Before you even ask whether or not I'm going to address this Time magazine controversy bullshit, I'll tell you no, then I'll tell you why.
All aspects of parenting have been discussed and examined TO DEATH, ad nauseum. We all have our opinions, don't we?
Instead of obsessing about how we raise our kids and how others raise their kids and making ourselves crazy qualifying our decisions, why don't we just...well...just focus on loving them and get on with the big business of raising them to become happy people?
It starts with being happy with ourselves. I mean...our parents weren't sitting over their Bailey's spiked coffee and pack of Kools, comparing free range parenting techniques to attachment parenting techniques. They were more inclined do this kind of stuff instead....
Old School Mom Enough
Myself and most of my peers were raised in this, the "we didn't know" style of parenting. Sure, many of us struggle with addiction, skin and sight issues, but for the most part, we emerged in one piece.
Just remember: Knowledge is power, but obsession is a complex. Holla!
Representing for today's cool dad contingency, there's this guy....
Sabotage Kid Style
Check this amazing tribute to Nathanial Hornblower, aka, Cochese, aka MCA from filmmaker James Winters and his kin.
GObama!
Just read our dear President is set to overturn the Defense of Marriage Act, a law that defines marriage as between one man and one woman.
I always knew I wanted to tap that ass!
What are you REALLY afraid of? Here's some Chickensh*t Soup for the Soul - my latest blog entry for the Huffington Post.
I couldn't let any more time go by without giving props to MCA, aka, Adam Yauch, our fallen Beastie Boy who died of cancer at the obscenely young age of 47 this past Friday.
I've been a hardcore Beastie Boys fan since the get-go. I know a lot of people say that, but I really have. One of the great disappointments of my formative life is opting to do my homework instead of joining my girl Carlotta in a raging food fight with them at The Palladium, back in '87. This is why I spent Friday fielding phone calls and Facebook posts from all four corners of the earth. And I know I'm far from alone.
Aside from a genius musician, Yauch was a dedicated activist who made it all cool to pluck your head out of your rock and roll ass and motivate people to make a for real, tangible difference in the lives of others. With an earnest determination, he did this for his beloved Tibet.
As a generation, our mourning extends to the band itself. The Beasties were the voice of pure, unadulterated escapism - the Gen X ID gone wild - who pulled off the crazy-ass feat of maturing with their audience. What started out as rap about petty theft and smoking dust evolved into lyrics about love, friendship and family, accompanied by sophisticated samplings and jazz-influenced musicianship. And with each release, right up to Hot Sauce Committee Part Two, they elevated the bar musically and lyrically, each and every time. Who can we count on to do that for us now?
My friend Dana has her own unique reverence for the band. Although she's a bit younger than I, she was raised in New York City and as a proud Jewess, the Beastie Boys helped her identify and find pride in her identity. "It wasn't cool to be a New York Jew when I was growing up," she said. "The Beastie Boys made being a New York Jew cool and current. We all looked up to them! I felt I finally had a role model."
This hits so hard because folks my age aren't feeling like they've lost some distant rock star. We feel like we've lost a friend. I never had the pleasure of meeting Adam Yauch personally, but I've seen them live a bunch throughout their amazing, 26 year career. I've also stood next to them, nodding our heads in concert to the groove of other bands. Mike D lives nearby and seeing him around with his kids shifted my affections from artistic reverence to a neighborly regard. To me, he became just another dad in the neighborhood. And by proxy, so was Adam. He was a peer. A neighbor who was someone's dad and someone's husband. And as someone who's seen way too much of the asshole in black robes waving his scythe at people I love this past year, the loss feels all the more personal.
And now for something completely different. Just imagine what the Beasties would've come up with about this....
Drunk Spray! Photo: Getty Images
Time magazine reports French scientists have invented a "drunk spray" that causes brief intoxication with no after effects.
No after effects? Genius!
Just think of all the ways this product could enhance your life:
- Karaoke lubricant
- Enduring a lengthy game of Monopoly with kids who have yet to develop a proficiency in math
- Watching golf with your in-laws
- Hangover helper when you get drunk the old school way
- Easing the pain of brain rape after a 9 alarm tantrum
- Reading/watching/listening to Republicans...and so much more!
"Kindle" THIS for Mother's Day
This UH-MAZING SNL skit shows what all mothers REALLY want for mother's day. If you haven't already, you really need to watch it. Trust me.
Oh, and if you haven't checked it yet, read my essay in the Huffington Post about how I'm a chicken shit. Aren't we all when it comes to one thing or another?
I don't know if it's the imminent full moon, but folks are acting the fool this week and I've got the means to prove it.
Sun Chips
Unless you've been lodged under a boulder somewhere without cable, you've no doubt heard about the follies involving this young lovely, Patricia Krentcil of Nutley, NJ.
She pleaded innocent because she was charged with putting her badly burned 6-year old in a tanning bed.
She's obviously committed to upholding some sort of family resemblance. I mean, if you were this woman's daughter, wouldn't you want to be just like her when you grew up?
Now to be fair, this woman is from Jersey, where "Gym, Tan, Laundry" is considered a mantra on par with "Om Shanti."
There's something to be said for how much crazy is on your cracker when even the likes of Snooki, the high priestess of GTL, thinks you've got a screw loose. "The bitch is crazy," she told Extra. "Everyone knows you are NOT supposed to take kids in there."
Kind people of the interwebs, your thoughts on this highly pressing matter are safe with me.
At Last! A Place To Shit Where You Eat!
Speaking of mantras, remember that old adage, "don't shit where you eat?" It's one of my favorite quotes from Moonstruck and has served as my own personal pearl of wisdom ever since.
But now I open up a whole new can for you -- literally. It seems the fine folks over in Beijing have found a way to maximize life efficiency, a place where you can put stuff in as you poop stuff out. A restaurant where you can sit on a toilet and eat food served in tiny toilets shaped like poo, just in case you haven't eaten enough shit in your lifetime. Explore the joys for yourself.
And You Can Dance....
Sometimes life brings you lemons so sour, no amount of Splenda can sweeten the juice into a viable beverage. When those bummer moments happen, take three minutes to watch this guy demonstrate a fitness craze that's sure to burn the sidewalks of your fair city any minute now. You're welcome.
Ashton Is Into Role Play
If you're salivating for Demi Moore's sloppy seconds, take a second to lick this tasty morsel. Apparently, Ashton Kutcher has finally found an outlet for all that Method training he's been doing that doubles as a way to fetch some fresh flesh. He wants to be your first, your last, and your EVERYTHING.
Believe it or not, I find him less offensive than the VO with the fake British accent.
R Baby is Your Baby
Finally, this vid is chock full of moms I know and love dearly who have some serious shit to say about the lack of emergency room preparedness for newborn babies. As someone who had to bring her 6 pound, 4 month-old baby in to an emergency room limp with RSV, I was lucky to have gone to an emergency room with provisions for her. But many babies aren't as fortunate and the care they receive is impacted -- sometimes costing them their lives.
So don't be a lame ass who shows indifference at the welfare of teeny, tiny babies. Support the R Baby Foundation by signing their petition today.
NOW...you all know I love me some Perez Hilton. Who can resist such a shiny pink site full of trash talk about celebs?
Well, it seems that Sir Perez has cleaned up all the trash talk. And what better way to proceed with a full-scale career recalibration then lose a ton of weight (he looks FIERCE) and crawl under Oprah's skirt?
Hilton says his new purpose in life is to "help people." Aside from working out, that is. My bet is that he's after a reality show or an acting gig. Who can blame the boy? Smize and capitalize! It's the Hollywood way!
Here, he joins hot new power couple ChOpra(h) (Deepak +Oprah..get it?) to discuss his big "O" -- his spiritual awakening and residual "aha moment orgasms."
See if you can avoid the ring of Oprah's voice sing-song bellow, "I've just TRANSCENDED!" next time you gets off!
Dang that Ru is a saucy lil' minx! There I was, biting my nails down to the nubs over who would be crowned America's Next Drag Superstar. Then wouldn't you know it, beeyotch says she'll unveil the winner NEXT WEEK and would WE like to vote for our faves!
I would but for the first time in Drag Race history, I'm at a lock. Chad Michaels, the veteran queen, is clearly traditionally flawless in all she says and does. Sharon Needles is just that renegade spirit to whisk futuristic drag into the forefront. Phi Phi O'Hara is GORGEOUS, young, feisty and amazing, and I heart her. So who will take it?
If you need to know why I love me some Drag Race to the core, please take a moment and convert yourself here. It's a veritable wonderland of drags and hags!
The People of Walmart Strike Again
In case your soul longs for a glimpse into the itchy, scratchy, hairy underbelly of our fair nation, this little bit of ridiculousness might hearken you back to the Jane's Addiction "Been Caught Stealing" video, times a million.
Let's end with a lil' inspiration, shall we?
We Need A Beer With This Guy
Is this all it takes to become a Gawker sensation? Tune in next week, when I'll realize your dream of a seemingly mild-mannered family jamming out to Iron Maiden.
Plug! Plug! Plug!
Be sure to grab this week's US Weekly, where as a Fashion Police Top Cop, I'm apprehending some serious fashion offenders. Believe me, they have it coming!
This week's headline is the PERFECT phrase to sum up what you'll find here. In case you're wondering, "no tea, no shade" means no bullshit. In other words, I will not send you an engraved invitation to bend over, so I can apply Chanel red lipstick and blow perfect Gitane smoke rings up your freshly-bleached, impeccably waxed bunghole. Instead, I promise to spill my truth about pop-culture and nothing but my truth - no offense to any intended, so help me Jennifer Saunders. So here's some of that and a little bit more.
Kim for Mayor
AstVADZim! (Armenian for DEAR LAWD) TMZ is reporting Kim Kardashian is 'seriously considering' becoming mayor of Glendale, CA -- a perfectly pleasant Lost Angeles suburb and hardcore hub for we of the Armo persuasion.
Honey, you a sister and all but the only thing you are qualified to govern is a seminar on giving bj's without getting jizz in your imported, real Indian hair extensions. I can't believe I'm actually going to say this because of its implied ramifications, but please...do us all a favor girl and keep your day job.
TV for the TiVo Impaired
Girls! Girls! Girls!
Before it premiered, the world couldn't shut up about this new Lena Dunham/Judd Apatow HBO show, and the hype almost felt like hypochondria. Seeing as writer/producer/actor lead gal Lena kind of resembles a two-egg collision of myself and my dear friend LoLo, I was instantly committed to seeing this thing happen.
Basically, GIRLS is a cookie-dough raw depiction of post-collegiate, early 20s life, and all of it's uncensored idiocy. Lead girl Hannah, a writer who deems herself "the voice of a generation," is cut off by her parents and forced to fend for her damn self.
Having come through the last recession completely scathed, watching this as someone old enough to be her mother gave me just a little (meno)pause. The sexual/professional exploitation shit really hasn't changed much, and that's what makes a show like this relevant and relatable for anyone. Humiliating interperson-play happens to each of us everyday, no matter how old you are.
But, with respect to the plot, I found it tough to scale the humongous generation gap. Kids today actually expect their parents to support them until they land on their professional path. This was too far a cry from my socioeconomic background. Not that I expect the creator (the daughter of a famous artist) or the actors (the daughters of famous playwrights, rock stars and America's funniest anchorman) to totally get what it's like to REALLY have to fend for your damn self. The 24-year old me would've dope slapped the shit out of the lead, Hannah, had I heard her cry into her $2 PBR. Asking your parents to sustain you for another two years for $1100 a month? As a 24-year old? Try being cut off at 19 and having to pay for your education by temp filing in suburban office parks. Seriously, a small infusion of a more diverse reality wouldn't hurt nobody none. Let's see what the season brings.
Secretary of State Hilary Clinton came under fire this week for breathing life into her inner party animal on a trip to Columbia, where girlfriend had the nerve to get down on the dance floor and swill a lil' brew.
See?
So....this is an actual issue? Show me a picture of her with snow dust flakes around her nostrils, some lines of Columbia's finest across a table and a rolled up fifty and then MAYBE you'll get a raised eyebrow out of me. Let's get real. The woman is married to BILL CLINTON. You need a Ph.D in party to keep up with that guy. You don't think she can negotiate international peace treaties AND throw one back? What kind of bullshit double standard is that?
Apparently, Republicans feel it's okay for former President George W. Bush to admit to snorting line upon line of coke for years upon years, yet Hilly sips for a fucking BREW and it's an issue? Shut the fuck up and Hils, help yourself to the next five on me.
Last night, I did something I haven't done in AGES and it felt GREAT. No, I didn't dance on a bar with a shiny-chested mustache man in mylar shorts. I did that last week.
My old creaky ass was treated to the discovery of a new band. Well...they aren't a new band per se, but aside from a long-ago learned familiarity with a handful of their hits, the majority of Pulp's playlist was relatively new to me. They've been around since the late 70s and had mild success stateside in the early-mid 90s, led by seductive deep-throat frontman, Jarvis Cocker. Yes, the guys name is COCKER. With a name like that, his only occupational option was to fellate a mic.
My gracious, generous friend Alan had an extra ticket and I didn't have to think twice before doing the virtual equivalent of pulling a Horshack in Mr. Kotter's class. Turns out, Pulp is one of his FAVORITE bands, and personal introductions like these are the very best way to adopt a new sound into your system. Just because I'm an old dog doesn't mean I've forgotten how to rollover in the face of inspiration, and to me, music always was and will remain as much a part of my essence as bacon and foul language.
After our pre-show dinner convo ran late, Alan's pal Gretchen and I comically booked it in heels down 48th Street toward Radio City after Alan, who was just short of singlehandedly hurling a class of touristing teens out of his damn way. His enthusiasm for this band was as infectious as a snots dripping in a Pre-K class and lucky for me, I caught it immediately. Almost two hours of ass-shaking melodic sardonic sexy from THIS GUY.
Alan leans over and says, "Can you believe he's nearly 50?"
An hour and a half in, searing pain in my back and down my arm reminded me that I was nearing 50, that I was due for yet another cervical spine surgery, and that I'd better skedaddle before any further deterioration of my bod and spirit took place. But in that blessed hour and a half of grooving to new/old music with new friends, I was transported to a place and time when my spine was properly aligned and free to shake about however it liked.
And this, my friends, is why we should indulge in music as often as possible. Quick, before a few red state Republicans realize what it can do.
Forgive the un-Soapboxian addition here, but this speaks to my point. If you haven't already, take five and see what music does for this guy.
It just goes to show how music plugs into your heart and out through the clouds.
Say, if you live here in Brooklyn and your kid can't stop playing Rock Band, inserting "poop" whenever possible into otherwise demure song lyrics or singing "Girl look at that body..I work OUT" in public, really REALLY loud, here's the solution - send them to a summer camp that will nurture their inner Cocker. Or LMFAO. Or Pantera. Or Katy Perry. Or whatever.
The Brooklyn Music Factory has joined forces with Brooklyn Boulders to form the Rock, Write and Record Camp. Basically, your kid spends the morning with real musicians in a small group of kids their age, experimenting with songwriting and learning to sing and play the keys, drums, bass and gee-tar, then they head on over to Brooklyn Boulders to scale some heights. It's a beyond exciting option for the kid who craves a creative AND physical workout. Dig? Click the link above for more info!
Finally, remember our favorite Sue Simmons moment? There's nothing like cussing on camera to silence a room. This was generously sent to me by Altyn, a lovely woman who's been helping me deal with domesticity for a few years now. Obviously, she's gotten to know me rather well.
Check how foxy Brit-host Cat Deeley drops a wet stinky F-bomb all over these rowdy motherfuckers.
Smell you later cuties! Stay gold!
xx
*Full Disclosure: Compensation was provided for information about the Rock, Write and Record Camp. But I really do love it!
When you feel as if the earth is about to shatter from beneath your feet...when you feel as if the vessels in your brain are about to implode and cause blood to spurt from your eyes..when you feel lost and lonely and devoid of a single positive thought, fear not oh hopeless one, for your world is about to be glued together shard by shard by none other than....THIS GUY.
Yep! Move over Jesus...Ryan Gosling is our savior!
Let me esplain'. British journo (who was probably lukewarm if not hot) Laurie Penny had her brain in the ether (like most of us scribes are wont to do) and was about to cross a busy NYC street when LO! A man alerted her to the terror of a cab about to slice her in half and it was none other than Sir Ryan himself.
This incited a big ass Twitter hoe-down, as most non-events are wont to do on a slow-ass news day.
Well folks, I too have witnessed the gallantry of Sir Ryan first hand. A few years back, I held an assembly of my Masshole besties at The Spotted Pig. And the nubile next to us at the bar was squirting us with the foam in her mouth over Gosling, who was lurking about with his dog outside. We egged her on, having once ourselves been nubile and flustered in the circumference of hot mens. And wouldn't you know, he met her kindly, chatted her up for a few and we got to hear about it for what felt like hours afterward.
Photo: WENN
Seriously, who doesn't need to be saved from themselves or the world once in a while?
So on this notion, I give you...
Things I Wish Ryan Gosling Would Save Me From
Honey Boo Boo Chile' from Toddlers and Tiaras
The dope slap of a brutal migraine
My daughter's obsession with all things being too tight or too loose
The brutal omnipresence of Ryan Seacrest
Cold whipping winds when you are underdressed
Herniated discs
The ramifications of undercooked chicken
Nicky Minaj
Myself
You
"My Moustache Has Its Own Muthafuckin' CELL!"
Now you faithful readers KNOW I was THE FIRST to tout the genius of this man. Now that he's my gay Twitter bestie, I unabashedly bring you...Reza's Moustache.
Here's why I think I've such a soft spot -- see the guy on the left in the pic below? No...that's not some wild, feral unwaxed version of Reza and a likewise swarthy relative. That's MY UNCLE.
Get it? Got it? GOOD.
That's it for now kids! Hope you find all the eggs/Afikomen your lil' hearts desire. Don't you just love how Afikomen sounds like a reggae metal band?
The interweb was all abuzz about how Clueless ingenue-turned-earth-momma Alicia Silverstone chews up her one year old son's food before spitting it back into his mouth.
If you haven't already, see this crazy ass shit for yourself.
And it's not like it was a chocolate chip pancake or anything. This poor kid had to swap spit with his momma for some secondhand mochi with nori wrapped outside and and a dash of grated daikon.
Which sounds every bit as appetizing as the bile in her stomach.
Downton Arby's
Richard Kind owns this vid. Me thinks he doth beef too much.
Speaking of things that make you go EW...
It's my BIRTHDAY this weekend! Seriously - who better to bring you the best in foolishness each week than a for real and for true April Fool?
If you want to know what I aspireto do, just take a gander at this video. You can't miss my reasonable facsimile.
Seriously -- if they wanted a true depiction of The Hungover Games, they should've taped me and my Brooklyn breeder brethren the morning after the open bar school auction last weekend. Now THAT, my friends, is what totally fucked REALLY looks like.
It was full of great times with great friends, doing great things that seamlessly blend who you are as a person with you are as a parent. And as you breeders out there are well aware, this is not always an exercise easily achieved.
I got to see TWO, count 'em, TWO great art shows, from artists who inspired me to aspire to make art. In a single weekend! See, I've drawn and painted ever since I could pick up a pencil. It's an exercise that has long brought me peace and solitude and solace. Even after art school, it didn't matter what rancid shithole I lived in or how much work I sold, I always found a corner of a room or a dingy freezing stairwell in which to set up an ersatz studio space. And with a cigarette or jay dangling out of my face, I'd find myself through losing myself for hours into weekends, just by playing with images and colors.
The last time I picked up a paintbrush was when I uncrossed my legs and gave my eldest to the world. My truth is that I simply can't afford to play for hours into weekends anymore. The corner I'd paint in now houses a desk where I string together words for love and money. I may crank fun tunes, but there's a relentless backbeat driven by the tick of the clock that lifts me from obligation to obligation. Whether or not we choose to breed, we all reach a stage in life where the option of play dissipates in favor of functionality. One day, when my kids would rather be off trawling the world than be seen with the likes of little old me, I'll pick that brush back up. And that's okay with me.
Why? I've learned I can still find peace and solace when losing myself in someone else's art. And if you'll indulge me, and live or visit anywhere near NYC, here's a couple of reasons you should too.
Accompanied by my gurl, the lovely Marisa and our respective Hubsicles, I wandered through Cindy Sherman's amazing retrospective at MoMA with renewed respect for her massive body of work. If you've never heard of her, Sherman - without the aid of assistants - transforms herself into, well, any and every character your imagination could conjure, and snaps herself in the result. She's done this since the 70s, often creating personas that embody the current social climate.
Aside from the technical mastery it requires to do this stuff, the thing I'm most impressed with about Sherman is her skill as an accomplished actress, 1000% committed to each and every role she plays as she fucks with our heads. As seen above, sometimes she's a girl Friday. Sometimes she's a clown. Sometimes she's a dismembered corpse with a sausage hanging out of her prosthetic hoo-hah. Sometimes she's a wealthy socialite. She's whomever she wants to be. She's you. She's me. Aren't we all?
When you think of Keith Haring, you may think of extremely simplistic, now iconic, linear figures of people dancing, a baby crawling, or a dog, or dog headed DJs that spin records, surrounded by bold strokes intimating movement or action.
This VERY comprehensive retrospective embodies all periods of Haring's work and his impact on New York culture. It pulls you into his process and forces you to recognize how he could say and do so much with just one, continuous line.
We hit this exhibit with one with one of our fave families, and what seemed to stick with our collection of kids was how they too could express a lot with a simple, bold line.
You will TOTALLY dig the music. You will think of the 80s and where you were (if you were) in the 80s. You will think of the Reagan-fed propaganda damning recreational sexuality due to the onset of AIDS (what led to Haring's untimely demise). You will think of consumerism and fetishism and freedoms we take for granted. And in doing so, you will learn how Haring stood for so much more than a good time.
I thought of what inspired me to come to art school in New York. I thought of experimentation and the taste of a $2.95 Dojo soy burger dinner and of blind aspiration. I thought of the free-flowing ideas, drugs in the park and the rubbing shoulders with artists in clubs. I thought of how all those things have been replaced by Hollister and Bank of America and Starbucks and Giuliani. And I thought of how, eventually, this city - indeed - held almost all I was looking for.
This song sums this feeling up real well. Give it a click.
Speaking of finding art in commerce...
Keep the Change
Sometimes, folks who work the register get REAL bored, and have to find viable ways to entertain themselves. Behold this GENIUS compilation, via BuzzFeed, brought to my attention by my awesome friend John, of the above said fave family.
Want more? Click on the link above and prepare to snort coffee out your nose.
See that lil' button up there? The one that looks like a ribbon without a ribbon? That is YOUR call to action. Blogs like these may be pretty -- perhaps even thought-provoking. But they can't survive on my might and moxie alone. Click that pretty pink little button and experience the rush of showing another human being some support in this crazy mixed-up world. There are only TWO days left to do this, and I'll be hot damned if I tumble from last year's #7 to #doubledigits. So open every browser in your house or job and vote. Vote from your phone. Tell your friends. Tell your friends' friends. It literally takes a nanosecond. To find me, click on RECENTLY ADDED. Then feel the blessings pour in from the universe as you help this underdog in her pursuit of serving YOU pop culture and the very best stupidity she can find, week after week.
Decent singer and 6' 8" dude Jermaine Jones got bounced, for he had four (count 'em! 4!) outstanding warrants for getting physical with a friend in a bad way. Sticky wicket!
They actually showed the whole eviction, then the producers said, "Your performance tonight was outstanding. Good luck in the future."
What future, producers? The one you just squashed on live TV? Yeah dude, good luck with that.
What surprised me most was how Jessica Simpson actually proved herself capable of expressing a few coherent, insightful opinions about what women want to wear. Apparently, judgement day has come.
Curiosity of the Week
Jenny called my attention to this tragedy last night. In case it's entered the Twitter stream of your subconscious, here's what actually happened to Richard Grieco.
All he's missing is a feather earring and a band name that includes a striped animal.
St. Paddy's According to The Real Housewives of Southie
Many thanks to the gorgeous Gina, who always keeps me closely apprised of all things BAWSTON, like the return of these lush-ious ladies for St. Paddy's Day. Take a peek and see how we do back home.
