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!

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?

clean them palates, bitches!

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?

dimebags, dames & dives

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

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

Lots of spare change...

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

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

Time To Get Tough - The Aggrolites

100 Yard Dash - Raphael Saadiq

Midnight Blues - Detroit Cobras

Is It You? - Vic Ruggiero & Lisa

Got To Give It Up - The Dirtbombs

You're Wondering Now - Amy Winehouse

Where Eagles Dare - The Misfits

A Little Bit of Arson - Matson Jones

Four Kicks - Kings of Leon

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

Pure Dirt - Dragbeat

Boogie Chillun - The Gories

Hand Springs - The White Stripes

Uptown Top Ranking - Althea & Donna

Gentleman Junkie - White Zombie

Anti-Love Song - Betty Davis

It Happens All the Time - Wanda Jackson

It Was You (Outtake) - Aretha Franklin

Need U Bad - Jazmine Sullivan

Dance Hall Music - Murder City Devils

Dollar In My Pocket - The Come Ons

I Can't Stop Thinking About It - The Dirtbombs

Corpus Christi - Miss Derringer

23rd & 2nd Avenue - Vic Ruggiero

Too Hot - The Specials

Wreckless Love - Alicia Keys

You Can't Turn Me Away - Sylvia Stipplen

objet d'barf

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

Hair Bows

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

Tabloids

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

Incense

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

Ding!

repressions of a beauty product slut: smell this

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

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

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

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

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

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

repressions of a beauty product slut: part 1

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.

blunt gut remnants: hullo '09

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.