetly bizarro and charmed seekers of the absurd (these drifter types being somewhat like me) but more often than not I run into the addicts, the anarchists, the people who hold a genuine contempt for society, the grifters, the delusional freaks who revel in sick scenarios; stewing, paranoid individuals for whom to them being a friend is practically synonymous with being a monster. Why is that?

Some highlights:

Throughout my days and nights at the Pleasure Place, I came to befriend an insane Brazilian expat model living between L.A. and D.C. who constantly crowed of her plans to seduce her married therapist. Meanwhile, she was fleshing out a plan to wed her own English lover so he could obtain U.S. citizenship. Off work, we would play dirty cards, drink Maker's Mark, and knock back overflowing glasses of in-fashion beers at their tony townhouse. They would regale me with lurid accounts of self-performed adult circumcision (him - "Fuck right it bloody hurt! But I'd been yanking at it [ahem, the foreskin] for as long as I could bloody remember, then it finally just came off!") or vaginal fisting (her - "I just love the idea of his dexterity inside me!" she'd wail). Then we'd get stoned, make pizza rolls, and play "Who'd You Rather?" before calling it a night and catching some winks.

She, along with most of the rest of the staff, despised a certain bitchy male nurse who routinely snapped cell phone shots of his patient's (victim's?) genitals at the hospital, then promptly dissolved into hysterical laughter when he arrived at work to scroll through his shots, splitting his sides until breathless and bright-faced, clutching onto the Tight Tiger Pussy Cream counter to rein himself in as the rest of us threw him some shade.

My favorite gal, an angelically serene young babe, came in bright and cheery one hot summer night and proudly declared that she no longer planned to exist as a 'she,' but that 'she' was now going to live out the remainder of her life as a 'he.' He hadn't gone through with the reversal operation yet, but was already experimenting with a new series of trial hormones and masculine pronouns. I will say it was difficult to imagine this already puerile looking female choosing a new boyish name over her already boyish moniker. Slip-ups were easy, but he didn't seem to mind much, because we still chowed on cheese fries with ranch dip at the Silver Diner like clockwork after every scandal-filled Friday nightowl shift. This is approximately around the time I started referring to all my guy and gal pals as "Dude."

There were others, too, these friends of mine. I associated with sub rosa homo thugs who considerately bought me the occasional coffee, but wouldn't think twice about having me murked had I sold their true identities out. I had an all-time favorite boss who fucked random mattress actresses and Dick Nastys at Vegas porn conventions and chose to document it to celluloid while her husband back home waited for her (sadly, we called him Juice Box, for that's how childish he seemed to us, always waiting around for this woman who was clearly more like his mommy than a marital partner). Then there was the pretentious poetry loving sapphic sister who, after blubbering because I reminded her that it probably wasn't the wisest decision to allow a group of dudes to try on thong bathing suits without wearing any tightie whities underneath (I'm such a buzzkill, gosh) refused to speak to me ever again. EVER. And then there was me, the prudish prig who acquired the job only to demonstrate to herself that spread and stretched porno vagina was not the same thing as sloppy open-faced roast beef sammiches, much as it appeared so, and thus I needn't be frightened by female genitalia anymore.

I encountered deranged hookers. Hookers who got their rocks off by flashing me the honey pot then slipping me a twenty spot. Hookers who let their sweaty pimps drag them around the store by their weaves like whimpering hound dogs. Hookers who were proud to flash their freshly purchased pneumatic knockers, inviting us to give a squeeze if we pleased. (We pleased). Slippery pimps with even slipperier jheri curls who handed out suave velvet business cards and whispered in honeycomb pimp tones the assurances that our backs would be had, should for some reason a time come when we might not be needing them (or, presumably, our ponytails if we didn't make quota...harsh!)

I was once shocked to see a former friend I used to work with at a lowbrow lingerie boutique come in one evening accompanied by her newly-acquired madam, a grizzled no-nonsense chola in a tatty business suit. They were shopping for a new rubber ensemble and were on their way to meet up with my friend's next john, who she explained as a guy who gave her an insane sum of bills to simply squat over his face and fart with as much audible potential as possible, the louder and wetter, apparently, the better. The madam asked if I'd be interested in a new line of work, though for some unknown reason I declined. I bid them a fond farewell as they walked out in search of the nearest Taco Loco.

I witnessed violent thieving transvestites fucked up on poppers, PCP, and platforms (FYI, dangerous combo). I met every kind of freaked-out hustler trying to scam on me in any way conceivable. Promises of hooking jobs, exotic dancing gigs, Penthouse pictorials, the whole slinky triple-X shebang (if only I would go upstairs with him next door... It would just take a minute, mamí... But I would have to go alone... Unless I had an adventurous amiga...? In the astute words of Cher Horowitz, "As if!")

I worked with some of the whitest Howard University students who fully admitted cloak-and-dagger style that the only reason they chose that educational institution in the first place was to attain some 'street cred,' yet after trying it on for so long and attempting to navigate the foreign politics of Georgia Avenue with little success, they privately seethed with contempt at their black classmates (who also happened to be their fellow co-workers). This caused for some minor discomfort when black Howard students wondered aloud why white Howard students had even chosen that college in the first place. It suddenly became very evident that it is only within the realm of porn that racial barriers truly get smashed. Uh heh heh...

I met customers who crawled in from some of the pissiest corners of civilization, people who felt that in the safety of the store, with me playing the part of the (sexy redheaded) therapist, they could divulge their every fear, desire, sexual perversion, fantasy, and freaked-out fetish. Not to mention what they felt they could show me. Actual Poloroids of unknowing (I presume) spouses sporting nothing but nipple clamps, a ball-gag, and a horizontal smile. And one favorite customer of mine, a guy who documented his increasing-in-size bride, would proudly flip through his parade of sordid portraits chronicling his wife's amplified abdomen. Boy did he get what he was aiming for, because the proof really was in the pudding, so to speak. As her bosoms began to balloon, he practically foamed at the mouth, pointing to her corpulent breadbasket and sighing, tears of love practically bursting from of his baby blues.

I spoke with dozens of hot & bothered housewives who felt compelled to share with me their every sexual neuroses and, in one case, possible psychosis. "My husband wants me to dress like a stuffed rabbit. What does that even mean?" or "My husband is always trying to convince me to do butt sex, but every time he tries I start seeing stars, then I mysteriously black out."

Sorry folks, but the numbing truth is out there:

One of the most frightening moments of my life happened on a mild spring morning when I was alone in the store, minding my own beeswax, dancing along to J. Lo on the loudspeakers, ensuring that the electric blue g-strings clashed just right with the zebra print booty shorts. Before I could even scream out in spine-shivering surprise, I discovered one of my regulars standing in front of me. He wasn't just any regular, he was the extremely wealthy but elderly limping palsy sufferer who crammed his shaking and distorted feet into some of our spikiest high-heeled fetish stilettos. Accompanying him was yet another one of his freshly procured teenaged twinkie boy toys wearing daisy dukes and a purple glitter crop-top, the look made complete with a bleach blonde buzzcut and a wad of fragrant fruity chewing gum bubbling out of his M.A.C. lip-glassed mouth every few seconds until POP! He then rolled his gum back between his pink-lacquered smackers and continued chomping, feigning total boredom, not unlike a teenaged girl shopping for diapers with grandpa when she'd rather be rollerskating or disco dancing or smoking meth or whatever the kids do these days.

"Hi! One Magnum pleeeaaase," the older gentleman trilled as he plunked an expensive and horrifyingly girthsome dong of doom on the counter (faux glued-on blonde pubes thoughtfully included). His voice was warbly, womanly, and altogether terrifying. I don't know why, but I guess I kinda considered this eerie gent my friend in a way. It was almost as if I grew up with him on teevee, as he sort of resembled Roseanne's mother Bev, but with a slightly more fabulous wig. I ran into him all the time and besides, I knew all his ditzy twinks by their sparkly street names, not to mention the width of their wands.

Hmm... I'm still trying to come to a reasonable conclusion as to why I embrace these outlaw professions and the people who keep them in operation.

More steamy accounts to follow in the future...

(This is a companion piece to How Stella Got Her Tube Packed, an article I wrote back in '09).

I love all of them / Hurt by the cold / So hard and lonely too / When you don't know yourself

- rhcp

pasta la vista, tre

2011-02-09T21:24:00.000-08:00

I have a 12:00 a.m. deadline 'til my article on organic eyelash lube is due and all I care to focus on is setting my alarm for Top Chef. I can't say I was surprised that Tre was the Top Bottom last week, but I was a little hurt by the venomous treatment he received at judge's table. Damn, throw dude a thuggish ruggish bone already. It's not like his chow could have been that much more revolting than any of the other randomly rancid clouds of smoke mushrooming out of any of the remaining twat swabs' saucepans and stewpots.

Two things:

a) I am in seventh heaven this week knowing that Fat Mike and Angry Dale are still here, because if those two mouthy fatasses got iced out over a cooking competition based on Jimmy fuckin' Fallon's barfday lunch, you'll find me hissing in NBC's general direction for yet another goofy TV tie-in that makes about as much sense as Isaac frakin' Mizrahi's flagrant Targhetto presence during the Quickfire Challenge last week. Where in the mother of pearl was Bourdain at?

and 2) I'm chaining down my face furniture with old school librarian peeper protectors until further notice. I'm tired of my slippery enamel eyeglasses crashin' deep down in the commode and puncturing those painstakingly created 2-ply paper barriers I've thoughtfully built to deflect any seat scariness, imaginary or not. I'm frightened by the unknown. So fuckin what?

clean them palates, bitches!

2011-02-02T20:50:00.000-08:00

Wrangle up your stray dildos and discarded cats, fortify yourself with a hastily smacked together sawdust sandwich, insert that body you carry around into your favorite neon bean bag chair and prepare to be mesmerized by the mannequin crotch-like smoothness of Padma's forehead (which, incidentally, is so cute I could eat it with a spoon). It's All-Star time, bitches!

It's magic making night in the Top Chef boom boom room, and now that Marcel's gangsta lean has been given a swift kick into the big black douchy cauldron of culinary doom, who's next on the line? Do I even care? Before I answer my own question, allow me to take a brief moment of silence to drool over the meaty charms of Spike. . . Oh yeah, now I remember why I care.

For the record, Spike's early dismissal still really burns my biscuits. I mean, was Jamie ever even a real contestant, or were her crimes of dishing just shiny thumb-like objects dangled in front of viewers' faces to arouse kittenish pounce-like reactions of unsheathed fury when the reasonably talented cooks were recklessly tossed aside like her "whatever" wet celery salad?

Ahh, Top Chef. It's not easy, and it is far from pleasant, but still I find myself unable to disentangle myself from this All-Star clusterfuck web you weave.

But for the record... Go Angelo!

And in case you forgot why:

Got that?

'frobacks!

2009-05-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

Studying for finals is boring. I mean, damn! How many A's does one broad really need? (...whomp whomp). All this studying has me reminiscing about the summer of '94, circa back in the day, when the only studying I participated in revolved around my personal investigation into Marlena's puzzling demonic possession on Days of Our Lives (seriously...the fuck?) and my studious memorization of BET's Top 25 Countdown.

Aside from creating a makeshift sanitarium in our living room to deflect the murderous intentions of a newly acquired feral feline friend, it was also the first summer Big Jer and I familiarized ourselves with cable TV, though we still enjoyed tuning in to the local broadcast stations now and again to witness fools destroy the art of Plinko. Come to think of it, truer nuggets of gold have never been spoken when Bob thoughtfully reminded the viewers at home to help control the pet population by shanking balls and yanking walls. Alakazzam!

Basically, what I'm trying to say is this: In order to fully appreciate the following mixtape, you're gonna wanna mix up a big batch of red Kool-Aid & claim dibs on those packets of cured ham you know you've been stashing away in the margarine bin for a stoney afternoon (you know you have). Then, just like Xscape suggested, kick off your shoes & relax your feets to this captivating collection of bumpin' throwback jamz. And remember kids, the line between "throwback" and "jam" is so fine even Whitney wouldn't snort it (oh really?) so use caution when attempting to recapture your sunny youth with this formula at home, because probably not all of these songs are even from '94 (eat me).

the throwback mixture!

(alternately known as the "clearly i have too much time on my hands" mix)

Ill Na Na - Foxy Brown & Method Man

Right Here - SWV

Ask of You - Raphael Saadiq

Thuggish Ruggish Bone - Bone Thugs 'N Tasha

Who Can I Run To - Xscape

Bag Lady - Erykah Badu

Around the Way Girl - LL Cool J

Love You Down - INOJ

Paper Thin - MC Lyte

One Time 4 Your Mind - Nas

Spydermann - Another Badd Creation

Poison - Bel Biv DeVoe

The City is Mine - Jay-Z

You Used to Love Me - Faith Evans

Baby-Baby-Baby - TLC

Sexy Noises Turn Me On - Salt-N-Pepa

Can't You See - Notorious B.I.G. & Total

This Lil' Game We Play - Subway & 702

Sweet Thing - Mary J. Blige

Flava In Ya Ear - Craig Mack

At Your Best You Are Love - Aaliyah

Push play L O U D !!!

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

i love you, jean grae

2009-04-24T21:02:00.001-07:00

How's everything in the pimp business?

dimebags, dames & dives

2009-04-20T22:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-12T21:17:00.000-07:00

Eatin' snacks & takin' naps, hellz yeah!

Hope your Easter spread was scrumptious.

how stella got her tube packed

2009-04-10T19:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-08T21:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-04T23:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-03T10:59:00.000-07:00

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.

1-900-Grustlin'

2009-03-01T01:03:00.000-08:00

I am one of those chicks that apparently lacks the ability to make a long-term commitment to a 9-5 grind. I have made some creative career choices over the years and my multiple personality-suffering résumé belabors this point. I've been collecting paychecks since I was sixteen, and now some ten years later, I can cross off cocktail waitress, cubicle queen, kid wrangler, motel cleaning goddess, retail guru, phlebotomy vamp, porn peddler, dildo expert, librarian and data entry diva, not to mention myriad placements in temp-job hell, off my list of gigs worthy of pursuing (and hopefully not revisiting). That being said, one hustle that has always appealed to me is that of Phone Sex Artist, à la Judy in Spike Lee's Girl 6. Imagine if retro telephones in shades of periwinkle and Pepto-pink truly did rain from the sky and Naomi Campbell actually had the decency to take over your heavy breathing while you smoked a joint in the ladies room. Working from home would take on a whole new meaning as you simply yawn smutty clichés to sex-starved hucksters whilst fanning stacks of bills over your freshly polished fingernails as episodes of Dynasty play out on your newly acquired flat-screen TV. I suppose I always have had an irresistible attraction to smutty romantic dramedies that glamorize the sex trade industry. Who do I have to call to get hired already?

Here's a sleazy assortment of phone sex jams to inspire lusty language:

Love Thirst - Jean Grae

Naughty Girl - Beyoncé

Lovely Lady - Kool Keith

Black Shampoo - Wu Tang Clan

Money Make Me Come - Rick Ross & EbonyLove

I Will Take That Ride - Betty Davis

Darling Nikki - Prince

AA XXX - Peaches

Video Phone - Beyoncé

Nasty Girl - Vanity 6

Hot Spot - Foxy Brown

Pussy, Money, Weed - Lil Wayne

Sex Shooter - Vanity 6

Tennessee Slim Is The Bomb - Joi

Hello Operator - White Stripes

On The Hotline - Pretty Ricky

High Price - Ciara

Strangers - Portishead

Caress Me Down - Sublime

Splash Waterfalls - Luda!

Discipline - Miss Janet if u nasty

Erotic - Keyshia Cole

Hardly Wait - PJ Harvey

"Uh huh... 36DDD... Of course I'm rubbing them..."

you know the drill

2009-02-24T07:49:00.000-08:00

Dentists are vicious whores and Satan is their pimp. Iceberg Slim ain't got nuthin' on these bitches. I hate them all.

dear rihanna,

2009-02-23T12:49:00.000-08:00

As the esteemed $hort Dawg once poetically schooled Kelis: Bitch! Tell that man you a boss bitch! Make some noise, raise your hand if you a boss bitch! I don't think he understands you a BOSS BITCH!

examining the oscars

2009-02-22T23:55:00.000-08:00

Watching the Oscars is like going to the gynecologist. No one likes it, but we still do it once a year anyway. I hate myself for tuning in, and when Hugh Jackman thanked me at the end of the broadcast for making it through this crap fiesta, I said "No Hugh, thank you for wasting three hours out of my life I'll never get back. And for forcing me to consume an entire bag of Kettle Kurls just to remain semi-conscious. And in my good sweatsuit!"

Unfortunately, my homie Mickey Rourke didn't take home the golden nude dude that he totally deserved. Fortunately for me, however, was that he was at least able to showcase his stunning sense of style: the sweaty weave, the stunna shades, the Al Bundy hands in the pants stance, the chains and the pointy pleather boots. What can I say? It works for me. He wins the coveted Dapqueen Dapper Dan Award. Don't sweat it, Mick, you earned it!

The Dapqueen Dame Diva Award was a little harder to narrow down. While I was completely drawn in by the gothic '80s prom vibe Marion Cotillard was sporting and the creamy dreamy swagger of Taraji P. Henson, it was of course Angelina Jolie's elegant impression of an evil Disney sorceress that made me cackle with delight. Her look was made complete with a witchy black gown, over the top emerald jewels and some wicked looking combed-back villain bangs, not to mention that trademark expression of carefully measured insanity on her face. Angelina, you are the shit and you know this. That is why only you deserve the Dapqueen Dame Diva Award!

Honorable Mentions:

Beyoncé Knowles, Anjelica Huston, Anne Hathaway

You broads are supremely foxy for sure, but how could you have predicted Angelina was receiving fashion advice from Cinderella's backstabbing army of sewing mice? Those meddling rats.

repressions of a beauty product slut: part 1

2009-02-22T15:55:00.000-08:00

I have a confession: I'm a beauty junkie with a pretty severe habit and product is my poison. Whether I'm lurking the aisles of Rite-Aid at midnight or balling out at Sephora in broad daylight, one thing is for certain: You'd best believe imma get my fix! I'm mesmerized by glosses and glitter, powders and polishes, faux eyelashes and fancy packaging. I'm a sucker for glamour, and even though I don't layer on cosmetics everyday, I make up for it with heavy experimentation (not to be confused with a heavy hand, ladies... psych!) If you ask me, perfectly coiffed eyebrows are crucial for a compelling beauty look, and if you don't complete your routine with a trannylicious mega-arch, then why even bother? The only other accent necessary for truly completing a look is a couple inky coatings of ebony mascara. In my mind, mascara application is equal parts art and science. Of course, the resulting effect, however, is pure sex. It goes without saying that when contemplating mascaras, as with men, the choice between length and volume is not always an obvious one. You can have length, you can have volume, but 9 times out of 10, you cannot have both (unless you're me). So, choose your wands wisely, women. The soulful Leroy Sibbles of the Heptones once crooned "Purrty looks isn't all" and the Maybelline Define-A-Lash Mascara packaging proves his wisdom as fact. If you're trying to keep those purse strings on a short leash, you can still afford to coat your fringe with this delicious drugstore dime piece. Like most awesome inventions, its packaging is budget and gaudy, but I personally guarantee that it curls and twirls like a pearl. Whether it's Maybelline or M.A.C., I love all my mascaras the same, but different. Just like little tube babies. Wow. Moving on...

(Boi-oi-oiingg!!)

Now, if you're like me, you save your various loose coins and paper money in a sleazy NYC Chinatown coffee cup and hide it away until you have accumulated enough dough for this amazing purchase I plan to exchange bankroll for in the very near future: How rad is it that Too Faced has dreamed up this Mood Swing Emotionally Activated Lip Gloss featuring the très gorgeous Smurfette! Not only are they taking it all the way back to the Saturday morning cartoon freak within me, but a flash in the pan nod to the quixotic mood ring, too?! This mouth-watermelon'ing flav shimmers on your smackers in a Smurf-blue hue, then depending on your mood, activates to various shades of Smurfberry pink. Cop a color wheel, friendo, cuz my lips speak Smurf now, swak you very much.

bad bitch # 1: beyoncé

2009-02-21T15:30:00.000-08:00

Well, Valentine's Day has come and gone and I'm in a bit of a sentimental mood. Let's gush! Anybody who knows me knows that Beyoncé is my Queen. She is radiantly electric and over the top glamorous, two qualities I can appreciate in my #1 bad beyotch. This gal is a do-it-all diva to the max: She sings hit songs in a devastatingly hypnotic mezzo soprano, designs alluring fashions, and vamps it on a regular for modeling gigs such as L'Oréal. She even emulates famous broads like Diana Ross (lol @ her performance as Deena Jones in Dreamgirls... what. the. hell.) and Etta James (or. something...) Anyway, I got some hot off the press news: If you haven't already checked out the soundtrack to Cadillac Records, then get to steppin'. It was an unexpected delight to discover this collection of gems inspired by Etta James and interpreted by Queen B, especially after the double disappointment of the double disc Sasha Fierce. You know, the record I was HIGHLY anticipating practicing my painstakingly choreographed Destiny's Child dance moves in front of the mirror to, but turned out to be an epic hardcore suckfest. As an obsessive Beyoncé stan, I cannot express how deep my hatred for If I Were A Boy and Single Ladies (Put A Cock Ring On It) goes. On the other hand, the song Hello not surprisingly does it for me, as I easily geek out to songs with a showtunes-vibe. I hope the next record Bey drops will be in the same vein as Dangerously In Love, a truly superb album filled with old-school R&B diamonds and practically zero zirconia (we won't discuss Signs, mmkay?) Top three jams off the Dangerously In Love record: Be With You, Hip-Hop Star, Baby Boy

Here is a magical treasure from the Cadillac Records release entitled All I Could Do Was Cry. Don't sleep.

dapqueen cinema: flick i dig

2009-02-08T21:30:00.000-08:00

Nothing matches the magic of watching a motion picture in the theatre. Today I got high off the aroma of hot buttered corn, slurped a turbo gulp, munched out on the tranny-fat snacks I smuggled in past the brood of unsmiling teenagers at the ticket rip-off booth, and leaned back to a hot sizzling cheese-atrical motion feature presentation called The Wrestler. This badass slice of cinema stars three rad movie stars I love, acting the roles of three timeless characters I never tire of: 1) Mickey Rourke as the fantastically delightful Randy "The Ram" Robinson, a kickass deli employee by day and superstar pro-wrestler by night; 2) Marisa Tomei as Cassidy/Pam, the stripper with the heart of gold and the yabbos of Betty White (and one badass bitch for shaking it to Lil Wayne in a greasy Jersey tittay bar) and 3) Evan Rachel Wood, bringing it in yet another tearjerker performance, this time as The Ram's emotionally distant, abandoned lesbian daughter Stephanie. Motorcycle Boy aka Mickey Roids obviously has insane amounts of charisma and athletic finesse, but it's his ability to express the downtrodden underdog we can all empathize with that really sets my coal black heart ablaze. If you're in the mood for a grimy sports drama mixed with powerfully emotional metaphors about the strange and sad plight of a sacrificial ram called Randy, then this is your joint.

Pros: Gory wrestling footage, groovy glitter spandex outfits, sweet bleach blonde weave, Jersey accents, hot soundtrack (Ratt, Scorpions, Quiet Riot, whaaat!!!)

Cons: Zilcho, buddy.

blunt gut remnants: hullo '09

2009-02-07T23:27:00.000-08:00

This year I really need to chill out on my vices. Somewhere along the way I've (d)evolved into a certified hot ass mess. It's finally hit me that my entire existence revolves around smoking blunts, popping pills, and basically behaving like a drunken reprobate. When did it start to seem reasonable to coax myself up in the morning with a wake & bake date with my bong and the Sci-Fi channel? Followed by a dose of Adderall, a sour apple Philly, a couple Vicodins, a packet of menthols, an afternoon makeout session with some dude named Jack Daniels, a couple hearty swills from the ol' PM 'Tussin vessel, an Ambien or four at bedtime, and a double shot whisky nightcap to wash it all down.

OK sure, it's not like I'm sniffing asbestos or smoking weave glue... yet. I'm not convinced pot is a "gateway drug," but apparently I have an "addictive personality." Never mind that my brain probably closely resembles something like that of a Teenaged Mutant Ninja Retard, but I've pretty much forgotten what it feels like to wake up and get excited about the day ahead of me without relying on chemical crutches to catapult my wobbly hungover ass up. The funny thing is, it's not even exciting anymore, it's just kind of pathetic. Even my cat gives me the side eye, and she spends most of her free time lounging spread-eagle and licking her own chocha (cats have so much game it's not even funny).

So... today is day 22 of not smoking my trashy ass faux-mint flavored cigarettes. Not a puff, not a drag. Just good old fashioned cold turkey squashing the habit. That being said, it's going to be harder for me to quit choking bowls with pals, just because I genuinely relate to my fellow 'heads. We're, like, artists, man! And by artists I mean layabouts - we'd rather sigh deeply and hurl a piece of cheese at the TV in a fit of rage when the 3 a.m. BowFlex commercials start up, but still we refuse to locate the clicker from the depths of the couch cushions to switch the station. We plunge ever deeper into our nocturnal despair as we realize our view of the bottle blonde with the bulging biceps is obscured by a slice of Swiss. I've come to the conclusion this lifestyle of mine is a major hiccup in my strategy to become a wealthy gentleman's concubine of leisure, as I've gotten to the point where it's infinitely more important to get stoned and acquire an ambrosial buzz before class everyday than it is to study, stay focused, and systematically remember to apply wrinkle cream. Plus, I once read that cheese causes cellulite to flare up in the strangest of places. This saddens me A LOT.

In conclusion, my resolution for 2009: It's time for a change. YES I CAN!

P.S. Welcome to my BLOG. Oh, how I loathe that word.