I realize that I have been a negligent blogger, a virtual ne'er do well, leaving you eager readers in the lurch for what feels like an eternity (some weeks). As I support myself by writing, the lure of the almighty dollar trumps non-paid writing pursuits when time has limits. The nerve of time and materialism! How DO they continue to impose on us?
Besides, I'm finding this whole enterprise in need of a facelift. As the client once said to the dirty hooker, who wouldn't benefit from a refresh every now and again? I'm getting a new back-end (I know, say WHA? Don't be jealous), so I can live up to my primary obligation as your one and only rumpshaker. So while I'm hard at work repurposing this purpose, I hope you all will be gracious enough to return when I'm again ready to start assaulting you with my pithy pearls of poo-poo.
In the meantime, my friend Karina sent me this lil' gem, which I will now pass on to you as just reward for your continued loyalty. I don't know about you all, but I could use a spritz of this stuff myself right about now.
Hello? How are you? Have you been alright? Through all those....whatever.
I'm in a lyrical way today. Who the fuck am I kidding? I've been in a lyrical way since I came out of my mother screeching a rousing rendition of "(Sitting On) The Dock of the Bay." The nurses didn't slap me, they sang back-up.
There was a time when I knew what music was going to happen before it actually did. With no Facebook or Twitter or twatter to tell me what was whom, I was out in clubs, seeing bands, scouring my surroundings for the next big thing to love and promote. You had to put in the time, son. You had to get off your ass, reach deep inside of you and actually give a shit.
Many of us overindulge in the music of our quarter life crisis to ease the pain that is our midlife crisis. And that's a-okay. But I bore easily and like to shake shit up in my aural cavity.
Thanks to my hepcat friends and Pandora, I still occasionally come across some sounds that inspire me enough to say so. And as your premiere purveyor pimp of all things pop culture, I'm hoping that you'll lend an ear to these golden nuggets of promise. After all, talent is a terrible thing to waste.
You will have these songs in your head ALL DAY and I promise, you'll thank me for offering these alternative over Rhianna's incessant bleating about diamonds as metaphor for rock.
And when these acts all blow up and accept their awards next year, just remember.. I TOLD YOU SO.
Thanks to my bestie from another nestie Phyllis, I got to see this one-man band at Joe's Pub a few weeks back and he blew my brain wide open. The vocals! The unbridled talent! The hilarious sense of humor! The Hubs is fazed by next to nothing and even HE loved this guy. Behold, the almighty Bernhoft. You're welcome.
"Retrograde" is a haunting and beautiful song that is only eclipsed by a brilliant afterschool special of a video that will leave you with many burning questions. Is he in love with the deaf girl? Did the comet hit the house? Or was it "the bomb?" What kind of 80s fantasy are we made privy to here? Why the fuck is everything frozen in mid-air? See and hear for yourself.
Last night, my awesome friend Karina took me to The Paley Center for Media to see a talk with Fred Armisen, the comic genius on SNL and co-creator/writer/star of Portlandia, a funny show that just bagged the prestigious Writer's Guild Award last week.
Aside from being one of those people who can tickle a giggle out of an innocent bystander with a mere side-eye, you have to dig the fact that instead of using SNL as a springboard to a career of cheap rom-com clichés, he opted instead to foster the DIY spirit of his Trenchmouth days by hanging out with his friend Carrie and making videos for shits and grins, which is honestly how Portlandia began. Award or no, Armisen and Brownstein make a delicious mockery of Gen X and we just can't get enough of our own stupidity. Say what you will of the "slacker" generation, but at least we aren't too lazy to laugh at ourselves.
Take this clip. I dare you to find one parent who hasn't lived this scene to the fullest.
To continue on this theme, leave it to Louis CK, the high priest of parenting paradigms, to preach about life when your kids get a little older. It all comes down to what you put in your ass.
Finally, any and all of you know I have mad respect for a baller. After all, it takes "chicken" balls like Paula Deen's to pull a gangsta move and imbibe on the job. Just listen to her say "hon-ye." Mad respect!
Early Spring my AHHHHHS, I can hear half of my Masshole compadres muttering into the freezing air, causing clouds of condensation vapor that reek of Dunkie's "regulah".
We hear you. We New Yorkers just got our asses kicked by Sandy. Sandy is a pouffed out hooker in pleather jeans who chops off the filter of her cigarettes with a shiv. Nemo is an orange clown fish, mmmmn'kay? You are about to get your ahhhhses kicked by an orange clown fish. Exactly where is it written that mothernature isn't also a motherfucker?
Well, as long as you have a TV you can wile away the time watching Downton Abbey. Your kids won't understand what the hell those posh peeps are saying anyway. If they need a Downton all their own, simply queue up this delight, brought to you by the fine folks at Sesame Street.
No Butt Crack Allowed!
If you're REALLY bored, you can also watch the Grammys. I KNOW those of you who share my jaded demographic checkbox just yawned out a big fat "So. The. Fuck. WHAT." And, aside from watching Dave Grohl do anything, it's about to get even more boring. Deadline.com obtained a copy of of an edited email sent out by CBS, basically ordering artists to keep their skank stench to themselves and cover up their nethers. I understand their concern. After all, among female performers, pants have long become a thing of the past.
Date: February 5, 2013, 10:39:56 PM EST Subject: 55th GRAMMYS: Standard And Practice Wardrobe Advisory
-kindly confirm receipt of s&p standards-
***GRAMMYS 2013***
CBS Program Practices advises that all talent appearing on camera please adhere to Network policy concerning wardrobe.
Please be sure that buttocks and female breasts are adequately covered. Thong type costumes are problematic. Please avoid exposing bare fleshy under curves of the buttocks and buttock crack. Bare sides or under curvature of the breasts is also problematic. Please avoid sheer see-through clothing that could possibly expose female breast nipples. Please be sure the genital region is adequately covered so that there is no visible "puffy" bare skin exposure. Please avoid commercial identification of actual brand name products on T-shirts. Foreign language on wardrobe will need to be cleared. OBSCENITY OR PARTIALLY SEEN OBSCENITY ON WARDROBE IS UNACCEPTABLE FOR BROADCAST. This as well, pertains to audience members that appear on camera. Finally, The Network requests that any organized cause visibly spelled out on talent's wardrobe be avoided. This would include lapel pins or any other form of accessory.
No sideboob, no ass crack, no FUPA - so where's the rock 'n roll? In the minds of babes, that's where. Like, 6-year old babes. It's amazing what kids can do with the disadvantage of being fully clothed and the aid of supportive parents. Lena Dunham, look out girl!
I love the SAG awards but after experiencing Fey and Poehler at the helm of the Globes, I found myself bored shitless. Tina still managed to salvage the night, in how she shared her award with Amy Poehler: "I've known you since you were pregnant with Lena Dunham."
If you missed it, that was the best part.
Thus far this season, Portlandia has been on fire. And speaking of fire, here's a PSA that warns what might happen to your digestive system if you overload it with fruits and veggies, as I probably should do.
To also aid in your digestion, here's a heaping serving of FISH darlings. That's right, a lil' tease of what's to come this season on RuPaul's Drag Race. Ever since I met her, ah-hem, back in the DAY, I've got nothing but big love for Ms Ru. My girls are all a tingle for the premiere tonight on Logo and rumor has it, there's even a Vivie on there this season. If you haven't yet indulged in this total tuckfest, please do. You're welcome. May the best woman win!
Finally, here's some coffee to wash it all down. I'm one of those people with a despicable Starbucks addiction. So much so that my dear friend Jennifer Perillo of In Jennie's Kitchen lovingly refers to me as a "soy latte sipping whore." What can I say? She knows the secrets to the universe in and out of the kitchen. I'm a complete hooker for caffeination all decorated with flavors and soy milk. Whether you love or hate the BUX, here's a little something for you, courtesy of Saturday Night Live.
You know I'm your girl for nourishment. Have a great week, party people!
It's not everyday a gal gets an apology and propers from Howard Stern. They don't call his flat ass Stern for nothing! But Lena Dunham, in all her innate talent and underdog-who-won-the-race charm, totes pulled it off. A Golden Globe will check a bitch every single time!
Stern had called Dunham a "little fat chick" before watching the show. But once he saw Dunham and Company in all their witty, flagrant glory, he changed his mind. Like the rest of us, he says he is now addicted to the show, he totally "gets" her and thinks she's "terrific."
Dunham came back with, "I'm not that fat, Howard. I'm not super-thin, but I'm think for, like, Detroit." Let's ponder that a moment, shall we? Try and get past the "like" she tossed in, for one.
I say thank you Lena, for keeping it all so real in work and in life. Fuck Howard, his ilk and the anorexic show ponies they ride. Don't play the game. Throw some perspective into things, for all of our sakes - for our daughter's sake.
However be warned: If you take up Pilates and end up on a magazine cover with your Tracy Anderson carved tight-ass cheeks hanging out, clad in nothing but a belly shirt that displays your six-pack like a luxury vehicle, and extolling a menu that consists of nothing more than leafy greens and 6 oz of flavorless grilled chicken, I will personally hunt you down, sit on you and force feed you Shake Shack. And I'll make you like it.
I don't know about you, but I feel at last that my refusal to abstain from bacon and Jacques Torres is redeemed. About 20 years too late, but better late than never.
Pumping the Wah Wah Pedal
God I miss guitar solos. I posted this on Facebook and my friend Peter, who I can always count on in times like these, came forth with this little beauty. Sit down ladies and gays, he bares thigh! In the immortal words of Robert Plant, "Does anybody remember laughter?"
Finally, here's my Golden Globes recap, a few days late but NEVER a penny short.
Tina & Amy have to host everything from now on. That's what they get for actually being funny.
Tommy Lee Jones clearly needed a refill.
Jessica Chastain and Jennifer Lawrence need new stylists.
Ben Affleck really IS better than you.
Nicole Kidman gives exactly one shit less every year. She looked a little disheveled, like she got some in the limo on the way over. That warrants a fist bump.
NNHS class of '85 is hawt: It's cool that not one, but two mushes were nominated for Best Actor/Comedy. I wonder what they say to each other in the men's room.
At first viewing (aside from the part where she thanks her mom - that was beautiful), it looked like Jodie Foster wasn't just coming out, that stream-of-consciousness rant came off like she was channeling a higher power through her root chakra. But I saw it again and must give Jodie props for owning the room and making perfect sense. Hopefully, it will be the one and only time the newer crop of thlesbians in the room take a tip.
As much as I appreciate the concept behind fans voting for their favorite show business whatevers, I don't get how the People's Choice Awards stays in business. It's the training bra of awards ceremonies; it's there only for looks and offers no real support. You can always tell who's going to win by sheer virtue of who bothers to show and sit up front.
The talk o' the blogs this morning is how actress Olivia Munn, obviously eager to seize a moment, stands accused of "Kanye-ing" Taylor Swift when she tried to run a little joke during her acceptance speech. Swift actually handled it awesomely by saying, "This always happens to me." Good girl. I'm just shocked no one mentioned she was wearing the latest wedding dress she'd picked out.
Frankly, I could give exactly one shit. No, make that a half a shit. If I were her, I would just walk around in mini-skirts and model. Just stand there and look good. No need to take income from people who can actually hit notes. That's just greed.
But alas, some folks feel compelled to do and be all things. Respect. After all, an artistic spirit cannot be tamed. You've got to give it up to that James Franco. That kid is the product of a happy marriage between weed and Adderall. Here's what he does with his galpal in his "spare time."
Bieber's "Boyfriend"
See what I mean?
Finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't shout out the INCREDIBLE return of The Daily Show. Jon Stewart, in an exemplar of his infinite wisdom, took it upon himself to tell everyone what for with respect to our nation's lame fucking ass response to gun deaths. PREACH! If you haven't seen this yet, please take the time. It's sweet relief to FINALLY hear someone make sense on this issue.
How was your holiday? Mine was full of family, friends, love, laughter and food, which is EXACTLY how I like it.
Problem is, I don't "do" winter. I can't play winter sports and the frigid air makes my muscles scream bIoody murder. So the only thing to get psyched about are the bevy of nouveau pop culture events and happenings designed to sizzle, crackle and explode in your brain like mental Pop Rocks. Seeing as my mind is in desperate need of a blow job, here are five January events I hope will inspire my jaded synapses to keep firing within the confines of my warm home. Maybe they'll inspire yours too.
And they've got four - count 'em - FOUR - between them! The pressure is on for these lovely ladies to whoop the asses of their mostly penile predecessors. They've both proven to have the goods to comically kill under pressure so prepare to be sliced, diced and julienned. I am.
So what if it's basically a revamped Upstairs/Downstairs grown-up soapy melodrama? It's WELL WRITTEN, the cinematography is ethereal and I've always been a sucker for a good period drama. Plus, Shirley MacLaine is coming to duel with Maggie Smith. Perhaps I can model my future bitch after them.
Speaking of Tina, 30 Rock ascends to syndicated sitcom heaven on the 31st of this month and I will mourn like teenager who's best friend won't talk to her and won't tell her why. Until Lena Dunham puts on 20 years, my soul will ache for Liz Lemon almost as ardently as it does for Edina Monsoon. ALMOST.
Sound City
As I've said before, Dave Grohl can do no wrong. All straight women under 55 want to fuck him and all straight men under 55 want to be him. He describes Sound City, his new documentary about the legendary Los Angeles recording studio and all that has transpired there, as his "most important work." And when a cat like him says something like that, I'll listen because, even when he does something as blatantly commercial as inviting Paul McCartney to front his old band, he doesn't fuck anything up.
Because no one mocks the aspiring fair-to-middling class like Fred and Carrie.
Here's a clip from the new season, which premiers tomorrow night.
Fiscal Cliff Diving
Whatever. I leapt off the fiscal cliff when I had my first back surgery five years ago and am still in mid-air, my face frozen in a carpe diem grin. No pain = all gain. It's only money. One day, I'll get to keep some.
I know, I know...another asshole takes to their blog to address Sandy Hook. I struggle with whether or not to post as we speak. This is a COMEDY blog, right? I'm also a parent, see. And, it's a soapbox, dammit, a place where I vent my ersatz eloquent shit and you, if you're bored enough at work or at home, kindly take the time to read and react however you will.
First off, I'm not going to tell you how to react or attempt to summon just the right words to break the news of this utterly appalling tragedy to your kids. I'm not qualified in the least and am still struggling with the idea of having to do so. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time my oldest has had to hear about innocent children who were violently taken from this world well before their time. I'd hoped to spare him any news of this horror but being of the curious sort, he felt compelled to read what I was reading on CNN over my shoulder. And the damage was done. On his birthday, no less.
He's home sick and we'll have the day to work through things. He'll ask questions and I'll hold him tight, muttering some rhetoric I read somewhere even though I feel like I could shit out my guts in fear at any second. My Kindergartener is healthy and thus, she had to go to school. I couldn't help but cling to her before she walked out that door. I smiled and waved while screaming inside. I think we all are.
I usually get through these things by resorting to sheer logic, reminding myself this was a rare case of a mentally unstable boy who went untreated and had access to his mom's rifles, this was some sort of psychotic break that occurred and that's so rare, blah de blah de fucking blah. I think of the "helpers" as the resurrected meme of Mr. Rogers has instructed us, and I tell my kid to do the same.
Then, there's my gut. My gut knows these senseless tragedies thanks to lax gun laws are no longer rare, but are a trend. My gut is screaming for those lost babies. My gut is screaming for my kids and your kids because I know there is no longer a safe place to raise them. I realize I am lying to them each time I tell them they are safe outside of our home. I realize there is nowhere to hide from the middle finger of fate. We have no choice but to lie like we do about Santa because the alternative is to burn away their innocence and smother them in fear.
I fear this crime will somehow serve as a siren's call to other dark, sick souls and as I type, this fear may be realized. As I write, my dear friend, a mom who lives close to Newtown is posting about five more schools on lockdown in CT because of some suspicious person lurking in their vicinity.
Before I had children and even after they came, I held fast to this idea of telling the truth. If I was truthful in my parenting, if I was honest and brave, my children would be honest and brave also. They wouldn't be shocked by human nature and ill equipped to deal with the variables of life. They would expect and accept the dark with the light and be the stronger for it. But this? This is a darkness with no accompanying light to fumble for.
I have to believe our President when he says these young lives can't be lost in vain and that he'll do all his power allows to create a safer land for our kids to grow up in. But until I hear weapons drop and a cease fire declared, I have to assume we remain a land at war with ourselves.
So, to endure this travesty and so many others, I've accepted my lot as parent and thus, boldfaced liar. Santa? Yeah, my youngest still believes, even though she's a half-a-Jew. She won't hear the truth from me until she hears it on the outside. After all, it's not a lie if you believe it's true. So I will smile and leave cookies and smile and lie and hug and wave as I send them off to school and tell them everything is going to be alright. Because, no matter how old we are and how much shit we've seen, we remain ill-equipped to deal with such darkness.
This is why comedy keeps us going. It lifts the collective heft we are stuck under so we can breathe and laugh and carry on. As always, Lorne Michaels and the Saturday Night Live crew handled the cold open with compassion and panache. Here it is, if you missed it.
This hilarious skit is an example of how, for some, the creative truth telling of parenting begins well BEFORE the new king crowns.
Ever had one of those days where you feel as if you've been bludgeoned with a 2 x 4?
Yeah I'm having one of those.
I didn't even make it through 12-12-12 show last night. Kanye and his leather skirt serenaded me to sleep, so I've yet to witness the "Nirvana reunion." As I've said before, Dave Grohl is probably the sole stalwart rock icon Gen X has produced -- all straight women under 50 want to fuck him and all straight (and a few gay) men under 50 want to be him. And now he's hosting Chelsea Lately and playing with Paul McCartney. Don't let his muppetry fool you, this man will slowly come to own you, me and the whole neighborhood. And we'll just live in it. Fine by me.
That said, there are risks in our slacker generation assuming the helm. Behold.
