screenland!

love, adore, etc.

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!

literate smut: tinseltown - take 1!

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!

strip sequence

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

(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!

roadtrippin'

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!

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.

my mane girl

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!

my friends are so depressed

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

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?

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.

examining the oscars

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.