they call me concha

Lost, Not Found

2011-05-20T12:56:00.018-04:00

This is not another story about pit bulls. About how they’re amazing dogs, surprisingly so, over-bread and burdened with tarnished reputations thanks to Michael Vick and his kind. This isn’t a story about spay and neuter, or evil puppy mills “Why Shelter Dogs Rule,” or “Why Pet Stores Suck.” They do, but that’s not what this is about.

Because there’s a good chance they that you don’t care. Not to suggest you’re some robot devoid of human emotion. But the problems within our shelters are enormous, unending and painful. Who’s got the time or emotional capacity when you’ve got to care for your own?

But you might want to care about this. Because this is about your dog.

More specifically, it’s about the little bone shaped ID tag hanging off his collar. The little jewel that you, the responsible pet owner, knew to go hand in hand with having a dog. The address and phone number representing the risk that your pet could get lost. Maybe you’re extra responsible (or like me, excessively paranoid) and obtained additional insurance in the form of a microchip. Because there’s always a chance that your dog might escape without his collar. You know these things to be true, that’s why you prepare for them.

There’s another organization that’s also well aware of this danger. And they should be, given they’re the Center for Animal Care and Control, the New York City agency designated to do the job their name describes. But as a pet owner, there is further danger you need to know. The New York City Shelters do not perform lost and found checks. They don’t maintain a Lost and Found page on their website. You know, the one that begs for donations? They’re only required to SNAIL MAIL the address his ID tag so prominently displays under the words “IF LOST.” If the letter isn't answered in 10 days, the dog dies. And if you try to actually phone them, good luck. The CACC no longer has a central phone system, as it was a victim of the most recent budget cuts directed by Mayor Bloomberg. If your dog becomes lost, you may be able to gather your wits during this traumatic experience and call the city shelters. But if a phone rings and rings with no one to answer, does it make a sound?

Note, if your dog is picked up without ID, CACC is only required to hold your dog for 72 hours before they suck the life from those big brown eyes.

If you’re like me, you always imagined that if your dog got out, it would be her ID tag and microchip that would ultimately bring her home. You’d email blast everyone you knew. You’d post her picture all over the world – lampposts, community boards, Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter. You’d comb the streets, her favorite dog parks and pet stores. You’d do everything that one human could physically achieve, all the while assuming that if picked up by Animal Control, they’d scan the microchip or read the tag and call you immediately. I mean, that’s what they do, right? Animal Care and Control. Shelter your dog until a hired cab tears through uptown traffic and delivers a very relieved and likely sobbing doggy parent to her best friend finally found.

But thanks to Mayor Bloomberg, the chances of the above scenario are about as likely as a pit bull leaving the CACC alive. While romancing the presses with his line “There’s never been a better time to be a dog,” Cruella De Vil, ahem, Bloomberg was busy cutting $1.5 million and subsequently Lost and Found from the CACC’s services. As I’m sure you can imagine, that’s not all we’ll be losing.

This is a quote from a story from a NY Magazine article that is unfortunately all too common at the AC&C.

"I was away with my family over the weekend," says Adrienne Evans, a financial assistant at BMG Entertainment in New York. "My neighbor was watching our dog for us. She took him for a walk in the park and he slipped his collar." The dog, who had the misfortune to be born a pit bull, was sitting on his own doorstep when the CACC picked him up. Evans came home a day later and immediately began searching. When a neighbor informed her that the CACC had picked up the dog, she called the shelter right away. "I was told they couldn't find him, and that I had to come in and look for myself. The dog was really distinct, brown and white with big blue eyes." His ears and tail were not cropped, indicating that he had never been a fighting dog. The following day, Evans went straight to the Manhattan shelter after work. She went through the wards, calling out the dog's name. "I knew he'd cry out to me," she said. She stopped every kennel worker and described her dog. Yes, someone told her. "He's here. I saw him." Yet no one could find him, or knew where he had been caged. After a painful search, one of the managers brought Evans into a room and sat her down.”

Her dog’s body was still warm.

And this was before they stopped doing lost and found checks.

But this isn’t a story about Evans’ dog. This is about your dog. And the Unfortunate Case of the Faithful Owner Who Turned His Back for Two Seconds. Or went out of town. Or had a had a dog walker who said, “I’m really, really sorry, but…” And anyone who says, “Not me, not my dog.” By cutting Lost and Found, the CACC has indirectly decided the fate of every companion animal who risks becoming lost. In other words, every animal.

There are so many issues wrong with the CACC. So many. As a dog owner/tax payer, for me this represents the last straw. I hope it does for you too.

Even restoring the lost and found checks, will help enormously. It will free up cage space, as dogs and owners are reunited. It will ensure that others there are walked, fed, and loved more frequently. Most importantly, it will bring your dog back where he belongs. The side effects of which could ensure more dogs share the fortune of the one proudly donning the address he calls home.

Sign the petition.
Write Mayor Bloomberg.
Watch this ABC report.

Aint Too Proud

2011-05-03T15:10:00.005-04:00

When I heard the news about bin Laden's death, my instinctive reaction wasn’t much of one. “Isn't he more powerful as an idea?” I thought. It’s not like George Washington's death marked the end of America.

Or – what I find much more troubling – American nationalism. This badge we proudly emblazon across our collective chest to suggest unity, and/or if we were more honest, the belief we're inherently better than any other land mass. Listening to NPR the morning after the announcement, meant hearing plenty of alcohol soaked pride as Ground Zero celebrators waxed bromidic about their country’s “achievement.”

Frat boy, please. Your pride runs about as deep as the party's supply of Budweiser.

The soberest (pun intended) words I heard were from an ex-pat German, warning against the nationalism he witnessed. Apropos, because what nationality better to warn us of nationalism's absurdities. Its randomness And its dangers. But observing our fellow country people the past few days, its almost like WWII never happened.

There’s more than one event we should “never forget,” you know.

I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on foreign policy or the War on Terror, so I'll stop here an let this TruthDig articlespeak with far greater authority and articulation.

Obviously, I’m not a nationalist. Unlike many may be quick to accuse, I’m not anti-American either. I care about as much about America as I do every other arbitrarily drawn land mass. I wish them all the best, and that’s about as deep as my Rabbit hole goes. I'm not ignorant to the freedom's grated to me by America, I just believe they only make me luckier than others. Not "better." I'm not defending bin Laden. Nor am I suggesting he didn't deserve to die for killing thousands of people. But like nationalism, justice is just an idea. One rife with potential danger. One that becomes far less immediate if retaliation affects our physical world.

It's our double rainbow, but really, what does it mean?

Oh, and America nationalists and Glen Beck have something in common , FYI.

Get Out of My Pants

2011-04-05T14:26:00.007-04:00

Try not to choke on your hashtags, but I’m a big fan of the 30 second spot. (I’ll give the digital strategists a second to clean up the Massengill they just blew out their nose.) Call it media blasphemy. But I’m a fan of the crafting that once lassoed my extreme ADHD, capturing me for a full 30 seconds, while I inquired along with Clara Peller and the rest of America, whereabouts of said “beef.” Yeah, them were simpl’r times. But better simple (and funny!) than utterly fucking disgusting.

Disgusting like this digital advertising version of the Garbage Pail Kid. Hey, gals! Kotex is inviting you to put on your creative caps and get artsy by designing its, well, Maxi Pads!?!? Maybe it’s because I have the sophisticated sense of humor of a 13-year-old boy. But this complete FAIL of an execution conjured up all kinds of uncomfortable questions (and images) like, “Aren’t we already kind of coloring these things anyway?” (Properly disgusted yet? Ok, then.) This isn’t the first time we’ve invited the audience to craft the message, it just happens to be a big “REALLY?” from an industry that’s lost its fucking marbles and/or more and more seeing itself as curator rather than creator. When I say I’m a fan of the 30 second spot, what I really mean is that I like stories. Good ones. The kind told by people with a knack for that sort of thing. Not anybody with a mouse and a maxi pad.

Here’s something actually worth your attention. Martin Scorsese’s documentary Public Speaking on writer, Fran Lebowitz.
(Go see it. It’s hilarious. Seriously.)

In it, she laments the democratization of creativity. “There are too many books. These books are terrible, and this is because you have been taught to have self esteem.” She also admits to not owning a computer. Which is probably for the best. Because given her attitude about literary content that actually made it through publishing, I suspect if she got her eyeballs on a “mommy blog,” she would croak immediately.

Digital’s greatest strength is also, I’m afraid, its greatest weakness. There are too many lazy advertising “creatives” out there, equating brand conversation with handing out “crayons for everybody!” Result? There are too many story tellers, but not enough stories. There’s a lack of connoisseurship, because we’ve done away with the traditional gatekeepers of content, instead adapting the kindergarten teacher mentality that “Everybody’s creative!” No. They’re not. (Nor is everything a canvas. Especially maxi pads.) “Interactive” doesn’t mean we let the audience do all the talking. That would be like going to MSG, only for James Murphy to pass out turn tables and clarinets to the audience, sit on stage, and wait for us to play.

That does not, however, mean digital doesn’t possess a wildly important role. The Times just ran a great article about the ways Museums have adapted social media to engage their audience. It’s turning museums into “virtual community centers. Curators and online visitors can communicate, learning from one another.” It’s about, says Ian Padgham, the SFMoMA digital engagement associate, “off the cuff transparency.” Which for a museum, makes total sense. An organization which might have been viewed as stogy and inaccessible, is now an open-armed community, empowering its visitors with a voice. But here’s the key difference. While there’s an invitation to talk about it, nobody’s creating the art.

 I don’t mean to say social media etc is only good for product discussion. (I know it gets a little mucky because they’re both about “creation.”) It just happens to make perfect sense for museums. But that’s the thing. It makes perfect sense because there’s an idea behind it. Dare I say it acts as a narrative for a larger story: “Museum art exists for it’s audience.” It certainly does not create a microsite inviting users to “Punk your Pollock!” and digitally splatter away. (P.S. If you’re not groaning there’s something wrong with you. ) Sure it might increase attendance. But what’s good for business might cause another freaking earthquake, as the entire generation of abstract expressionists roll over in their graves. It’s a quick fix, but ultimately the real Pollock suffers. Not to mention our culture.

“Curation” may be the culture’s buzz word de jour, but we’re not going to have much of one, if we leave it up to everybody.

Well, Not That Deadly

2011-03-06T23:14:00.002-05:00

Happy Stuffin', Ya Fucks

2010-11-25T15:08:00.003-05:00

A Major Prize, I Won I Won I Won!

2010-11-22T22:15:00.003-05:00

Today i received an email that changed my life. For your Friend Til the End Or At Least the End of the Bottle is one of 8 recipients of the highly esteemed Anger Management Award! No, seriously! Look!

Who fuckin' said I can't manage my goddamn anger? Seriously, who the fuck said that? I'll cut him.

You know what, miss size 2 bitch?

2010-11-19T15:49:00.002-05:00

FUCK YOU.

I need a new shrink

2010-11-15T20:17:00.002-05:00

Dr. Happy is winking like he knows something I should.

Sunday Sermon.

2010-11-14T16:05:00.001-05:00

Worship.

Dog Days of Sunday

2010-11-14T15:44:00.004-05:00

Gratuitous sunday funday shot. By one of my favorite dog photographers.

© Scruffy Dog Photography

This Ain't No Disco

2010-11-13T19:09:00.002-05:00

Some people don't need heads to be rad.

I'm Shining

2010-11-02T13:17:00.003-04:00

I don’t know the name of the ponytailed prick who came up with the Open Office Agency Model. But if I did, I would hack him up with an axe. Dramatic? I don’t think so. What you call “life in prison,” I call finally getting exactly what I want: Solitary Confinement.

You see, concentration is always something I’ve struggled with. In college, I would find the loneliest, most deserted vacuum and hear angels singing through the sweet, sweet silence. Because unlike Fun With Photoshop! writing amid a cacophony of conference calls and tools with ‘tude is DIFFICULT. Have you ever seen a photo of Thomas Pynchon? Neither have I. Because you cant write Gravity’s Fucking Rainbow while a bunch of art school dropouts wax-unpoetic about Facebook apps. So I made this instead.

Blame the typo on the noise.

yes, jello biafra. emotions make us monsters.

2010-08-13T12:39:00.003-04:00

Lately the only fuel motivating me to climb the stairs of 9, er, 10:30 -6 has been ambivalence. I’m just not going to care. And unlike every other ambition that I’ve overthought to the point of exhaustion, overworked until the hammer I furiously wield builds my project to the point of destroying it, “not caring” requires “not trying.”

It’s the complete absence of feeling. If I have to tell myself “My desk neighbor might be blasting Sum 41 [yeah, really] so loud my DJ quality headphones can’t block it out, but I don’t care,” that’s not how it works. It’s just like “trying” to relax. There is no “try.” You just don’t do, you dig?

But there are things that I just can’t prevent from stirring my emotions. And as much as I strive to surpass shallowness, there are just some parts of Palm Beach that you can’t take out of the girl, causing me to comfort myself with rewards superficial that surprise me with a “good news! Package has shipped early,” email, where the package to-arrive becomes The Very Most Looked Forward To Event of the day until the Universe delivers a stinging blow reminding me that I’m not paid to think or care and I should just keep my head down and my emotions even lower.

Fucking figures.

The Hope That Keeps Us Alive, Or Vacation.

2010-08-04T11:18:00.002-04:00

For The Kids

2010-08-01T18:13:00.004-04:00

Waiting for the elevator, I ran into a coworker. I know very little about her beyond that she’s well known as a genuinely down to earth chick, she’d recently had a baby, and regained her pre-baby body back faster than most freshmen lose their fifteen. I’d hate her if she weren’t so damn sweet.

Of my short list, the only conversable quality seemed to be about her baby. Didn’t want to discover just how awkward silence can get, by starting with “People say you’re really nice,” and then stand there smiling.

“He’s great,” she said. Not much of a small talk expert, I went for the closest relatable anecdote in my brain.

“My boyfriend and I just visited his brother. He had a baby 2 weeks ago.” I should have closed my mouth there. But I kept having thoughts and my mouth kept up. “Yeah, wow. Kids. Not for me. If I had any doubts before, whew, not anymore. I mean, wow.”

I’m awesome, right?

While mentally berating myself for shitting on her lifestyle choice, she told me a friend had sent her the recent NY Magazine article, “I love my kids, but I hate my life.” At least I’m not that bad. I felt a little better. The same way I felt when reading the mentioned article. It justified all my reproductive fears. Beyond the physical ones of expanding like a universe made from ass and turning into a walking creamery, confirmed in black and white were stats about expenses, destroyed careers and ambitions. Even better, of the two parents the mothers were reported unhappiest! There’s only one thing I enjoy more than cynicism, and that’s being right.

I went through a brief “kids maybe in ten years” period. But then I quickly realized the correlation between my (albeit slight) change of heart and Facebook; occurring the same time my high school friends -who never left Florida- started reproducing and posting the photos of their labor. Like a fashion trend, babies slowly crept into the "want it" part of my brain. But as they say, kids are not designer handbags.

It’s not that I have anything against kids. As long as we're not sharing an airplane or my belly, I can dig ‘em for a bit. I’m an only child so nieces and nephews are out. But I enjoy my surrogate “Aunt” status with my cousins' offspring. I even prefer their children to a lot of the adults in my family. It probably has something to do with having similar maturity levels, but I prefer the term “good with kids.”

Maybe I don’t want children because I’m still too busy raising myself.

Visiting my boyfriend’s nephew, his mother described to me what it’s like to breastfeed. Apparently, not only do your boobs inflate like hot air balloons, but also ache from breastmilk pressure until you "pop" them.

I wanted to blurt out, “Ew, like a zit?!?” but uncharacteristically thought better of it. Perhaps I was saved by instinct. Because ain’t nothing popping out of this body anytime soon.

Oh, the Humanity

2010-07-26T19:49:00.005-04:00

I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that I’ll never be much of a humanitarian. I’ll throw myself in front of a bus to save a stray dog, but I won’t give a homeless guy a quarter. I’m a democrat. Isn’t that enough?

People are easily spoiled. Not dogs. Mine was rescued from the slums of a puppy mill in Ohio and now lives in a Manhattan apt with a doorman. Rags to riches. But she’s still totally down to earth.

Every once and a while you watch a documentary on Darfur orphans coming to America that temporarily renews your hope in humanity. But that passes. Give them enough time, and people will generally disappoint you. Anne Frank said people were all good at heart. I bet she took that one back.

Sometimes I think I’m wasting my time being a democrat. Because fuck ‘em, right? But then I remember the kind of people who need health care are the nice ladies who clean off my desk at night. And the people already covered are Sarah Palin.

I probably would have made my health care phone calls to congress if I knew she would have been excluded from the plan and burned at the stake.

I guess it’s sort of silly to limit my acts of kindness to only those who are nice themselves. But then again, no. It’s not.

Maybe it’s money to blame. Maybe those nice cleaning ladies are just assholes waiting for the right amount of cash to bring it out. I always thought the best part about socialism would be that I wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear or try that hard. But perhaps wealth redistribution would cause people to be less insufferable.

Of course there’s always the chance that those who actually profit from the new regime would experience their own level of spoilage. Government cheese is better than no cheese at all. Theoretically you can’t really gloat when you’re wearing the same potato sack as the next shit head, but these are people we’re talking about. I wouldn’t put it past them.

Risk Taking

2010-07-25T15:28:00.001-04:00

Of the myriad of things wrong with the MTA, the chance you might board the subway and run into someone you know is probably the worst that could happen. Because an unplanned meeting requires spontaneous conversation. As the uncreative human race has yet to invent an improvement on small talk, this is the wrist slitting ennui that materializes before you, disguised as the face of an acquaintance.

I hate small talk. With a name that suggests such insignificance, you’d think evolution would have taken care of it long ago. Yes, I know it’s hot out, Tuesday sometimes feels like Wednesday, you’re still hoping a trust fund will kick in someday. And so am I. Because you’ll stop having to ride the train every morning and I can ride to work pleasantly ignored.

I suppose before the advent of readily available printed material, portable music etc, small talk served its purpose. You could catch up on gossip. Confirm that it was hotter than Hades. Learn how that bitch who stole your man up in Salem was finally getting the stake treatment she deserved.

But as the in-ear earbuds plugged into the mini computer/phone/iPod might suggest, society has advanced. And the best revenge you can take on a woman is starting some rumors about her plastic surgery.

Here’s a tip: There’s a reason I stuffed Don Quixote into my bag. Because you’re more boring than a thousand page translation of a 15th century novel. And you don’t come with cliff’s notes.

Once I ran into my art director on the subway. This was a problem because we already saw each other daily. He informed me that last night the girl I’d left him with at the bar had defeated his interest in her, by revealing her employment at an S&M club. Her specialty? “Cock and ball torture.” It was good to see him.

It Could Be Better

2010-07-21T22:48:00.006-04:00

Spending one of many frustrated, disgruntled Saturdays stuck in a coffee shop working with my partner during a beautiful afternoon on a advertising brief we had questionable chance in selling, gave rise to considerable amount of complaining on my end. Finally my partner offered this tidbit of consolation.

“You know, once I watched this clip on Youtube. Horrible. This lion catches a guy and eats him alive.”

Figuring this was prelude to an idea, I begged her to go on.

“So when it gets bad, I always think, at least I’m not getting eaten by a lion.”

That's the alternative? Work weekends or spend the last moments of your life hearing the skin you so diligently SPFed every summer get shredded like a stack of junk mail? I think it could be better.

I blame lazy mothers. If a four year old refuses to eat dinner, mom shouts that there are starving children in China. Or in my case, my dad actually took regular trips to third world countries as a photographer and had pictorial proof that I had it better. But in my experience, Ethiopians eating tsetse flies in loincloths didn’t change the fact that mom’s cooking sucked.

And so from that malleable age we’re taught to settle for shitty because at least you’re still breathing. Yeah, it’s with the help of life support, but count your blessings. Maybe mom needs to go back to the drawing board and learn how to cook my fucking chicken. Maybe hearing another misfortune on top of my lament only makes me more depressed. You’re damn right it could be worse. You just turned a shitty meal into the hopelessness of mankind. I need a drink. And I'm only four.

Of course, I could get behind this ideology if I could use it for my benefit . For example, I get an assignment, only to turn in a couple crappy headlines and call it a day at 4pm. When my Creative Director shoots me a threatening, “WTF?” email, I could reply, “Well, at least it’s not a letter from your future self detailing your imminent death by carnivorous jaws.” I could lower his expectations *and* get home in time for 5pm high balls. What could be better?

Gender Differences

2010-07-20T16:20:00.010-04:00

Let’s just get this out of the way right now. I hate my gender.

Like really.

You know that beer ad where a guy gets stuck on an elevator with two women gabbing about their eye shadows and night creams until his head literally explodes? If I were a better writer, I could have written that.

Last week I went to a Bastille Day wine tasting, where I imagined The Man and I could get drunk on Burgundy while watching a French singing Hipster Prohibition era jazz band from Brooklyn. What we got was a room full of chatty single women drowning out the music by comparing their idiotically high espadrilles to their pep-toe doilies instead of quietly enjoying their Côtes du Rôhne. You can’t swallow and compare shoes at the same time. If that were possible men and women would have worked out their differences long ago.

My husband-to-be leaned over and said, “You know, if I spent five minutes with each of these girls I could tell you exactly why they’re still single.”

Five minutes? I can tell you now. They’re girls.

I was once forced into the unfortunate situation of having to find a Craigslist roommate. Most fear typical horror stories of unpaid cable and stray fecal matter, but my anxieties reached their zenith when my roommate attempted congeniality by inviting me to a “Gossip Girl” party in our living room. I assumed she was describing her friends.

Judging from the oversized bottles of cheap pino grigio she'd set out for the vag fest, I sensed the imminent torture and politely declined. The girls arrived, and they were all, so….so bubbly! So OMIGAW! I closed my door, opting to be the weirdo in her bedroom.

I’m used to it. The hatred always goes both ways. On the rare occasion I find myself in pink a room filled with an Anthropologie sorority, I get rendered an instant outcast before you can say US Weekly. Maybe it’s because I don’t state everything as a question??? Or that I’m not up on the last episode, or any, of The Hills. Or perhaps it’s my plastered expression of horror.

And no, I’m not gay. If I don’t like someone, what makes you think I want to see them without pants?

And no, I don’t wish I had a penis. I can barely control my hair, let alone a couple of extra organs hanging from my crotch. That, and I’d have to date chicks.

I guess I could be a gay dude. Glitter! Fun! But it’s not the point. I don’t want to be a guy, because, I actually enjoy being a …oh you know how the song goes. Don’t make me admit it. I like dresses, they feel like pajamas. I’m down with soft skin. Smelling like mangoes is also fun. Granted I don’t want to read the same regurgitated In Style article about “Five hot tricks for fabulous summer elbows!” But I like things to look nice. Why wouldn’t I wish the same for myself?

Of course there are non-girl girls out there. Ones with tastes and personalities that would create instant mutual bonds, if we were guys. But if they’re like me, you can also bet they’ll be full of the same judgments and skepticism that causes my hate in the first place. And I’ll walk into a room and they look at me like, “Who’s the dumb bitch in the Anthropologie?” You can’t win.

Public Service Announcement

2010-04-29T10:07:00.005-04:00

Walking down Bleeker yesterday an oversized SUV town car pulled over and asked me the directions to 2nd ave. But when I turned around, the needed route in question was quickly shelved so he could make what I could only describe as convulsing neck thrusts mixed with wildly exaggerated imitations of kissing and biting.

"Baby, I want to eat you. I want to eat you all up," said he.

It's a wild world out there. Beware the motoring cannibals.

Ricky Martin is gay, but my dad is a straight up faggot.

2010-04-28T13:50:00.010-04:00

Despite the adjective overlap, there's a huge gaping difference between the perfectly acceptable and the big fat jackass. It's called context, people. Not to mention, the first one isn't a choice. The other however is performed with deliberate glee. Everyone, meet my father:

click to enlarge

and now i pass it onto you. enjoy!

Buelluer?

2010-04-14T20:25:00.009-04:00

In a surprising turn of events, after posting this tweet earlier:

I was invited to a private screening of the very film. Perhaps I'm psychic. In which case Madame Concha will tell you your fortune for $5000 a pop. No refunds.

But I digress. Point is, I saw the doc. Tweet and you shall receive. Adverdouches abound. Now this isn't meant to be a film critique as I am not paid to do so. Nor am I about to provide a summary because Concha Libre headquarters is not a venue for book reports. I do however, have one observation. As we left, the pervasive reaction centered around one consensus. "Shit, ya'll. I wanna go make some art now. Anyone can do it." But just like adverdouches flocking to the film in hopes to augment their rank on the cool meter, to me it seems they're missing the point. Thousands of people waited outside for hours to see someone for whom artist is a questionable title. But the time they spent pales in comparison to the money; these "fans" made MBW a millionaire over night. Hype breeds fame. Fame breeds title. When our idea of artist is something we define, does that make MBW an artist, or are we just projecting, comfortable to live in a reality our perceptions have neatly defined?

Fuck me if I'm wrong, but I don't think the point was "anyone can make art." I think the crowd buys its own bullshit. Figuratively and literally. We thought we came to see a film about one artist, Banksy, who turned the camera on another, MBW. But is he an artist? Who's to say? If great art is supposed to hold a mirror to its audience, this film took it a step further by manipulating it. Quite Banksy-eque, if i'm even at liberty to draw such comparisons. Because here we are, busy looking for the face behind the silhouette. The point isn't "anyone can do it." Because how can anyone make "art," when we don't even know what it is in the first place?

Maybe there is a god. And it's Bansky. Laughing at anyone searching for meaning behind the goddamn hamster wheel.

Whatever. I've had a few beers. When there's no point to nothin', might as well.

once i was on gawker, twice.

2010-04-12T12:07:00.007-04:00

remember when i used to be famous? no? yeah, i figured. because it's been a few thousand lunches since my blogger "limelight" was eclipsed by an endless shadow of unproduced advertising briefs. but here again today i find myself uncharacteristically unburdened by a 15 hour workload and all the galleries are closed. it's monday. fala-la-la-la-la.

as much as a loathe writing (there, i finally admitted it) and detest making ads even more, it would seem reasonable to assume a break from this double barrel nightmare would color me sunny in my happy-pants. but as the ever spinning anxiety galaxy in my general chest/gut area reminds me, no. not happy. no pants.

here's a photo i took, because words without pictures can suck

i don't think i'll ever "be" happy. forgive the new age-gypsy speak, but i realized something in yoga yesterday. (please, hold your eye rolls until the end). yoga is basically a set of poses. and just like most things, you have the choice to recreate the pose with every last tendon in your body, or half ass it. (which, i admit is what i do half the time...however, it's usually out of of fear more than laziness. but that's another therapy session.) here's the thing: besides the obvious benefits lost in a job halfway done, i realized there's a lot of stuff – bad stuff, the kind of stuff you exercise to purge – stay trapped inside you. an easy conclusion to reach thanks to the physicality of yoga. (i don't think this experience is limited to yoga, by the way. years of running have just restricted my knees to non-pounding exercise.) holding back ultimately leads to closing up. and if my 18 years of living with a bible thumper/parent can attest, constantly hiding/ keeping it all in, will land you on a therapist couch pretty quickly. but it doesn't make sense. i have a career, boyfriends, friends...what do you mean i'm depressed? so my very long winded semi-yoda/chicken-puke-for-the-soul point is this: no-half assing the poses. because the benefits aren't limited to the skills gained. it's the release of everything else. and as it is in yoga, so it is in writing. (because that happens to be what i do for a living.) you gotta go for it. else the negative shit gets trapped. and as with any practice, you'll suck until you get better. you have to write every day. come briefs or boredom. hence we have here a shitty blog entry. but i feel a little better. and if you want to read something more entertaining, feel free to scroll through the past entries. because my blog was on gawker once, twice.

le sigh

2010-03-29T15:57:00.005-04:00

I am bored. An experience so utterly foreign I'm hard pressed to remember if I've felt this way since I was a teenager, when everything but beer bongs and boy parts was mind numbingly humdrum. Then again I was the kind of nerd who found Faulkner to be a suitable replacement for the MTV I was forbidden to watch.

So boredom is elusive. Especially since I've been trapped inside the merciless clutches of the pitch that never ends. The pitch that has claimed all but one of my weekends in the past six weeks. Including this weekend, where a perfectly beautiful sunny saturday was sacrificed to the evil satan of slavery for the sake of two (albeit awesome super sweet ones that if produced will be book worthy gems in the sparse treasure chest of my portfolio) scripts. Two fucking scripts i could have written today instead of sitting here rediscovering what it feels like to be trapped by limited options.

but i can't leave yet. one of my bosses is sitting in his office cutting out pictures. the other one is MIA. and the past six slam packed weeks have not rendered me willing to ask him how the meeting went and risk him finding a way to alleviate this weird tapping of the pen and foot turn of events.

and if this little ramble has successfully recreated what the inside of my head feels like, i'm assuming you're as bored as me. life can be a shitty picnic sometimes, eh? hit the lights on your way out.

some cool shit

2010-01-29T15:01:00.003-05:00

i'm tired of writing. thoughts in my cab ride to work this morning included those of retiring. or at least putting it away until it's fun again. fun like this piece i saw in a chelsea gallery last week.

silly putty transfers - photographed, framed, done. this is some seriously cool shit. that i want to steal.

i was reading too much atheist literature and it was making me angry.

2009-11-17T15:20:00.004-05:00

As much as I love a good blood boiling over the greatest lies of mankind, how many glasses can you drunkenly throw before you realize it's time to lighten the extracurricular entertainment a bit? Luckily the trusty bookstores of NYC and the near and dear to my heart Brooklyn offered up this gem in their storefronts, complete with glowing reviews and book-of-the-month discounts. But don't take their word for it, here's what I had to say in my Facebook virtual bookshelf review:

"This man has mastered language like a dominatrix driving a stiletto heel into the chest of Webster. Yes, Nick Harkaway, I will be slave to to your writing, wherever your career takes you."

So yeah. Read it. It rocks. And, as they said when naming my favorite Brooklyn bookstore, "Word."

it's the network

2009-11-13T13:20:00.006-05:00

last night i had a dream. and in that dream, i discovered AT&T was not only a terrible cell phone service provider but an eeeeevil corporation. you see, i dreamed their corporate heads were the main organizers behind Bilderberg, or as my fellow conspiracy fanatics might know it as (cue dramatic music) The New World Order. I dreamed AT&T's shitty service was actually a purposely corrupt network built to interrupt mass communication and create a world where they could more easily facilitate world domination. put *that* in your pipe and ask me what i'm smokin'.

fucking scary

2009-07-29T10:45:00.002-04:00

may i recommend some readings

more readings

please.

doughnuts kill

2009-07-28T15:27:00.005-04:00

man. now that this story's broken, i sure would hate to be the PR guy at krispy kreme.

whore news

2009-07-27T23:35:00.001-04:00

times is tough up in the hood.

SHOCKING.

2009-07-16T13:23:00.004-04:00

fucking greasys. goddamn fucking greasys!!!

FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT GREASYSSSSSS!!!!!!!

iKrunk

2009-07-14T12:07:00.003-04:00

All you need to do it put an iDong on the other side and we can call technology a mutherfuckin' day.

thanks funniest blog eva

mysterious ways?

2009-07-13T15:11:00.004-04:00

"I mean your love and infinite wisdom were great and all but they won't quite pay for culottes at the Fashion Bug."

horray CNN!

Sayonara, Sarah!

2009-07-07T13:49:00.004-04:00

never have lyrics so perfectly articulated my sentiments about a woman so worthless.

plus cool video.

shit happens.

2009-07-07T12:57:00.004-04:00

and thank the shit gods. because without it, there'd be nothing to read.

so pull up a chair and take off your pants. this one's a brain scorcher.

and yes it's all true

priorities

2009-06-25T17:20:00.006-04:00

i actually never read this site (yes, i had to say it) but a friend just sent me this link.

the only thing i find odd about this whole article is the only definition link is "family member." as if their reader base is so shallow, they gotta remind 'em to send grandma a fuckin' card already.

this week has had a theme

2009-06-24T12:24:00.001-04:00

what, what?

2009-06-22T11:55:00.006-04:00

ahem....

bloggin' for bengamins

aw sheet...

stoney, rainy sun(les)day

2009-06-21T21:34:00.006-04:00

I've been pretty amused by a common comment I've been hearing from conversations about Iran: We should be ashamed. We just stood by and let W hijack the election (twice!) while these intrepid revolutionaries are inhaling more tear gas than we smoke marijuana. We've become pussies.

Become? Ha! (This is not meant to be taken as a criticism) liberals tend to favor things like education, art and sharing. You know, the kids who got beat up in high school. Yeah that's a little stereotypical but there's a general thread there. The pussies suffer through high school and get beat up by the thugs until graduation where they go to college and continue their ascent. Meanwhile the thugs stay home for community college, eventually dropping out and managing an Arby's. But the moment the "pussy" comes back in town from his relatively successful job to see his parents and decides he's hungry for a beef sandwich, who's the winner in that exchange? There are certainly a few people in high school I'd enjoy coming home to tell them to supersize my fuckin' chicken.

So pussies we may be, but so was the tortoise. And, as Mr. Lebowski enlightened us all "The bums will always lose!"

stoney, rainy saturday

2009-06-20T15:08:00.003-04:00

you know when you keep trying to hook up with someone, but the connections keep getting missed? that's called fuck-tag. like phone tag, only a fuck of a lot more frustratin'.

entirely unrelated, 'cept for the fact i fuckin' love it.

the fast and amphibious

2009-06-01T10:50:00.004-04:00

Everybody's all like, "It's 2009, where's the flying cars?" And while all you jokers stumble around searching the sky for a Camero with wings, this dude rolls by and is like ya'll is stoopid.

obama i love you, but fuck fair minded words.

2009-05-22T17:33:00.002-04:00

Cheney, you seem to have a problem with time management lately. and you know what? i feel you. a lot of seniors struggle with retirement. without a career they experience a sense of loss, as life seems to have lost his purpose. like you, they take up a hobby, be it golfing, working at Starbucks, or undermining the efforts of restoring the nation. it’s not uncommon to sift through a few different hobbies before they finally uncover the one that fulfills the empty space their 9-5 once filled. maybe a senior tried golf, but finds sailing ultimately renders him more fulfilled. plus, the grand kids sure love it. or like you, first the hobby was circulating the talk shows and being a fucking moron, when it would really be more constructive for you to go die.

big birthday on the horizon

2009-05-09T22:54:00.006-04:00

i've been a bad blogger lately. it's not that i'm lazy (entirely) but i've been blogging elsewhere for a brand. which is to say, i've been getting paid to do what i do here for you. i suppose that makes me, not only bad, but soulless. whoring myself out for consumerism what i'd normally do for free. but my soul is basically up there with every crappy gift the rican bought me. i'll sell it to the highest, or frankly, any bidder. good luck suing me, bc i'm rich, beotch! (well compared to the blog's early days.)

anyway, the contract's on my desk at work so i don't know if i'm legally permitted to claim authorship or what not. i wrote for them under a pen name. but i'm sure i can go as far to say it's for a brand i used to work on. the only relatively cool one i actually produced stuff for. and if you can solve that riddle and recognize my words there will be five essays for your reading pleasure. i am nothing if not industrious.

anyway, how've ya'll been? (if you're even still here.) i'm home drinking a beer on a saturday night bc the office beacons mañana. sucks. well that and i have no real interest in getting beyond a 1/4 mile radius from my apartment, and my friends are heading into deep brooklyn for a crazy party. if the approaching date weren't evidence enough, my stay at home ass is a pretty good indication i'm turning 30 in less than a fortnight. i can't say i'm amused. but then again, not as depressed as MTV thinks i should be. but fuck MTV. anybody who parades kelly clarkson isn't exactly an opinion i stick under a shrine. i got a specific finger with your name on it, if you don't agree.

but for the part of me that actually does morn for the death of my younger years, i've got a little dity that might just cheer me up: buy me somethin'. yes, your dear friend and blogger of all things concha loves her some presents. i'm an only child whose affection was purchased in frequent trinkets from her mom. And frankly, i feel a little off when my life isn't frequently wrapped in shiny gift wrap. bows are cool too, especially on larger ticket items like cars and hot boys.

so without further adieu, i present you my amazon wish list. it ain't the entire collection of what i most desire, but i'd take anything on it with all the glee of a gay parade. and if the beginning of my 4th decade isn't enough reason for you, then just think about all the hours of hilarity i've bestowed upon you all these years. i mean, don't i deserve just a little sumthin'? it's not like i do this shit for free.

by the way, you look great today.

¡viva la amazon! and ¡viva la concha!

ps, don't be afraid to write me a check.

DO IT

lesson.

2009-04-21T17:12:00.002-04:00

this is an example of un-targeted communications placement.

today's assignment

2009-04-19T22:26:00.000-04:00

go download "born under punches" by the talking heads. and dance.

(how the fuck did i forget about this song?)

breaking news

2009-04-19T07:53:00.003-04:00

wow, the times, you know i love ya but this ain't exactly insightful reporting....

maybe that's where the term "pooped" comes from

2009-04-15T20:04:00.005-04:00

I don't know if people say this because they're trying to sound southern, or folksy or cute or whatever. But when some people say "I'm tired" they squish it together to say, "I'm tird" which sounds remarkably close to, "turd." So while you could only be lamenting your fatigue, you run the risk of everyone else believing you crapped your pants.

saturday at the office

2009-04-11T15:43:00.001-04:00

Whiney Little Bitches

2009-03-17T12:13:00.004-04:00

i'm out here in the trenches trying to make the world safe for ideas. it ain't exactly a part time occupation that leaves lots of time for bloggeriah. i'm workin' on a piece for my friend's blog that i'll also post on you favorite URL. but in the meantime, here's a little morsel to tie you over.

everybody's been bitchin' a bunch lately. you notice? The economy, the weather, the work is shit (well, that i'll give you) somebody went stuck a chopstick up my ass, waaa, waaa, WAAA.

as you know, i'm a pretty shit writer. so i'll let my buddy john prine take over from here.

Dear abby, dear abby ...
My feet are too long
My hairs falling out and my rights are all wrong
My friends they all tell me that Ive no friends at all
Wont you write me a letter, wont you give me a call
Signed bewildered

Bewildered, bewildered...

You have no complaint
You are what your are and you aint what you aint
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood

Dear abby, dear abby...
My fountain pen leaks
My wife hollers at me and my kids are all freaks
Every side I get up on is the wrong side of bed
If it werent so expensive Id wish I were dead
Signed unhappy

Unhappy, unhappy...

You have no complaint
You are what your are and you aint what you aint
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood

Dear abby, dear abby...
You wont believe this
But my stomach makes noises whenever I kiss
My girlfriend tells me its all in my head
But my stomach tells me to write you instead
Signed noise-maker

Noise-maker, noise-maker

You have no complaint
You are what your are and you aint what you aint
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood

Dear abby, dear abby...
Well I never thought
That me and my girlfriend would ever get caught
We were sitting in the back seat just shooting the breeze
With her hair up in curlers and her pants to her knees
Signed just married

Just married, just married...
You have no complaint
You are what your are and you aint what you aint
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood.

word.

¡write n roll!

2009-03-09T15:33:00.001-04:00

been away, but i'll never die.

god, i get gayer by the day

the miracle of life

2009-02-14T12:17:00.003-05:00

if you have any kind of moral code, you will support equal rights, donate twenty bucks to this guy and do your part in despising this day halmark hath wrought upon us.

in this despisal...you may also want to join my friend's new site, where you can enjoy a true story
courtesy of moi.

if you do endeavor to take this journey with all of us, it helps if you listen to the song "once in a lifetime" (talking heads...duh) while reading. it takes about the same time to read, as the song is long.

retardedest day ever. mhmm.

also irrelevant oldie, but slightly relevant post

!viva la david byrne!

your amiga al fin,

¡concha!

8 1/2 weeks preggers

2009-02-04T17:19:00.003-05:00

my absence has no doubt been a burden on your soul. but fear not. because i got a bun in the oven and the ex-rican ain't the daddy, thank god.

it's more like an intellectual bun. a fruit of my creativity loins. a contribution for the website of another, of which i will provide you with the most libre link very soon.

until then, keep your conchas happy and free.

amor y wet sloppy besos,

concha

Concha Libre’s hope in the spirit of humanity is also dead.

2009-01-27T16:57:00.006-05:00

Yo, Death, get your bony skeleto-hands off my favorite writers!

First Vonnegut.

Then Wallace.

Now this?

What about a Wall street exec? Maybe you want to impale Paris Hilton? Or stick a big fat cancer rod up Tupegolvich’s ass. There are so many more deserving of the bony little tap of your index finger. How ‘bout Augusten Burroughs and his douchey little audience that funds him.

Do you think your little essay speculating on Updike’s death is funny now, douchey, douche?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, Updike is forever immortal, and Burroughs can die already.

And not even 20 bucks for Dominos

2009-01-21T23:03:00.004-05:00

This is kind of like when you're seventeen and your parents finally pull out of the driveway for a weekend upstate. Except these people have to go clean up an already waiting mess, instead of inviting all their friends to spill Bud Light on the linoleum. At least Mr. You-Ain't-Nobodies-President-No-Mo! and his wife won't be pulling back in on Sunday afternoon. Well, as Obama has shown us, one can only hope.

¡viva la 'bama!

2009-01-20T11:00:00.003-05:00

We, at Concha Libre® and company, would like to congratulate Mr. Obama and his family. We'd also like to note, this will probably be the only time we are happy about anything the entire year. So, let's savor the moment. hooray.

Until tomorrow,

Concha

Thank You, Bloomingdales

2009-01-19T21:08:00.010-05:00

No, really. Let me express my utmost gratitude for giving me something to blog about, when we are hearing almost nothing from Satan Palin.

Thank you for employing sales associates who don’t believe a little courtesy and halfway decent grammar should be included in that $300 price tag. A little civility might make me feel too comfortable to go home and bang on my keyboard to avoid finding myself swimming among the cesspool of completely worthless employees that currently make up your staff.

Thank you for completely ignoring the tastes of the New Yorkers who make up your city. Thank you for instead catering to the banality and substandard fashions of the suburban American tourists who only want to buy something utterly worthless like a Coach keychain or pair of fucking argyles, so they can go back to fucking Akron and boast its purchase from your flagship store. Because the next time I have a momentary lapse in reason and decide to cross the East River, I’ll save myself a hell of a lot of time by remembering this motto: If Brooklyn doesn’t have it, THEY DON’T MAKE IT.

nothing quite says i'm a douchey girl, like this piece of garbage

And finally, thank you for completely underestimating about a third of my gender’s intelligence with displays like this.

Because the next time I start chastising myself for not being a size –87, I’ll remember that anyone who tries to live up to the ridiculous example you set, has a brain size about as big as the jeans snuggled around these unrealistic, plastic asses.

May the economy heap burning coals of bankruptcy upon your head.

no, fuck you!

By the way, Bloomingdales, Bloomies, Vomit, whatever fucking stupid name you're calling yourself these days, this is a display in a store called Future Perfect, a store whose coolness you will never reach, you utterly average, waste of precious New York real estate.

Make like your name and get the fuck outta here!

2009-01-18T13:31:00.015-05:00

Napoleon. Washington. The Bolsheviks. History has seen its slew of coups, government takeovers and shifts in political rule. And while the coming change on Tuesday couldn’t color me happier in my pants, there’s a group I wouldn’t mind going down like a bitch named Palin. Despite the fact that Obama quietly deletes their emails, and the election results created a context that makes their name seem like they’re against the party they support, my fucking inbox is still clogged like a giant hairball in cat’s throat. We’ve moved on, .org. Leave me the fuck alone!

do they make this for email?

Oh sure, I appreciate the idea of a like-minded community of liberals as much as the next hippie. But after the country went the way the name suggests, do I really need to be hounded with thirty-seven emails a day? Let’s all take a trip into our imaginations and pretend another politician was just as send-happy, shall we?

Havana, June, 1978

’Sup Amigos, Fidel here. Sorry ‘bout the other 30 emails I sent esta mañana. I know I’m in power and everything, but just wanted to say qué pasa n stuff. It is true what they say about the top being how you say??… lonely? And de verdad, I’m just kinda bored. Can you make a donation of $25 or more today?

See you in six seconds,

Fidel

Seriously, Fidel. Get a fucking life. And by Fidel, I mean you, MoveOn.org.

As you’ll see here in this screen shot lifted directly from one in my 78 billion emails, MoveOn is well aware we got what we came for:

But it’s never enough, is it? Because every time I think I’m getting an email from a friend, feedback from my boss, or some super sexy awesome Concha Libre fan mail, it’s just Nita, Eli, Carrie, Karin and the rest of the team asking me to stick $25 bucks or more into their grubby little palms. A group with a strategy about as crafty as mine at ten-years-old. “Yeah mom, I know I said I’d never ask for anything again if you bought me those Micromachines, but now I want a BMW. Seriously, Mom, what’s so funny? why are you laughing and slamming your bedroom door in my face?”

It’s a fucking recession, Nita, Eli, Carrie, Karin and the rest of the team. And while I’ve been lucky enough so far (knock on all the wood in the world) to escape the plunging numbers unscathed, as far as you know I’m as broke as the next Detroit pink slip. So (in an email that assumes I’m completely ignorant to different styles of get-togethers) you’re asking me to throw a party?

You want me vote again? Didn’t I already do that?

This is your rationale?

So, fuck me if I’m wrong, but you’re saying that if I don’t jump on the peace train, I can finally get a break? Because, if I correctly recall there were a lot of months I spent Sarah Palin bashing, republican convincing, and risking my relationship with my republican parents to well, move us all on. And maybe…maybe I need to get back to my life, instead of ending up like this:

Wanna know how I’m gonna move forward?

By making like your name, and moving the fuck on.

...and in the spirit of MLK day, I can’t help but feeling, “Free at last!”

Happy inauguration, ya'll.

aw. waaaa.

click here for free concha

2009-01-17T17:22:00.012-05:00

While you eagerly wait for inspiration to strike me down to my focus chair and bestow upon you more adventures and unarguable theories from a life so libre, here are a few activities to keep you busy, and up to date with all things concha.

the funnest five seconds of your life ever #1:

facebookers all around the world can proclaim their amor de concha! membership indeed has its privileges on the facebook fan page, including special member's only updates so you're always in the know. and as long as you're super hot and not drinking one of these, members can score free makeouts!

look how much fun we're having!

don't delay, join today!

my concha runneth over:

double the fan, double the fun on the facebook blog page!

Click you some concha.

Finally, your amigo al fin concha libre has undertaken another quest.

git yer nutz

Read the manifesto here, get the all the balls you ever wanted here, become a fan here, and as we say in my head, ¡viva los blogs y viva la concha!

wild weekend, but we shall overcome.

2009-01-11T22:34:00.004-05:00

2009. the so called year of productivity, has so far rendered me useless on the kitchen tiles with a nearly empty bottle of vodka in hand. and while surprised at my behavior you are not, the lack of words can evoke severe disappointment in a loyal audience of 8. but fear not. the responsiblities of fame are great, but in their greatness they are impossible to ignore. stay tuned this week for concha's first 2009 post of many. i mean, the vodka's all gone....do i really have a choice?

not sure abut the bloomberg gaza post. it seems like i missed the topical boat on that one. but it will be gut wrenchingly funny. so if you want it, send me a digital thumbs up and the post will be done like the dishes, man. i love fan mail.

bloomberg goes to gaza. gazians give approx 0 fucks.

2009-01-05T21:43:00.001-05:00

(coming soon)

Let It Blow

2008-12-25T01:40:00.011-05:00

Christmas is complete. The stockings so carefully hung by the chimney have spilled out goodies galore. And while the kids fight over the controls of their new Wiis, a significantly less innocent scene is taking place up north. Twelve reindeer stand still hitched to their sleigh, just outside of a front door swinging back and forth in the North Pole Wind. For Mr. Claus was still too fucked up to remember that, as his wife nags every night, “This isn’t a barn!” A trail of patent leather boots, socks, a over-sized belt and various red winter gear leads to his bedroom, where Santa lays on his bed, starring at the ceiling, a chest that thuds hard enough to even make his belly shake. An open bottle of Tylenol PM, Xanax and several empty liquor bottles litter the scene. At its center is a cherry red nose caked in slowly hardening snot, mixed with the same white devil that blankets his entire neighborhood. For, my friends, it is my theory that the North Pole is blanketed in not snow, but blow.

Right now you could quite possibly be horrified by this apparent blaspheme of an xmas fable you’ve hung by the chimney of your traditions with care, but I do believe a quick examination of the evidence will have you chiming in with unrelenting agreement, when I call Santa Claus the greatest crackhead of all.

First off, there are obvious points, like “How else could he get around the world in one night?” And if he sees you when you’re sleeping and awake, then clearly he’s up at all hours.

But to really drive this theory home, let’s examine his motives for jumping in the sleigh in the first place. Of course we’d like to all believe it’s the magic of Christmas that inspires Cracky-Claus to grant the wish of every girl and boy. But, please. When else would anyone get the idea to jump off their happy ass and voluntarily trek the entire the world delivering gifts to billions of children with otherwise perfectly capable present-buying parents unless they’re a continent deep in blow? You don’t have to sit through too many teeth chattering sessions until six am to know some pretty stupid ideas get tossed around the mirrored table. This also proves his little green shirted midget cronies are hitting the slopes with him. Because the fateful night Santa’a eyes got all wide with the big idea as he said, “Oh my god, you know what we should do?" only another crackhead would respond by jumping into a toy factory and start building spinning wooden tops.

And then there’s that poem. The one that should be called, ‘Twas the Night on a Bunch of Mutherfuckin’ Blow.

We all know how this one goes, Santa ends up in this rhyming dude’s living room with his reindeer and sack o’ crack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

‘Course he left out the part about dilated pupils, but otherwise the evidence is all over his beard.

”The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.”

Cocaine can also be freebased and smoked in a drug called crack.

”And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!”

Often in literature, poets employ a technique called metaphor. I don’t think it takes a degree in English, to decipher the true meaning lurking in these lines. Plus Santa, at least as modern marketing understands him, is quite the corpulent old soul. One who really should have trouble squeezing himself through a narrow smokestack. But what better way to shed a few emergency pounds that a quick ride on the white horse? It’s all night fuel and a chimney squeezing diet all in one.

And then who could forget some of the poem’s most famous lines of all:

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!”

Is it me or do those eight reindeer sound like they were renamed after the stage full of strippers? And where do cokeheads go when all the bars have closed but they’re not ready to face their angry Mrs. at home? Strip clubs. Sounds like Santa went and named his reindeer after his eight favorite whores of all time. And seeing as Santa hails from a continent covered in nose candy, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume he was a welcome customer.

ho ho ho!

But all Christmas Eves must come to an end. And it’s there we’ll find our Santa back at the north pole after his binge, in the blog’s opening scene, undoubtedly swearing off coke for the rest of his life. And to me, this is the biggest proof of all. Because, mhmmm. Yeah. “This was the last time I swear." I’ve heard that one before. See you next Christmas, crackhead.

oh...and there was this

I'm Pretty Convinced that Cactuses are People, but Plants

2008-12-18T18:09:00.006-05:00

Christopher Walken puts googly eyes on his cactuses.

“Cactuses have pricklers,” he explains. “They can stab you in your hands, in your face. And the only way to know where you stand with someone is by looking into their eyes, right?”

Right is mutherfuckin’ right. I’m on to you, Cactuses. I’m pretty much positive that you are people. Plant people.

Take a gander at the anatomy of your basic cactus:

Look how guilty this guy looks. He's come out with his hands up, like a busted drug dealer on an episode of Cops, Compton. Only instead of crack, this cactus was caught with a lie. A lie about his very existence. His people existence.

According to the most omniscient Wikipedia , Cactuses are spine plants. Hmmmm. Spine plants you say? Sea Sponges don’t have spines. But you know who has spines? Your vertebraed cousin People. Concha Libre may be a giant dumbass, but it doesn’t mean I can’t figure out the most obvious lie of all times stabbing me right in the face.

Take a look at these Cactuses who clearly cannot hide their very human fibers bursting from underneath their pricklers.

What's up, Cactus Club? Yeah, that's right. Get those hands up where we can see 'em.

Do bears have their own motels? Do seahorses? I think not, plantman.

Did somebody forget to hide their valentine from the real humans?

Bush's unfortunate influence on the plant people.

I found the cover of Perfect Ten Cactus Magazine.

What is this, Dance Party USPlantpeople????

What's up, Cactus. Copy the O Christo Redentor Statue much?

Yoda cactus people plant have.

Kids play outside, man. Put some fucking pants on, will you?

The cactus cheerleaders say, "Raa raa ree! We're people, I mean Plants...shit."

Looks like somecactus forgot to take his Valtrex...

I just hope the cactus people are more tolerant of gay parades than California.

Laugh it up, dickhead!

If this isn't proof, I don't know what is.

What are we to do with this news? Since the cactuses aren’t talking back and explaining (believe me, I’ve tried) I’m just going take The Man Who’s Very Scared of Plants’ advice: “A good rule of thumb is, don’t turn your back on a cactus.” Thanks, Christopher Walken. You are my favorite indoor gardener. To this I say, more cactus!

Gotta watch out for those ferns though.

WAAAAAAAAAAAA!

2008-12-18T16:25:00.000-05:00

really???

keepin' the x in xmas

2008-12-17T16:34:00.016-05:00

Maybe it’s because I’m an atheist. Maybe it’s because when I was two my parents gifted me the biggest spoiler of all time: “Concha, there’s no Santa.” Maybe it's because unless they’re on crack, no one is that fucking happy. Joy to the world, my ass. Tis the season for the crappiest noise pollutant of all – Christmas music.

I hate Christmas music. I hate people who don’t hate Christmas music. An oxymoron parading as melody. It’s the same fifty goddamn songs not rocking around the Christmas tree every December, yet not one mistletoe-wielding faggot ever seems to get sick of them. I thought music by its very nature is supposed to evolve. Rock overthrows Doo Whop. Punk tells Rush to fuck itself. But I seriously start to doubt the whole “music” claim, when the biggest challenge to the genre is Mariah fucking Carey.

Still, for twenty five days (or even longer thanks to modern marketing) I’m supposed to throw out my decent music tastes cultivated by hundreds of hours in record stores, punk shows, fuck even piano lessons, to hear Bing Crosby wish for my streets to fill up with icy, pricey boot ruining, sky dandruff just because it’s fucking December.

What really pisses me off is Xmas music’s unavoidable ubiquity. Most songs I hate are deflected from my iPod by employing a clever technique called not stealing them illegally from the interwebs. But thanks to everybody else’s seasonal bad taste, I get to go shopping and hear That Which I Hate The Most over a visual of screaming children, parents screaming at their children, while store managers try to keep from screaming at the screaming parents and children. Meanwhile I’m trying to push through this mess because I just stopped in the store to pick up some fucking sour cream and I don’t know what the hell you people are bitching about because the last time I checked this was Wallgreens, not Rwanda!

More ear raping below.

Sleigh Ride

“Lovely weather for a sleigh ride together,” my frozen ass. I’ve been on a sleigh ride. Guess what? It’s fucking cold. The constant jingling of bells? Progresses from monotonous, to annoying, to I kinda wanna hurt someone, to oops I killed the Christ Child.

Silent Night

Not if you don’t shut the fuck up, it isn’t.

The Chipmunk Song

Whoever got the idea to inhale a bunch of helium and confuse it with cute, should’ve kept inhaling, and inhaling, until his head exploded. Really, Alvin? You still want a hula hoop? That’s the fucking shittiest gift I’ve ever heard of, unless I can hang you with it.

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night

Only in Christmas music, is it acceptable to write lyrics about frigid temperatures, sleighs and other shitty forms of transportation, and smelly old men who walk around prodding sheep with staffs. In fact that little hillside scene sounds a lot like a documentary I watched called Zoo. And in Zoo, a bunch of freaks lived together specifically so they could fuck horses. Yeah, good tidings of great bestiality to ya. Say hi to your mother for me.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Like I said, Mom and Dad turned me into a Santa nihilist when I was two, so I know this is a big fat lie. Fuck you, song!

The Twelve Days of Christmas

This sounds like the worst fucking twelve days of anybody’s life. There you are with some normal wish list. Maybe you want a new digital camera, or a gift certificate to Applebees. A week and a half later you got a fucking circus on your hands. Who’s gonna feed all these god damn geese? The ten faggots leaping? And don’t get me started about eight bitches with nipples in their hands. That’s just fucking creepy.

So, you say, I suppose you’ll say you hate Santa now. And baby Jesus too. But that’s just crazy talk. How could I hate something that’s not real?

Really, all Concha wants for Christmas is you to shut the fuck up.

loyal fan club of 8

2008-12-17T01:53:00.002-05:00

i am very very sorry i have not blogged in so long. i'm working on a piece about how much i hate xmas music, but i have been very busy shooting a bad commercial and keeping up this drinking habit. right now my brain feels like that last pickle in the pickle jar. i'm pretty sure it smells like a soggy bar wipe but i'm not about to go in and find out. i will finish the new blog soon, because i really fucking hate xmas music. i also think that xmas mart they got goin' on over in union square is pretty crap too. was thinking of profiling that, but it'll have to wait. i'm in LA and taking pictures of it from over here has proven impossible so far.

oh, and now would be a good time to suggest some songs for me to hate on. if you think of some good ones i'll give you a prize.

Wee Wee Wee, all the Way Home

2008-11-26T00:18:00.010-05:00

Two months ago, I became the lucky lessee of what I’m convinced is the greatest apartment in the world. Your first few shoe boxes in New York can make any space that’s slightly more sophisticated than a freshman dorm room seem worthy of giving Robin Leach call. And I might, just as soon as I finish painting my kitchen, hanging curtains, and my new favorite hobby, using the power drill.

Upon, my first cathartic thrust into the plastered wall, I was overcome with envy. This must be one of the reasons guys love their dicks. So powerful. So liberating. Plus the entire world is your personal toilet – the bottom half of an oyster shell whose very cupped nature exists for your convenience.

Thanks to an ad in my Gmail a few days ago, I discovered that there is a product determined to erase one of my jealousies for good. Ladies, behold, the Shewee – the portable urinating device for women.

The Shewee is basically a plastic cup attached to a funnel, designed to make the often awkward process of unzipping and squatting as easy as it is say, for a guy. No more uncomfortable hovering or removal of the underpants. With the Shewee, answering the call of nature is as easy as, “securing the device to your crotch,” with "panties pushed to one side," (this order still puzzles me) and, “aiming at a convenient tree!” The ad I saw in my Gmail suggested giving it as a gift, creating new meaning to the Song “Dick in a Box.”

When to Shewee

The website offers examples of women who can benefit from a plastic urine funnel.

So many women, the site claims, can benefit from using the Shewee. From walkers, to landscape architects to bird watchers, there’s not a lifestyle or hobby that the Shewee can’t accommodate.

When camping, it says, “no more cold bottoms. You can Shewee right inside your tent!” I hope I speak for all ladies with a resounding WTF??? This behavior may be perfectly acceptable to the gender born with the Shewee built right in, but if one of my girlfriends friends woke up in the middle of the night in our tent, pulled out a plastic funnel and pushed aside the crotch of her panties, I’d kick her bottom outside in the cold for the rest of the night, and probably the rest of the camping trip altogether.

If traffic is moving slower than the coffee to your bladder, they suggest using the Shewee, “standing up on the grass verge - just turn your back to the jam and your dignity is maintained.” Because there’s nothing un-dignifying about stopping your car during rush hour, walking to the side of the road, fondling around your privates, pushing aside the crotch of your panties, and placing a small plastic urine funnel up to your hoo-ha in view of the passing, honking traffic – as long as your back is turned. Probably something to keep in mind when the urge to masturbate ever springs up behind the wheel, if that’s your thing.

It also suggests that hang gliders should use the Shewee, but offers no reasons why. My imagination suggests that a hang glider and a Shewee adds up to 100% chance of afternoon showers.

The list labeled for the “less mobile” is admittedly more sad. Proving that women recovering from surgery to the incontinent to the bedridden are not immune to ridiculous marketing.

It even attests that the Shewee is as much of a handbag essential as your mobile phone. I don’t know about you, but when I’m on the side of the road with a flat tire, “I sure wish my vagina had better aim” is really the last thing I’m thinking. However, having a Shewee would make drunk dialing interesting, especially to any nearby observers lucky enough to witness me try to make a booty call with a plastic, urine smelling funnel.

Finally, when the website offered a “Tip! Practise with Shewee in the shower to find the best position for you,” I kinda just Sheweed all over myself.

The future of Shewee

Since they already have a website, I think the next advertising foray the Sheweeres should jump into is the infomercial world. I can just imagine the beginning, where we’ll see black and white shots of otherwise housebroken women struggling with the call of nature. One woman might open up a public bathroom stall, shaking her head at it’s sprinkled and toilet paper covered seat. Another may look at a nurse with horror as she hands her a sample cup in the doctor’s office. “Such a small opening had to have been invented by a man!” And of course there’s the inevitable scene outdoors, where our bladder burst woman shakes her head at the camera as it pans down to reveal her urine soaked trousers and failed attempts to hit a tree’s bulls eye. Then the screen suddenly becomes colored when the Shewee debuts, as women exuberantly jump through prairies and fields, liberated from the old ball n’ chain they call a vagina. Baby, you’ve come a long way. An entire plastic funnel long to be exact.

You and I may wee, but we all Shewee!

These are the troubles born to the dickless – along with lower than average pay and the chance you might wake up one morning with another human in your stomach. But as I shudder to think how the makers of Shewee would try to remedy these sorts of problems, I'm quite happy squatting outside my camping tent. Both genders have their pros and cons, but mine was born with the from-experience-empathy to ridicule such a device. And if ever a day comes where the grass seems greener, I can always find something new to hang on my wall, and live vicariously through my power drill.

i'm getting really fucking sick of seeing this ad

2008-11-23T20:13:00.004-05:00

really, facebook? really? how 'bout you make an ad that says, "a copywriter that really can't write?" or "an alcoholic who's too lazy to walk to the corner and buy wine?"

to quote corky in waiting for guffman, "i hate you. and i hate your ass face!"

fucking stoked

2008-11-19T14:40:00.005-05:00

the very thoughtful rep of Anthony Burrill sent me one of his prints a few weeks ago. for free! just had it framed. needless to say, i'm ...what my title said.

anthony burrill

exxxcuse me, mr. cab driver.....

2008-11-15T15:30:00.015-05:00

Living in New York over three years now, I've had time to ponder many questions. Am I working as hard as I could? Did I remember to put on deodorant? And, um, excuse me, Mr. Cab Driver, um WHAT THE FUCK ARE DOING ON THE PHONE???

I assume a cab driver gleans an abundance of anecdotes while carting around New York's drunkest that are quite worthy of sharing with friends. I certainly have plenty from my waitressing days , a profession which I'm sure is relatively comparable in this nature. But when I imagine my ear glued to a jawbone relating these stories to a far off friend while opening a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape for a table, I also envision falling on my ass. And now I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do to the ER nurse as he dislodges a phallic
shaped bottle from my invaded rear. Because in both waitressing and driving, multitasking is dangerous, often deadly and can lead to an extremely awkward conversation with a proctologist.

I'm sure for you, Mr. Cab Driver, there are plenty of matters to discuss other than the trials and tribulations of driving Miss Drunken Daisy. But can it really not wait until I get to Sweet N Vicious or whatever pathetic establishment I'm paying you three hundred and thirty dollars plus tip to drive me to? I can just see the look on my CD's face if I walked into a meeting with a Blackberry attached to my ear, and gave him a "What, asshole?" look when he asked me to do my job. Just as I'm sure he doesn't want to hear me rattle on about God knows what the fuck during business hours, I don't like having to interrupt my podcast and take out my headphones because I saw your jaw flappin' and mistakenly assumed you were asking me to clarify my address in Brooklyn. You know, the one to which you didn't know the directions, and I had to explain them eight times, even though you're a cab driver and I would assume (wrongfully) that knowing the five boroughs, (or hell, at least three) would be part of your fucking attaché!

But now you're going the wrong way. And instead of being able to help you get back on the right track immediately, I have to interrupt your conversation. By the time you tell Herbie Hancock or whoever's on the other end of the line to hold on, we've gone down a one-way street. There goes four more blocks before we can turn around, racking my tab about another twenty-three dollars. Then you'll yell at me for paying it with a credit card.Sorry, but I don't carry around six thousand and eighty two dollars cash in my back pocket. How would I fit all my drugs?

Look. I cart home my fare share of drunken sorority girls (although in my line of work we call them "clients") and I can empathize with the need for show and tell time. But when you've got your hands at ten and phone and the seatbelts in the back are lodged under leather that smells like armadillo, I'd appreciate if you could keep your phone on "off" and your eyes on the LOOK OUT! LITTLE OLD NUNS!!!

cry babies

2008-11-13T11:45:00.014-05:00

It’s New Years in November. Obama is king. Champagne and overjoyed tears flow in equal time. A percussion set of noisemakers keeps the beat of screaming that could rival a Beatles reunion. Jen is standing across from me, a glass of prosecco in one hand, a phone in the other.

“Mom,” she’s crying halfway to the receiver, the other to the sky. “I can have kids now. This is the world I can bring them into.” Certainly Paul Krugman would have been proud of this scene. As, he said in the Times, “If the election of our first African-American president didn’t stir you, if it didn’t leave you teary-eyed and proud of your country, there’s something wrong with you.”

Tears of joy dry quickly, but the opposite kind still were falling all over Facebook the next morning. After last night’s scene of street dancing, hugging and hi-fiving strangers, and the sudden resurgence of faith and Obama fervor electrifying the streets of New York, it seemed like the only kind of McCain supporter that could be immune to it all, would be the kind of person who can’t catch a fever. The kind that’s dead. But the Facebook sphere was alive and kicking with status updates fueled by bitter resentment, growing like weeds in an otherwise pretty damn hopeful garden.

A few of my favorites:

XXX…is asking for privacy and respect during this grieving process.

Did someone die? I thought. Shit, should I call this person? But then I remembered the high cost of sympathy flowers, and that they’re not exactly how you consol the death of someone’s pride.

XXX…is hoping the next four years go by very quickly.

You and me both. Because no matter which man was elected, the next four years aren’t exactly going to be the heaven in the sky you and your God fearing friends think you’re headed to. We’ll have to do things like say, “work,” and “follow through on our word,” to repair the country. I know McCain swore he’d cut all earmark spending and other unrealistic promises of perfection the second he was sworn is, but as a democrat I’d like to introduce you to a little concept I call reality. A four years that will be difficult no matter who’s in office. Hopefully now, we’ll be better off when they’re over, not China’s bitch. (No offense to China.) Plus, considering you Christians are already wishing away your time on this Earth for afterlife’s reward, I’m sure you’ve gotten good at this by now.

My very favorite was some woman I who left a comment on this status. “I’m keeping my McCain sticker up in my office as a reminder to all.”

Next to your Bush poster perhaps? Or maybe your plunging 401k statements. Do you have footage of dead American soldiers playing on repeat? Or are you the kind that frames photos of Iraqi mothers carrying their dead innocent children, next to the kitty poster that says, “Hang in there!” Seriously, if you’re going to hang onto McCain paraphernalia, do so Marky Mark “Fear” style and carve “McCain Forever” on your middle-aged chest. I got a feeling there aren’t too many people are going there, and you’ll keep the foot-in-mouth moments to a minimum.

Another claimed she wanted to vomit. After reading that, it made two of us.

After I swallowed the urge to aim mine in a doggie bag and express mail her a sample, I still couldn’t figure out why, unlike McCain’s humble exit, his supporters were acting unsportsmanlike. Fuck me if I’m wrong, but after the announcement was made, I didn’t see any Obama supporters taunting the so-called losers. What we seemed to understand, and McCain even pointed out, is that the election wasn’t about chasing some political Stanley Cup. As Obama said, “Victory alone is not the change we seek, but the chance to make that change.” We weren’t taunting losers, because there were no losers to make fun of like Florida State Seminoles. It wasn’t a fucking game! Even if you didn’t vote for him most of your taxes will still be lower. You’ll get the healthcare, the education and basically all the spoils of the war you claim to have lost. And (with the exception of racist rednecks and the KKK) I don’t think there’s an Obama supporter out there who wants to rob you of the winning days ahead. And if you feel like a loser saving money on taxes, I’ve got a bank account that can relieve you of all your losses. For more information, my email is in my profile.

Paying the cab driver who drove me home last Tuesday night, “God Save the Queen,” randomly erupted in my ear buds. I found it a pretty fitting soundtrack to the coup’ de failed politics and hopeful spirit of democracy restored that evening. Except as Johnny Rotten lamented on the lack of tomorrow, in my head I tweaked the lyrics a bit.

There is a future
There is a future.

And if any of you are still admitting with your tears that you don’t agree, well, what Krugman said.

not surprising.

2008-11-11T13:43:00.001-05:00

tomorrow

2008-11-04T00:48:00.002-05:00

when i was eight years old, i remember sitting in the passenger side while my dad drove down the highway. Upon seeing the driver of the car in front of us had adorned their bumper with a Dukakis sticker of support, I promptly turned to my dad and announced my hope that the driver “fall off the face of the earth.”

I had no idea what Dukakis stood for. I didn’t know what it meant to be Democrat a Republican for that matter. All I knew was that the administration of our Baptist Christian school had given us that day off from the normal school day to hold mock elections. The local news had come, and we were driving home to see if I had gotten on TV. Our principal told us that when we each walked into the homemade election booths, we were free to make whatever choice we wanted, as long as it was for George Bush. George Bush Sr. was of course on the side of God and Pro life. And we knew you were either for God and little babies, or you were for Satan. Hence my vehement wish on the driver’s fate—a long walk off a short earth.

Little did I know that at eight-years-old, that my word was completely flat.

Not only would the earth have to be level to have an actual “face” from which the evil driver could fall, I was too young and misinformed to see a round world and take both points of view into consideration. I knew one side, and it was God’s. Why would He, or my principal waste time with the wrong side? But what scares the living shit out of me was my instinctive reaction to armor myself with blind hatred. I didn’t know anything about Dukakis, his party, or even the driver. But in a sort of primal way, it shows us how fear of the unknown and the desire to be "correct" are often just what the bartender ordered to mix a hate cocktail.

I’ve since sobered up from this kind of thinking. As a former republican, the past eight years have forced me to swallow the notion that I was wrong. Unfortunately I’ve seen much of the McCain camp still drunk on my eight-year-old attitude. People see someone they don’t identify with, talking about completely new ideas, and suddenly they’re making tenuous connections to Acorn. Using convenient puns like “Obamanation.” Accusing him of being a terrorist because of his middle name. Calling his tax plan “wealth redistribution” as if the Democratic Party is really the Bolshevik Army in disguise, biding their time before they come dump out their grandmother’s hope chest of heirlooms. They’re reduced to my eight-year-old logic desperately defending their beliefs because they haven’t seen or refuse perceive a world from all sides, one that’s round. Or simply because they’re so set in their ways and they don’t want to face the daunting proposition that they just might not be right.
Luckily my dad scolded my little Earth exiling ass that day. Although a republican, he at least knew it wasn’t right for anyone to be pushed out of the atmosphere over a bumper sticker. The other night I think I may have convinced him to take that logic one step further, and admit with his vote that the policies of the past eight years have failed. And to anyone else who takes that step, thank you. It’s gut wrenchingly difficult to face facts and admit you may have been wrong. But thanks to the nature of the curtains that surround you tomorrow, no one will have to know. I hope you can soften the armor of your heart, and find the part of it that knows how to do the right thing.

if you actually got to the end of this, thanks.

My Fucking Roommate

2008-08-01T23:33:00.007-04:00

Three years. In my selfish, only child book, it’s a measurement of time that rivals geology. To date, live with, and try maintain love for someone else, to share every electrifying, “baby, can you please wash the dishes,” moment, I need patience, compromise and lots and lots of drugs. Watching paint dry has always been a lot more exciting when tripping balls.

But when monotony incarnate kicks you out on the streets, any given dealer in Brooklyn will shake his head, unable to offer you the specific kind of numbing you’re looking for. Being a fan of “the drugs” I can say from experience that moving out of an (un)happy home is quite similar to the only part of abuse that I don’t care for: quitting – all hope of that first high is swimming through the halls of Atlantis, but you still need to continue using to keep from throwing yourself permanently below the sea.

So I turned my back on the concept of cold turkey, and kept the IV hooked up and dripping. We did all the usual breakup stuff – divide the furniture, get a new place, wish violent death on the other – only to constantly make plans for me to come over, watch movies and pretend everything was still the same. I think the Kübler- Ross “grief model” refers to this as “denial.” And denial was the drug for me. But then my ex went to Spain for a few weeks, my roommate went on a first date and suddenly I never needed a hit so badly in my life.

While my new roommate was using her Saturday night to do the normal drink yourself silly and spread your legs sort of pastimes, I was home after a day spent working on the ad campaign from hell. With three years worth of breakup depression swimming in my skull, and even, I admit, a little rain on my face, I was served the daunting proposition of trying to sleep so I could do more of the same on Sunday. Finally, after a several hours of sword fighting insomnia, as E.B White wrote in Charlotte’s Web, “Sleep and Wilbur eventually found each other.”

That’s when my G rated evening hung a sharp left and woke up in Deep Throat.

Did you ever hear that old Adam Sandler sketch where he plays loud grunting noises and asks people to figure out if they’re working out or having sex? It was hilarious. And nothing like this. My roommate and her date came home, strapped bullhorns to their mouths and consummated their evening in the room that shares a wall with mine. She was moaning, but understandably so. He kept going for a good hour, maybe two. But while he could last like a real man, he screamed like a woman.

Knowing that she and the screaming woman had likely woken up Hellen Keller in her grave, the next day she apologized with the highly original “I was really drunk.” Later, through the paper-thin walls. I overheard a phone conversation where she said, “I hope my roommate doesn’t think I’m a slut.”

Now, let’s review. I had worked all Saturday. I had to stay home on Saturday night to rest for workday-Sunday. And just when I finally snuffed out the insomnia of a breakup, I’m greeted back into consciousness by an alarm I didn’t set. Also because the male equivalent for “slut” doesn’t exist, I’ve more or less omitted that word from my vocabulary.

So yes, I was sitting next-door questioning your morality, while praying for the Sweet Baby Jesus to spare you from hell fire and have mercy on your soul. You dumb, dumb slut.

I was hoping this night would be an isolated incident, a slip of the slut. But as weeks gave birth to night after goddamn night from hell, jumping back into the unhappiness of my last relationship would have been an orgasm in pill form.

I tried to fight fire with fire by jumping into a new relationship. Of course when the potential new flame asks your name and you respond by jumping on him begging to be rescued from breakup pain, it’s likely he’ll run for his life screaming like the opposite sex after flinging you violently back in the room for one. One night I came home a little down that things were going south with he and I, only to be greeted by the noises of two people intent on rubbing it in my face. When my headphones still didn’t drown out the noise, I needed to call someone, anyone, for a distraction to keep me from hand crafting a homemade machete Kenya style and slashing through our shared wall. Brilliantly I call my ex, who informs me that he’s recently become no stranger to making the sex noises in my former apartment with girls other than yours truly.

Timeout for an inventory check: I’ve got the depression of a failed rebound in my head, the soundtrack to the Karma Sutra at full volume in the next room, and an ex who’s moved on (and over and under) on the other end of the line.

Later, my friend Jessica observed, "That is a personal hell."

No it's not a personal hell. It's like the Devil himself tying you up and licking you in the face to the beat of a Savage Garden ring tone.

But Hades doesn’t have to be a horrific address if you figure out how to profit from it. A friend and I were chatting at a party, and my current woes gave us an idea to revolutionize the nature CD industry. You know, the ones where a tiny elf plays his lyre accompanied by the soothing percussion of Raindrops of Tranquility? We thought perhaps the one part of nature missing in this box set was Sounds of Sex®. Because hey, if people will buy Sounds of the Sea, why couldn’t the motion of their ocean sit on the same shelf?

This all changed when her partner-in-mating started making, what I guess can best be described as loud guttural noises. Up to now I presumed that unless it’s, “Ow! Wrong asshole!” sex was supposed to induce moans of pleasure. But living next door to observe Peter Rabbit and his Bitch, I’ve observed that mutual thrusting moans can range from soft and kinda gay to the groans of cattle too dumb to know they being slaughtered.

One night a friend and I were chatting in my room, when the happy couple pressed play on their Sounds of Sex CD. He turned to me and asked, “Er, is that a human?”

I’ve always thought one of the qualities that differentiate humans from animals has been our capacity for empathy. An empathy, which may have made him think twice about other people in the apartment. If he was incapable of thinking about others, he could have at least been selfish enough not to want to embarrass himself making noises that sounded like a dying diesel engine being raped in it’s first night in maximum security prison. If not in earshot of me, then at least not in front of the girl he wanted to fuck again. And again. And again. And I hate them.

No, kids. He’s not a human. He’s a slut.

I’ve tried headphones. I’ve tried calling people, but we know how that goes. I’ve tried smothering a pillow on my head just enough to muffle the moans, but not quite hard enough to kill me. I’ve tried playing electronic music so that the noises sound like they’ve been mixed into some kind of avant garde experimental track. I even toyed with the notion of planting traps to break them up.

Maybe I leave a pair of Scooby Do underpants in her bed for him to find and her to try and explain.

Maybe I try and one-up the happy couple, by inviting over ten of my friends to stand in my room (yeah, like they’d fit) and pretend we’re having a really hot fucking orgy in here! “Oh yeah.” “Oh baby.” “I think somebody just scored a hole in one.” “My goalie must be sleeping, because my net’s got some balls in it.” “I must look like Warsaw because, Adolph you sure know how to invade my lady parts.” Oh the joy of sex.

What I haven’t tried is simply talking to her.

I’m busy. And by busy I mean I have no balls. But get this. Apparently too much wine is fertilizer for entire crops of cojones. In fact I think we could solve the world’s balls shortage, simply by getting everybody drunk. And drunk is what I was one night, when I decided that two of my friends and I needed to keep the debauchery flowing by coming back to my room at 4am and use our outside voices. Why? Well, none of us can remember. Believe it or not, wine can also act as an effective bouncer to memory. Because I woke up the next day, two friends gone, a half consumed bottle of wine on the table, and what an AA patron might refer to as a “blackout.” I figured it would be best to send a ‘sorry bout the noise’ email to the (not so much) girl next door. But if I didn’t have the sensibility to assume I should apologize for any noise I wasn’t certain we’d made, she wouldn’t have enlightened me with this reply:

“I'm not sure if you recall what you said, but I felt as though that is what
really upset me, that on top of coming home loudly with two other
people at 4am on a weeknight. I’m referring to the exchange when I
opened the door. You said "Hey, want a glass of wine?" I said, "No, I'm trying to sleep." And then you said, "Well, when you and your boyfriend are fucking, it's fucking loud!"

Oh. Oops.

“Not only was that somewhat embarrassing, but also completely disrespectful and completely uncalled for.”

At first, a little bit of regret for my drunken actions actually welled up within my bosom. But then I remember the “Personal Hell.” The guttural noises. The nights of lost sleep and the grogginess following me through the next day. Yeah, we were loud one night. But we were loud one night. A loudness that came from laughter. Hits a slightly different level on the Skeeved The Fuck Out scale. Suddenly the three page email telling me I “had a lot to learn” seemed to be the equivalent of a fat man at the dinner table gnawing on a chicken leg with his mouth open, wiping away chunks and drool with his sleeve, and then with full mouth, turning to me and telling me to take my elbows off the table.

So, ok. I’m a grown up. I’ll use my manners and oblige. Look, bitch, no elbows. But trust, it won’t be too long before I’ll ask to be excused from the table… right after I grab your fucking chicken leg and smack you across your face. Your slutface.

ok, annie twill your tendrils

2008-08-01T23:13:00.002-04:00

hey. you know what guys. this is a genuine apology.

i know im building it up too much.

tomorrow, tomorrow. i love ya...

and i love you. im gonna rejigger the order of the posts so i can get one up tomorrow. i was gonna put them up in a different order but i'll get one up tomorrow. just for timings sake. im really happy you guys wanna see it. that means a ton to me. thank you so much. have a great night. god bless you everyone.

this is tiny tim sending her love.

75% done with one post, 79% with the other

2008-07-30T22:46:00.003-04:00

in the meantime check out the new awesome stuff by my old colleagues. i'll be back before you can say bitchface.

ross eats and other films

i never promised you forever.

2008-07-28T10:38:00.003-04:00

i wasn't lying. it really is coming together. but, yaaaa'll, it's summer in new york. you know how that goes. i'm stuck at work paying the bills while my dopplegänger is passed out at home, face first on the hardwood, clutching her broken crackpipe and a binkie.

lucky bitch.

summer blockbuster

2008-07-26T01:58:00.001-04:00

to be continued, at a new URL. coming soon. stay tuned for part deux.

XOXOXO! part deux

2006-09-13T23:49:00.000-04:00

I know it’s been a while but I been busy! I think the last time we talked I was ‘bout to high tail it to the big city! But a ride to Tallahasee ain’t free, ya know. Thank God I sure got Uncle Stevie wrapped around my little twat like a duck taped maxi pad! And I got the Hyundai to prove it!

So I made it. I’m a little sore, but I’m here. And, shit ya’ll. I feel big time. Talle may not be New York, but it’s sophisticated to me!

I was strollin’ down the street ponderin’ the fact that I’d finally arrived n shit, and then that’s when I got it. The Fear. I’m mean, fuck, ya’ll. This is a big tittie city! I mean I know I’m hot n shit, but even Britney Spears cry-cry-cries in her lonely heart. And I sure is lonesome cause I ain’t got nobody here. All I got is a pair of boobies and a dream.

But I told myself, “Bunny Fuxxx, this is no time for cryin’! You march your sore little beehind into the best modlin’ agency in town and demand yurself an interview!”

So two blowjobs later I was sittin’ in the big office. I mean I was talking to the president and the manager of catalogue promotions! So I sat down, adjusted my titties, smiled like Samantha and told them my name. But they didn’t even care! And, ya’ll know I spent hours workin’ on that shit. I mean I almost came up with a really good pun! But they just ignored me. They were all like, “Do you have a portfolio or something?” And I go, “What’s a portfolio?” And they looked at me like I had worms crawling out of my Fashion Bug dress. (So cute!) So I’m all “Yeah, you might as well be talking about hygiene or sumthin’ cause I ain’t got no clue!” And they told me I had to have a book of pictures if they were ever gonna let me into their catalogue. I guess you gotta get all professional for the president of Sears. Anyway, I was like, “Ooooooooooh” (and I knew I looked hot cause I practice that open mouth look a lot in the mirror…and on Stevie Weebie) Anyway, I was like “Ooooooh, you mean my Myspace page! Well are ya’ll stupid or somethin’? Like I can actually drag my Dell in here alls by myself. I mean, for ass fucking sake, I’m a lady!” And I pointed at my boobs for proof.

Well you know how I said they were lopsided n stuff? (Uncle Stevie couldn’t afford more then 300 dollars for the surgery.) Well, when I pointed at ‘em, I looked down and I saw sumptin’ icky on my shirt. On the big one. And I was like gross! I probably dropped some twinkie filling on my shirt back into the lobby. Wait…omigod, I have to tell you this story real quick cause it was really funny. Before my interview I was waitn’ in the lobby n stuff. When they called my name I was eatin’ a twinkie cause I luuuvs a good cum filled cake and all. Butgoddamnit I couldn’t let that thing go to waste! So I stuffed the whole cake in at once. But don’t worry, I had that thing scarfed in a like 8 seconds. Don’t ya’ll know that’s my specialty? I mean, mamma always told me no lady makes it into show business without knowin’ how to swallow a twinkie in under ten. Anyway, I thought that thing got all Monica Lewinsky on my ass leaving the evidence on my shirt n shit, so I was like, “Excuse me, ya’ll.” And then when I went outside I invet- investimiga- I directed my eyeballs down further and I realized the stuff was all gooey! I was like, shit, I cant be lacktimating can I? I’d heard women who had babies can lacktimate if they got near a small child. And there was a baby in the lobby. But I can’t be lacktimating if I only had two abortions can I? (I know, I know I told ya’ll I was a virgin before but it’s been a few months and things change. And, besides, a girl’s ass can only take so much!) So I went into the little girls room to look at my boobies (thank you, Stevie! Muahh!) and I saw that one of them things was leaking! (In case you were wonderin’ it was the big one, double duh!) It couldn’t have been lackimation cause everybody knows baby formula is cum colored. triple duh! Anyway I looked down at the shit, and I saw, swear-to-fucking-Sex-in-the-City-goddess-Samantha there was fuckin’ green goo coming out my fake boobie like the boogie man melted and was oozin’ out my nipple!

And I was like, oh my god, wwfd? WHAT WOULD FORBIDDEN DO?? So baby, if you can hear me, I’m still here locked in the bathroom of Sears, with a leaky boobie and no more twinkies! Oh why didn’t I bring in my dell? Myspacers can you hear me??? I promise I’ll post, like fifty seven million more of my sexy ass cum fuck me pics on my page if you can puuuleaze call 911! I mean, no twinkies? No penis shaped cake with a mushy filling??? THIS IS A FUCKING EMERGENCY!!!!!!

2006-09-03T16:38:00.000-04:00

I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m gonna make this quick.

I’m currently working on a campaign at my agency that is doing some ads in the style of Gary Larson’s Far Side. We’re not exactly copying him, we’re just using his style to establish the tone of our campaign. Needless to say, to get into the style, I’ve had the pleasure of flipping through numerous cartons he did throughout his career.

Despite the nauseating commercialism of his cartoon, if you really dig through the anthologies, it’s hard to deny the brilliance and cool-as-fuckness of this guy's shit. When I see talent like this, I would think no one could be enough of a dick to piss on his haha parade. But I was wrong.

This is a letter the LA Times received about Gary Larson, while he was working there as a cartoonist.

I cannot understand the cleverness of this Gary Larson. Do these come from the inmates of prisons and are sold to him, which he turns and sells them to you?

What lies behind these warped cartoons? I wish some one would clear their meaning (of them) to me.

To me they are a waste of space and are an insult to an LA Times reader who can find no reason for them in your newspaper.

Signed R.E. Lewis

This hit close to home. There’s been a lot of talk amongst bloggers and on the blogs themselves about negative anonymous comments lately.

Given I’m not the brightest bulb on the tacky Christmas tree, forgive my lame little attempt to wax philosophical. Plus, I haven’t read Ayn Rand since I was a teenager, so I'll probably get this wrong anyway. (I’m really not even trying to allude to her philosophy, but it feels a little Ayn Randish). But it just seems to me that in this world we're stuck with two types of peeps: creators and the sit-on-their-assers. Not to say that bloggers are THE creators of the world, but there is something to be said for the simple fact that we are doing something other than smelling the tips of our ass exploring fingers. There are also hoards of sit-on-their assers, existing as part of the amoeba-like masses, contributing very little – i.e. The Anonymous Commentor. He feels the need to spew out his point of view, much like a drunk spews his late night vomit, while never producing anything himself. But how can his opinions count for anything until he attempts to fucking do something!? Opinions are about as useless as Stephanie Klein working in a strip club. Maybe try putting down the bag of cheetos, wiping the cheese off the keyboard and coming up with your own fucking idea or two! And if you've gotten yourself far too drunk on idiot absinthe to create anything intelligent, then will you kindly put a dildo in that ass you call a mouth and shut the fuck up? Maybe then you'll spew a little less vile chunky cheese colored vomit all over the net and this whole blog world might smell a little better. Cause for fuck’s sake, all we're trying to do is entertain you, and make you go hahaha a little fuckng bit.

blue and clockwork orange

2006-09-01T19:30:00.000-04:00

It’s been a busy week. I’m moved. Unpacked. (sorta) But still waiting for those bitches at Ikea to deliver the furniture. Apparently it takes three weeks to bring a goddamn loveseat.

Anywho, it was a long week and I’m too tired to bring the funny today. But I do have a little something I’d like to leave you with before we part.

This week is the start of one of my favorite times of the year. The time when Saturday mornings great me with the hiss of an open Heiniken and the smell of filet on the grill. Where obscenities float through the air so frequently, you can almost grab one that’s drifting by, and pet it like a chinchilla. And my favorite, the shit talking, and all the glorious fighting. The week where we kick-off a little bit of the ultraviolence.

(music: Synthesizers and kettle drums)

College football.

But on Monday, there will be a game that has the potential to tear my little brain in two. For my most hated teams will face each other off, like two forces of evil in a final apocalyptic (yet annual) battle. My friends, you know as well as I do that these are the worst two teams in existence. A fan of one of these school was either too stupid to get into UF or dumb enough to pay $30k/yr for the same education in MIA. And that’s an absolute truth, isn’t it, oh my Brothers?

Now, I can handle watching just one of these schools play. It’s easy. I just root for the other team. But when they both go head to head is when my little neuron fibers start to frazzel like hair in a fire.

I want you to loose.

No, you!

No both of you!

Agh! This hurts!

Ah! The pain!

The brain tearing neuron implosion of football fandom confusion! I am utterly beyond my capacity to wrap my mind around this moment!

But still there is hope. Two hopes to be exact. The first is the wish that both their offences will suck major llama nuts. The second -- their defenses will be good enough to keep the other team from scoring, but egregious enough to never intercept the ball themselves.

And then no one will score at all.

And they will both lose.

But there will still be one winner.

And that will be me.

(music: More synthesizers and kettle drums)

Your friend, Concha Libre.

Shaking her ass.

And her number one foam finger.

That looks like this:

Go gators. Or as we say in Libre land, “¡viva los gators! y ¡viva la concha!”

Just who do you think you are?

2006-08-26T10:58:00.000-04:00

Yoo-hoo, all! It’s me, again. The Anonymous Commenter! And that’s Mrs. Anonymous to you, missy. I been married to the same man for 18 years and that’s somethin’ to be respe’ted! Anyway, it’s a brand new day and as usual I’ve got nothing to do, so I thought I’d pop up to say howdy.

If you were wondering what that big, loud scratching noise was before, that was me crawling out from the big Midwestern rock I live under. I can’t fit my used Dell under there (let alone my ass- HAHA!) so I gotta climb out to do my daily blogroll.

Ahh, let’s start the rounds. Oh, HEHEHE! HAHAHA! WHOOWHOOWHOO! That Waiterrant has done it again. Such a nice young man. Always gets me in a pickle. Ok, what’s next? Oh…Oh my. What the …Jimminy Christmas! This is just terrible! How dare this snobbish little pooterbag make fun of… How can they sit here and say these things on the Internet??? I mean, the nerve! Don’t they know there’s only six or seven sites I read? How can they force me to listen to this? And their blog is just like this day after day. And it never changes! Don’t they think about me? What I want to hear? What happened to writing for your audience? That’s something Mrs. Wiesenburg taught me in fifth grade grammar class and I ain’t never forget! But every day they just go ahead and say something I don’t agree with and, I’ll tell ya, I’m cotton pickin’ mad! I think it’s time for Mrs. Anonymous to get the old soapbox again, and show ‘em who’s the real boss of their blog!

Just because you think you’re some big city slicker in Los Angeles or San Francisco (they’re all the same to me I don’t check profiles anyway) does not mean you have the right to put up your opinions and your fancy humor for us all to read! I mean who do you think you are! Instead of spending the whole day polutin’ the internet with your bitter little stories, why don’t you go out and get a job every other good American? Yes, missy. Hard work is what I’m talkin’ about. Like my husband, bless his soul, who works like an ox. Even on Fridays and Saturday nights! Sometimes he works so hard he doesn’t even come home! But that’s ok. Cause I got a date with my Dell every night. So why don’t you write something we wanna hear for a change? And for your information, it’s not “an stupid idiot.” It’s A stupid idiot.” Looks like somebody was doin’ a little snoozin’ in fifth grade grammar class!

But not me, nosiree! I had almost perfect attendance. I only missed that one day when they went over irony! Whatever that is.

Well, I think that’s enough sopaboxin’ for one day. Besides, I don’t hate all blogs. I mean, who can deny that Stephanie Klein is probably the most brilliant writer since Jackie Collins? And boo on Gawker for posting those mean, mean comments about Kitty Can Scratch. Boo pooty toot poop. That bright child is a real inspiration for women like me. And she can too write. I mean, I tried to write a couple of times; like this one time when I was really mad cause my poodle Daisy Lips ate my brand new pair of pleather Aldos! But, gosh! It was harder than when I tried to give up Bon Bons!

I’m telling you, that young lady has a gift. And just cause I don’t have any talent, doesn’t mean I can’t sniff it out like onion dip at a community center gathering. So you can just take your snarkiness and put it in your pootoodle!

What’s that you ask? Uh, what’s my name? You mean my name? Well, I er, I…Ooop. Gotta run. Who’s the Boss reruns are on! And ooo boy, that Tony’s sure a looker! Toodles!

Ikea sucks swedish meatballs

2006-08-22T23:42:00.000-04:00

We went to the Port Authority and arrived at door #5. That’s we saw them. Hundreds of them. Yacking on cell-phones. Hoarding the oxygen. Bulbous and porous handfuls of sweaty flesh. Bellies soft with stupidity.

“This isn’t the fucking line is it?” I asked. “This can’t be the line.”

It stretched to Harlem. I was pretty sure we’d never make it on the bus. The line was too goddamn long. But as it disappeared through door #5, it appeared as though we might make it on. Suddenly, however, the line stopped right as we were about to board.

“No more seats,” said the woman in charge. “Only standing room.”

“Standing room?” we both asked in unison. “What the hell is standing room?”

But before she could answer, the crowd behind us had nudged us aboard. We discovered that "standing room" meant two things:

1) Standing in the middle of the isle of the charter bus
2) Holding on for your fucking life.

I gripped and held. For we were aboard and on our way. On the free Ikea bus to Jersey.

It reminded me of the time I was late for my train in Europe and had to ride in the cargo car. Only now I felt more like a chihuahua's ass drippings.

“This feels European,” I commented to the Rican.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Carpooling to a destination seems like a responsible thing a European would do. If we were big, stupid Americans we’d be driving to Ikea, polluting the air with big, stupid gas guzzlers.”

“No.” He shook his head as we stood in the crowded middle isle. “It doesn’t feel European. It feels Mexican.”

When we arrived, we discovered that Ikea is probably Mexico’s cousin. Cheap stuff, little order, and delinquent children overran the floor, like they were auditioning for the movie, City of God. (Yeah, I know that’s Brazil.) As I watched the swarms of screaming kids circle around the floor, I had only one thought. What the fuck were these parents thinking, bringing their kids along to Ikea? Because really. What were they going to add to the experience? Will the sleeping infant be able to help the arguing parents come to a decision between a new chartreuse throw or an extra set of curtains? Will the screaming toddler be able to provide insights on wallpapering Vs hiring a painter? Or were they really there to do the duty they seemed to be sent there to perform: stomping on my feet.

“I’m getting my tubes tied tomorrow,” I leaned over and whispered to the Rican. In the country of chaos, I was trying my best to eliminate any confusion.

But despite the disorder, we had to focus. Screaming bastards or not, it was time to turn our new home into Omm.

(Wow. I am super gay.)

After a few hours, we had to put a temporary hold on the torture in order to refurnish our empty stomachs. The only option for food was the Ikea cafeteria, so we grudgingly joined the line of oversized customers eager to stuff their faces with Swedish meatballs.

As we picked up our trays, I couldn’t help picturing the Swedish chef from the Muppets preparing the food. But when I took my first bite, I realized that my imagination was pretty accurate.

“This food looks like it would be good,” The Rican observed. “But when you eat it, it’s just crap.” This was becoming a common theme. The beds seemed stylish and comfy, but were like sleeping on top of a snoring grandpa. The pots and pans looked functional, but during cooking, the handles get hot and bite you. And the although the food, appeared tasty, it could have only been prepared by a chef with the brain of a puppet.

Hours pass. Days maybe. Lamps. Loveseats. Spatulas. It's a blur. All I know is that it ended. So we found a sales associate and asked him how we could get out furniture and end the pain, man!

"Oh you guys gotta go back and get da shit."

You mean the fucking giant sofas and shelves? ....we, uh... we just wanna get it delivered.

"I know, but you gotta get one of dees carts and, you know, put da shit on it, and take it over there," he said, pointing to a line of people that stretched to Rhode Island.

We thanked him, checked the time and realized it would be totally fucking impossible to order our furniture and board the last bus to New York before it abandoned us in this hell. Frustrated, we marched out the door and quickly boarded our last chance for escape. As we sat down, thankfully securing seats this time, I looked down at the bag I was carrying. And I realized, uh…we never got in line. We, um…

“Babes…we didn’t pay for shit.”

We just jacked Ikea. Looking around to check for swat teams, I felt bit of tugging in the pit of my stomach. At first I thought my super strict Christian upbringing was making me feel bad for stealing. But upon closer examination I realized it was not guilt but regret.

“Damnit,” I said to the Rican, “Why didn’t we take more?!”

But there wasn’t room for anything else. Cause everybody left their common courtesy behind in favor of mexi-packing the bus full of overcrowding shit. Bags were the size of obese Americans. Cardboard boxes seemed to stretch as long as backyard diving boards. And then, of course – children.

As I listened to a screaming toddler while simultaneously being poked by the corner of a flat cardboard box scrunched next to my seat, I started to realize that children were a lot like the items sold at Ikea. Lunch looked yummy but tasted like a Dr. Scholl’s shoe insole (used.) The beds had comfy potential, but felt like sleeping on old man flesh (hairy.) So then there’s the kid. He looks cute and cuddly, but he’ll start screaming his fucking fuzzy head off when you forget to do the littlest thing. Like feed him. Even once! Forget Swedish meatballs, this is false advertising at its most misleading.

“Well,” said the Rican, trying to raise his voice above the decibel of the screaming child, “at least we got all this shit for free.”

For a second I agreed that our heist made it all worth it. But then my toe got smushed for the eight time by an out-of-control toddler. Nothing is free, bitches. Nothing. Not even stolen pillows.

Update: I'm pretty pumped you guys all hate Ikea as much as me. Feel free to share your miserable stories and keep the comments coming. Maybe Ikea will see it and feel compelled to clean up their act. But, maybe not...

no sleep till brooklyn!

2006-08-21T13:11:00.000-04:00

So this, might be what we call a "light post week." (right, like i post so much anyway...)

I have to a) start my new job, meet my partner and try to remember how to concept for ads

b) move to williamsburg -- the rican and i got a fabulous new place which we will be moving to over the week which means...

c) multiple trips to ikea (a blog may be coming about the wretchedness of that place. went yesterday and made a few "observations"...)

d) lots of cleaning. and oh how i hate that....

e) finishing my other job. I'm such a noble employee i decided to give them proper notice and still finish all the shifts i was scheduled for. (barf)

and then there's f) keeping you, my loyal readers, updated with regular posts of hilarity. (see, even that was funny.) ok. i know. i'm not funny. shut up.

and don't forget....

that's it!

Self indulgence and a Streets metaphor

2006-08-18T22:42:00.000-04:00

(Warning...this one's whiny. And I guess it won't make sense to you if you don’t listen to the Streets. But given his recent rise to popularity, I’m betting that most of you have. So I’m using his song as a fucking weak metaphor. And if you haven’t, sorry, dude. This probably isn’t worth reading anyway. i only ramble on and on. I just kinda wrote it for myself....and of course, this one goes out to all my homies in the struggle...)

It was supposed to be so eaaaaasyyyyy.

Finish ad school. Move to New York. Get a job. Almost exactly one year ago that was our plan. “Our” being the Rican and me. And it sounded simple enough. I had savings. He had his mama. Never mind that the total combined times he and I had visited New York was under eight. Cause fuck, man. We were smart. And (while I didn’t believe it) everybody told us we had good books. Shit, a few people went so far as to flip out when they saw him. ”Oh, you guys definitely won’t have a problem.” Plus I had Donnell’s list of contacts in my little job searching black book. With hook ups like that I’d been turnin’ the fuckers down! And if all else failed (which it most certainly wouldn’t) I could always waitress at my old manager’s night club. New York, man. We were much too talented to go to some little agency out in Kansas. It was like fucking destiny or something. So goddamn easy.

But little did I know, a grand don’t come for free.

And just like that, easy, quick snap, we had jobs. Like good ad school grads, we printed out ten books and twenty CDs and marched to the portfolio review. And got our egos fucking stroked. “This is nice stuff,” The recruiters said. “Funny.” “Love your work.”

“I really need a writer. You think you can come in tomorrow to start?”

Fuck yeah, I can come in. Hired. On the spot. The Rican too. We didn’t really want to work at the same place, given that we were living together in sin and all, but shit. It was a job. Right-a-fucking-way. Who else could boast such quick employment? No one ever gets hired from these things. But we did, cause we were meant to be here. New York, man. I guess it was destiny after all. So easy, indeed.

But easy come, easy go. We went to our first day of work. The Rican overslept and was late. I got there an hour before he did only to learn the news I already feared in the back of my head. We weren’t just hired to work at the same agency, but in the same office. As a team. “But we’re dating,” we protested, hoping our new CD would just find us new partners. “Then that might be a problem,” he agreed. So the Rican got to keep his job. “And don’t worry, CD said to me. “You’re a great writer, you’ll find something else in no time.” And just like that, I was back on the streets. (This kind of thing is also great for a relationship, by the way.)

So I failed on the DVD,
But I still had to get the money….

Ah, but there was always plan B. The nightclub in Meatpacking. Under any other circumstances I’d never set foot in that herpes infestation. The smoke, superficiality and kamikazie shots were more nauseating than a night of chugging Belevdere. But my old manager offered me the job. And given my situation, I had to swallow my nausea cause I needed the money. The hours were horrible. The girls were bitches. I barely saw the Rican. And my ego, inflated by a portfolio review, was immediately popped by the customers who treated me like a dumb blonde cocktail waitress. A grand don’t come for free, indeed. Too scared and miserable to even enjoy the money, I continued to live like a pauper, spending none of it. I simply spent all my free time worrying I would never get a job. And began wondering why the fuck I’d left Miami, my home, everything I knew, in the first place.

So I failed on the DVD.
Couldn’t withdraw any money.
But I still had to call Mom.
Get the savings and then hurry.

And in this case, "Mom" was a list of agencies. Call. Email. Unreturned Email. Unreturned Call. Fuck! How busy can these people be? On the off chance I actually got through, I’d get the same reassurances. “Oh don’t worry. You're good. It’s just a matter of time.” A matter of time like eternity? Like never? Like I the two years I just wasted in ad school?

Oh, but there was the freelance. The horrible partnerless freelance that strung me along week by week. Month by month. The insecure income that forced me to keep two jobs, the club and the agency, lest I lose one. I was living a schizo double life, with my heart in neither one. Uncertainty began to creep all over me in this shaky state. And this horrible thing kept happening to me. Every day. It started with a little worry. Then the world got a little shaky, like I was on the verge of a ‘shrooms trip. But instead of spending the evening laughing at silly visuals, I began crying. For no fucking reason at all. “Shit, I’ve never cried like this before. What the fuck is wrong with me?” And that’s how I learned what a panic attack feels like. And learned over and over, every time I sat down to write. Kinda makes it hard to get your headlines done. But at least I still had that lucrative club gig. I may not have a career, but I couldn’t complain about pulling in that kind of money.

And then, for reasons out of my hands, the bitch fired me.

So there I was. In the middle of a winter I didn’t know how to handle. Losing one income. Knowing that if I didn’t start writing like I used to, if I didn’t get my shit together, I’d lose the other too. Pressure ain’t good for the anxiety. And, fuck it was cold. And ugly. Where were my palm trees? What the fuck was I doing here? Standing in the middle of a frigid crowded street in giant Uggs I should have never spent the money on, I felt like I was in the middle of that Streets song. Except, it wasn’t just about a bad day, it was a fucking bad life. A stupid fucking me. A whiney immature bitch who just couldn’t get her shit together. So easy, my ass. What the fuck was I doing leaving Miami? For what? For here? For this?

Today I have achieved absolutely now.
It’s just being out of the house I’ve lost out.
If I wanted to end up with more now,
I should have just stayed in bed like I know how.

My freelance ended like I feared it would. It seemed like a good thing at the time – my CD promising me all the contacts I needed. But, of course, the prick never came through. Never returned an email or a phone call. Just like all those other working bastards who at one time or another assured me my book was great. So great. So fucking great. So great everyone I know is working but me.

A thousand pound disappearing from me, is not what I call funny.

Getting up was gratuitous. The alarm would go off, but I’d just roll back over, hiding safely behind my eyelids. Good morning, Day, now fuck off. My twenty-seventh birthday was coming. After 8 months of CD hounding I had no job, and no career to speak of. Waa-waa. Boo-fucking-hoo. Even Dave Eggars was not this whiny.

But then one day I just said fuck it. Stop pondering the suckiness of this hole I'd let myself fall in. And start climbing the fuck out of it. You’re depressed? Really? STOP THE DRAMA! GET THE FUCK OVER IT! Get a waitressing job. Start writing. Just do it. No, it’s not fucking easy. It’s actually really fucking hard. But a grand don’t come for free, goddamnit!

So I went back to old faithful and started waitressing again. It didn’t pay like the club job did. But who was I to complain? There was no time for that. “All writers get shitty jobs,” the Rican told me. “Much worse than this one.”

Easy for his employed ass to say. But still, he was right. It wasn’t great, but it could have been a lot worse. So I just did it. Yoga. Write. Work. I didn’t have a spot at Chiat, but I was a hell of a lot further ahead than I was a few months ago – unemployed and crying hysterically on my bed. And I felt better too. Routine keeping me busy. A month passed and I was about to start working on my book again, my confidence restored and my finances (while minor) intact.

And then the restaurant closed without notice, leaving me out of a job again. Goddamnit! What else can go wrong??? No, no. Don’t ask that question. Cause the universe will always answer you. Just find another job and keep writing. You’ll have a new book by the new year, and then you can start chasing the ad thing again.

And I found a new job. And a better one at that. Mo’ money. Better peeps. And a month later I started luxuriating in the comfort of income and routine. Now I can start working on my book again. Just two kick ass campaigns, by the end of the year. I can do this. Just like I did it before.

And then, suddenly, without my planning, to my great surprise, I found my thousand quid. Yesterday, after almost a year of searching I stood outside in Soho, blinking in disbelief. I’d just been offered a job. A good job. A fucking full time job. In advertising. And it’s the kind of job I really want like I want an IV of Black Label in my arm. Or fuck. Make it Blue Label. Cause, fuckers, I’m making a paycheck! 401k! Health insurance! A kick-ass CD! And it was all out of fucking nowhere. It seamed too easy. No, no. This can’t be. A grand don’t come for free. But a quick mental montage through the past year and I remember. This isn’t some freak lottery win. I earned this.

“Was it worth it?” asked my friend on the phone as I walked to the 6 train. “All that shit you went through. Aren’t you glad it all happened?”

I smiled a silent “yes.” into the receiver my phone’s receiver. I guess things, easy or not, usually end up just as they should.

(Yeah, yeah. I’m rolling my eyes too. But fuck. Let me have my little moment. The normal bitter programming will return shortly.)

proof

2006-08-15T14:07:00.000-04:00

It’s been a minute since I posted a server story. Mainly because I’m living in denial right now (despite kinda liking my job) and refusing to acknowledge the way I’m temporarily earning my living. I tell myself it’s not my job, no. It’s just some place I go hang out between the hours of 3 and 12. Sure, I bring home a fistful of cash. But it’s not my profession. People just like me. And they donate.

But spending longer time working in restaurants than I ever imagined I would has taught me something. Despite what I used to think as a high and mighty college student, there’s nothing wrong with being a server. Much like real estate, sales or any of the other numerous middle man positions out there, it’s just a job. A way to earn a living. You punch in. You punch out. Then you go find something that makes you happy.

But there are plenty of people who think there is something wrong with it. And what’s wrong with it isn’t the job. It’s the person doing the job. “What’s that? You’re a server? In a restaurant? Oh yee, of little education. Poor thing. You must be stupid.”

So they condescend. They speak sl-o-o-o-o-wly. They treat you with the same annoyed frustration a spoiled rich teenager would treat his retarded cousin when forced to baby-sit him. And there’s nothing you can do but bite your tongue and check your watch. Cause eventually you can high-tail it the fuck outta there and bury your nose deep into a fat glass of cabernet and a couple of brilliant blogs.

But in their perceived social triumph, there’s something they don’t realize. There’s a group whose intelligence plummets far below the average IQ of your every day order taker. A group who was apparently absent on the day in school when they taught the lesson – How Not to Act Like A Total Fucking Asshole. A group composed of you, me and everyone we know. You know who they are? Fucking people.

And this story, would be what I call, proof.

I was annoyed. (surprise!) Standing by the hostess stand on my fifth shift in a row. We were understaffed, overbooked, and my manager had called in sick. And with that phone call he threw us all to the wolves.

Three of them walked in. Two wolves and a baby pup.

If you ask me, children have no place in adult restaurants. There’s a very specific reason that most people avoid eating their food while surrounded by plush cheese eating mice that go by the name of Chucky. And I don’t think anyone deserves a place at the adult dinner table, until they learn to not shit in their pants.

But that’s what kids do. Shit their pants. And then they grow up to be adults. Adults who shit on your day. Adults who missed the lesson in class: You Don’t Change Your Baby’s Diaper at the Fucking Dinner Table in a Fine Dinning Restaurant. But that’s what she did. And that’s what people do. That, or something like it.

And like an unwelcome child, the diaper’s aroma came out to play. To mingle with the normal restaurant smells of garlic and lamb jus. The smell got so bad that one of the bus boys decided to walk to her table and spray Lysol. On her. (Hey, you act like an idiot, you get treated with stupidity.)

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Why he felt she deserved an apology, I don’t know. “But some people have been complaining about the smell.” Personally, I don’t see the use in trying to explain to people like this that there actually are others in the world that their actions affect. But maybe it was some sort of service industry instinct that prompted him to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault.

“Well you can take that then,” the woman said pointing to a napkin on the center of the table. “That’s probably what the smell is.”

The bus boy reached down, doing his normal job of cleaning up other people’s thoughtless shit. But the warm gushy feeling inside the napkin made him recoil his hand in horror.

“What is that?!”

“Oh, that was me.” Said The Moron. “I threw up.”

After changing her child in the middle of a food-consuming environment, where people touch things and then touch their mouths, she went on to publicly vomit in the same spot. Puke, no doubt, subconsciously induced by her gut wrenching behavior. And then she went on to talk down to her server, and all others working around her, just trying to do their job.

“Let me out there.” Said the chef, shuffling back and forth like a boxer preparing for a fight. “Let me go out there and tell her that we don’t want people like that in here.”

Ah, such naïve words for one who deals with food and not humans. People like that? Then you’ll be forced to close down and look for other work. Because at some point in our lives, all people do something like that. Kick her out, and you kick everyone out. These are people you’re talking about.

“Relax,” I said. “She’s just a stupid human. Just learn to laugh at her from back here. You’ll find it’s much more fun.” And fun is what I'm all about these days.

More people were seated. The night continued.

Like the flu in the winter, stupidity relished in its breading ground, mutating like motherfucker. Highly contagious. Infecting everyone in it's path. Too much idiocy to fit in one post. This used to make me mad. Infuriate me to the point of feeling compelled to teach everyone out there a lesson. To give them my class notes, and fill them the fuck in!

But now, after so many years, you can find me in the back. Completely metamorphosed into a bubble of laughter. Hilarity weakening my legs to the point of eventually collapsing Indian style to the floor. Gasping for air. Tears escaping from the corners of my eyes. Guffawing at all these stupid, stupid motherfukers.

Truth in Advertising

2006-08-10T10:34:00.000-04:00

So those Osama blowin' fuckers were about to use liquid explosives on planes, eh? Thanks a lot, Towel-Heads. Now I have to settle for that half soda can those cheap airline fuckers ration out during the flight, instead of bringing on my own Cherry Coke.

So here I am, on my imaginary flight, sans Cherry Coke, pondering the various ways I'd like to administer Chinese torture to the minds behind this plot and that stupid smiling stewardess who still won't give me the full can, when it dawns on me. The Sierra Mist commercial!

This wasn't some original idea dreamed up by creatives. They were in on the plot too!

So that giant inconsistent clusterfuck BBDO is really just a network of soda bombing terrorists! And for some reason, it all makes perfect sense.

They Call me Crackhead

2006-08-08T13:22:00.000-04:00

Here we are. You and me. Maybe we’re in a bar. Maybe we have some beers. Maybe I suggest we get a shot with the beers. Maybe you say, “Hell yeah! Muthafuckingshot! Hell yeah!” Maybe we walk to the bar. And maybe, while the bartender relinquishes some of that agave nectar, I, purely for your entertainment, decide to say something weird.

To which you will reply, “Dude, are you on crack?”

My friends, nary a day goes by without the things that come out of my mouth being indicted as products of the various habits of hippies and homeless people. In fact, at one time, your dear blogging buddy, Ms. Libre was known to her closest friends as “Crackhead”- this nickname being official as several people had stored my phone number under this name in their cell. But was it because I was a whiter walking audition for Dave Chappells’s crack-feign character Tyrone? No. I simply liked to watch, read and thus say weird shit. So they’d call me “Crackhead,” and I’d say, “Hey.”

Fun fact #37: I’ve actually never done crack. And if you add up the number of times I’ve done acid, you’ll ultimately reach a grand total of one. (It was slipped in my mouth without my consent at nine am after I’d taken my fourth ecstasy pill while in the middle of a whipit. But that’s beside the point.) So why then, should hallucinogens or the poor man’s coke get all the glory? Why can’t my freakish thoughts be the product of my own weirdness? You know, Crack didn’t spend its childhood years with an unhealthy addiction to reading insane books and trying to emulate the writing styles with its own stories when normal children went out and played softball. Crack didn’t suffer through years of peer rejection whilst trying to woo those same normal children away from their softball game with said written stories. Crack didn’t cry about its friendless existence on its mom’s shoulder, while she tried to comfort it saying, “There, there, Pipe. You just march to the beat of a different drum.” Crack didn’t even grow up later to realize how gay that saying is. So why’s Crack getting the credit?

Fun Fact #41: Aside from popping a few Focus Factors, I’m actually mind numbingly sober when I write these posts. Soberer than your mom. Soberer than Billy Grahm on Bible detox. Soberer than you when you woke up next to her:
and swore off burbon for the rest of your life!

Sure, Kerouac wrote On the Road while careening through the mind trip of Benzedrine, but I just can’t do that. Don’t got the right wires, man. Can’t blog while simultaneously watching purple heads ooze out of the walls and come together as one beautiful pulsating being that sings William Blake poems to the tune of Ooops, I Did it Again while soothing my anxieties with their fuscia tongues that duuuuude, makes me figure it all out. It’d be too hard to see the Zs and Xs on the keyboard.

Relatively Fun Fact Depending on What Your Mom Says #82: I’m actually more inclined to write posts about, for example, Why the Chickens are Speaking to Me Through the Spatulas. But what’s the fun in writing something if everyone assumes it was ghost written by hallucinogens? This story was kinda weird. Yet I felt the need to put the disclaimer on the bottom to illustrate that no, I was not stealing the Rican’s weed. (I did that later.) But since the whole fucking world has decided to crown Crack as the Poet Laureate of Lunacy, I felt compelled to defend my inspiration.

So peeps, just so we’re clear, Godamnit! It’s not crack’s idea!!! It’s mine! I’m the weirdo! I’m the freak! Listen to the Spatulas, man. The chickens are trying to speak!

Now, about that shot. Need some alcohol to bring me down quick. I took waaaaay too big a bump in the bathroom.

Subway Etiquette

2006-08-04T11:29:00.000-04:00

You. You there wearin’ the tank top. Yes you. There’re only two other people in here. And I’m certainly not gonna attempt conversation with Mr. Pot Belly Sanchez sittin’ diagonal across. I see you. And I see what you’re about to do. Twisting your underarm skin ‘round so you can see. It’s in your eyes. Bloodthirsty. You’re wild, ravenous. You’ve spotted your prey.

Oh I know it looks all bulbous and juicy. Ripe for the poppin’. You can almost hear the satisfying snap of taught flesh breaking between your fingernails. There’s no goin’ back now. Temptation’s got its dirty little coke-nail hooked on your throat. Pointing out your prize with the other four fingers.

And it’s luscious. Apple-like. Garden of Eden n such.

Well, allow me to play God. Just for a second.

Don’t pop your fucking arm pimple in the subway!

Oh I know, I know. It’s calling out to you. And there’s nothing else to do considering you’re illiterate and all. And perhaps you think I don’t see you. I’m looking away now, right? You’re safe. I’m busy. Buried. Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (good god…does he ever stop whining? Does the book ever end?) But your vision is dancing all over my peripheries. My imagination filling in the sites and sounds. I can see the whole operation from the squeeze to pop and wipe. Examine the evidence on your little finger stubs. Your entertainment oozes all over my senses. You’re the subway ridin’ Garbage Pail Kid. And I’m officially grossed the fuck out.

No! Goddamnit! Don’t start looking on the other arm for another one!!!

XOXOXO!

2006-08-01T13:45:00.000-04:00

Omigod! Don’t you love my new slut photo? I’m totally putting it up on my myspace page!

It seems like just yesterday when my brother got that job at Best Buy (you go, bro! So proud of you!) and he stole me that digital camera. I’ve always kinda wondered what my titties would look like on the big Dell screen, so I bit my lip and snapped a pic. And I was like, holy Sex and the City! I am totally gonna be the nexxxt Forbidden!

Forbidden is my fucking hero. Even her name is like totally genius and ironic n stuff. You know, like she’s forbidden like you can’t really “have” her, but really all you have to do is friend request her and she can be in your number one spot – like she is in mine. She didn’t respond to my “Thanxxx for the add!” or anything. But that’s cuz she’s “Forbidden!”

I’ve gotta start working on my myspace name. I was thinking something like “Cum out and play.” Get it? It makes me sound like totally hot and willing, but kinda innocent and schoolgirlishy too. Guyz like that. And it shows I’m more than just super hot but totally fucking clever. LOL! Fucking clever. Get it? I’m on a roll today!

Or maybe I’ll just go with something straight-forward like WetBoXXX or Bunny Fuxx. Cuz, gosh! Puns are really smart n stuff. I’d like totally hate to confuse my audience.

My audience, by the way, is huge. I’ve got 378 friends and counting. Only like, celebrities and porn stars have more than that. And I’m practically a celebrity myself considering that most of my friends are bands and famous people!

Speaking of celebrities, guess which Sex and the City character I am? Well as if you couldn’t figure it out already, as my page says, duh, I’m totally Samantha! When I took the quiz I was scared I was gonna end up being that tight twated Miranda, so I made sure I answered every question as slutty…I mean as “sexually liberated” as possible. And, viola! Samantha! And those tests are proven scientific evidence.

So what if I’m not really that hot in person? Who needs to be pretty when you can just master the “angles?” I've gotten really good at tilting my face in the cum-fuck-me style. But the best are the ones where you can't see my face or anything, so it makes me all boobs, baby! I fucking love my boobs. Even tho they’re a little lopsided, they were seriously the best present I could have gotten for passing my GED. Thanks, Uncle Steve!

But let’s get it straight. Just cuz I got a twat shot addiction, I AM NOT A SLUT! I’m just celebrating the beauty of the female form n stuff. And what's wrong with a little self luuuv? I mean, really. How could I be a slut when my profile says “in a relationship," duh! And I’m practically a virgin because finger fucking does not count! Man, is my ass sore.

But honestly, guyz. I think this new photo is the best one yet. A few more like this and I’m totally gonna high tail it outta here to the big city. Tallahassee, here I come! Maybe Uncle Steve will let me borrow his Hyundai. I’ll ask “nicely.”

Update: For the fucking record, since there seems to have been some confusion, THAT IS NOT ME! Nor is this post ABOUT ME. Instead of ranting about all those stupid girls who take these kids of pictures of themselves, I did it this way. Geez, people.

Another Friday cop-out post

2006-07-28T14:22:00.000-04:00

The beauty of growing up in So.Flo. is that it’s virtually impossible to not know somebody who knows somebody who knows one of the flaming falsetto fairies that Orlando used to pump out like Chicanas and newborns. Because of this dangerously close and inevitable first or second degree of separation, me as a drug and alcohol obsessed girl in my early twenties would often be minding my own business on a Saturday Afternoon when I would hear something like this: “Omigod. You know my cousin’s neighbor whose best friend is from Orlando, right? Well he’s totally letting us all into the VIP of Crobar for free tonight. And guess who’s gonna be there. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. The fucking, swear-to-god, Backstreet Boys!”

You would think statements like this would send my open palm flying towards the side of her head. But there’s something you must understand about 21-year-old Conchita. I would have to go, cause there would be bottles. Free bottles. It’s amazing how much your capacity to ignore sequin wearers and bad techno music explodes when your free cup runneth over.

So thanks to alcoholism, I’ve had to meet all the Backstreet Boys. And most of NSYNC. Even if I was strong enough to see beyond my vodkaholcic tunnel vision, we would have still been forced to exchange fake pleasantries. Cause in my Miami waitressing days, I had to wait on them. Often. Lance Bass in particular. And guess what he was drinking. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. A Madras: One part vodka, one part cranberry, one part orange juice, one part People magazine.

Never mind all the singing and gyrating and sequin wearing, for way back then, in his hand he held the dead giveaway. I’d hate to get all Stephen Colbert on ya’ll and yell, “I called it.” But well, I think I kinda did.

Born to be a douchebag

2006-07-25T13:13:00.000-04:00

It never fails. Sunny evening. The occasional, yet miraculous night off from work. Strollin’ down the street. Telling a friend one of my stories. Aiming to inspire hilarity all around— when my voice gets dropped like I’m an actor in a Cingular commercial.

If you were wondering what else I hate, then allow me to quiet your little curious head. Motor-fucking-Cycles. It’s not even the actual bike I can't stand. If you choose a bike over a car, that’s your decision. It’s the “everybody look at me” battle cry from the head pounding motor sound, which totally disrespects everyone around them and the conversations they may be having. Your motorcycle is the equivalent to the guy who blasts a boom box on his shoulder, while the rest of us carry iPods. And just like the boom boxer in the mall who thinks everyone’s gotta know he’s listening to Master P, bikers are obviously under the delusion that motorcycles are fucking cool. Sorry, faggot. You’re wrong.

Did any of you stop to think that when you’re riding a motorcycle you’re just riding this:

with a motor on it?

Would this be any more cool with a motor on it?

How bout this?

And unless you’re Lance Armstrong (sans yellow bracelet) there’s nothing that says “super douche” louder than rolling up to a night-spot on a beach cruiser.

none of these people are cool

Not to say there’s anything wrong with riding a bicycle. Hell, if I was skilled enough to tackle the NYC streets with one, I would. I’m not cool. Never claimed to be. But with their deafening “look at me” motor revving, these guys think they’re born to be wild. Bad to the bone. Never realizing that once your anthem gets used in a fucking Pet Smart commercial (or any of the many others) it ceases being cool.

Furthermore, when you ride a bike, you’ve gotta wear one of these:

I understand helmet usage is necessary and applaud those who choose to be responsible. But why use all the noise to draw attention to yourself and your sartorial senselessness? This makes you look like some kind of fucking Cyborg alien Star Trek reject. Sup, Klingon? Have fun at your next convention, douche.

Not to mention, if you’re riding one of these, you’re also probably riding one of these:

Try putting a motor on her. See if that improves her chances for landing the cover of Cosmo.

Hey. Everyone’s entitled to their own thing. If Puff Daddy wants to rap all day at home in his PJs, then fine by me. But when he sets up stage under my window and starts performing, then we got problems. So when your bike feels the need to announce itself all over my conversation, as if I need to drop everything I’m doing just to look at you, that’s when you get an “I hate you” post on my blog.

(“Oooooo.” Yeah, I know. Shut up.)

I am happy man

2006-07-22T14:09:00.000-04:00

Please keep in mind that this theory fully excludes any actual truths about the real Chinese culture. So don't get pissy. I mean C’mon. This is not an insightful well-researched blog. It’s more like the looney guy who stands on the corner muttering incoherent diatribe to his fellow passerbys. Maybe you ignore me. Maybe you give me spare change. Actually, yes. Give me your spare change. Cause it’s Saturday and I need beer money.

I was jetlagged. Deliriously jetlagged in Berlin. I’d been there for 48 hours, but it had been about oh, 87 hours since I’d slept properly. And the fact that my first big night out was going to be a evening of Karaoke with a bunch of Germans, didn’t really have the effect of espresso on the fun meter.

And then meth was injected into my eyeballs.

“YOU PAY NOW!”

At the front door of the Karaoke bar, I found myself starring into the face of a Chinese man.

“But, I..”

“THREE EURO COVER CHARGE. YOU PAY NOW!”

These were not the polite, often timid words of my German hosts. And I had a feeling these may have been the only English words he knew. But they were all he needed. Cause I was totally deconfused. There was no arguing with this man. There would be no unfair blonde American chicky attempts at sweet-talking. Business is business. I would pay. Is now ok?

Yes, my friends. I firmly believe the world would be a lot better if we were more like the Chinese. Here are a few traits I love about my dim sum heroes. But don’t just read them as entertainment. Take them as suggestions for improving society.

Let’s be frank: I suppose as a (ahem-wannabe) writer, I should treasure descriptive prose that paints a vivid picture with eloquent imagery. But the Chinese’s candid language cuts through bullshit like a machete, and gets me moist like some Evil Discussing warm wet blog love. If the Karaoke bar owner would have been an American, the conversation may have gone something like this.

Generic American: “Uh, ma’am, Yes, hello. Hi. How are you? Good evening, yes. Welcome to Long-Time karaoke.”

I'd raise my left eyebrow.

GA: Oooo, that’s a nice tube top. Love the sparkles. Anyway, Ma’am if you wouldn’t mind, we actually have a three-dollar cover charge this evening, which is actually quite a bargain when you consider our 4873-song play list, and of course that wonderful feeling of getting to pretend you’re Britney Spears for the nigh…

Me: Whatves, bitch. I’m out.”

But the linguistically shrewd Chinese man made it clear. If I wanted to come in and sing a little “Eye of the Tiger” with my newfound German amigos, I must pay three Euro. He even gave me a payment time frame. Then he left me alone. This, my friends, is authority. This is how business gets done.

Imagine the peace and order we could restore to society by having Chinese men stationed in, for example, every subway car. The loud screaming of drunken teenagers would be effectively snuffed out with the iron fist command of “YOU SHUT UP NOW!” Sure, the most delinquent ones may initially protest. But ultimately no one can argue with such an uncompromising demand. The newfound quiet would free the rest of us to engage in peaceful activities such as reading our Time magazine undisturbed. Or watching porn, if that’s your thing.

Label whores at the Gucci altar: Or Prada or Fendi or any of the numerous ways you can drop European vacation money on a tiny bag. While some people wouldn’t dare blaspheme the church of high fashion, a few geniuses on Canal St. had another idea. “We make same bag. But with low price.” Sure you can flash your little “Channel authenticity card” all day, but there’s nothing more humbling than paying $4000 for a purse, only to have a little Chinese grandma say, “Look, see, I make one that look just like you for fifty dolla. Hahahahaha, you pay four thousand dolla! Hahahahaha!” Now any whore from Michigan can look as rich as you do. Take that, bitches.

Sweet Words of Encouragement:

In America we have inspirational posters. And “quotes.” And Chicken Puke for the Soul. They aim to enlighten us with advice and hope. But they only inspire me to bitch slap a random sorority girl on the street – just because it makes my soul tingle. But the Chinese have found a better way to accomplish this task – with the fortune cookie. While never actually telling me the future, I’ll usually open one and see something like this: “You are happy man!” And, suddenly I’m grinnin’ like a fat boy gettin’ a hand job. Goddamnit, I am happy man! How did I not realize this before? Maybe I don’t wanna slap that bitch anymore. Just push her a little. Into the east river.

But this is only a dream. My dream for the world that is peaceful and orderly. Quiet conversation is re-incarnated. Grocery stores are clean. And ringtone usage is subject to punishment by Chinese water torture. In fact, I think I have the solution for our Middle Eastern troubles. Just recruit a few Chinese men, send them to the Middle East and hand ‘em a few bullhorns.

“YOU STOP NOW!”

Then everyone could make friends and eat fortune cookies. And we’d have Happy Man! all around. And really, who can argue with that?

Been duped like Oprah reading a memoir

2006-07-18T16:39:00.000-04:00

Every morning I wake up, I have to look in the mirror and face something horrible. It’s like a gigantified tumor on my face. But worse. The millionth reminder that, “Goddamnit!” I’m a fucking girl. And there’s nothing I can do about it. (No, that’s not an option.)

This would all be fine and peachy if I was the type of girl who didn't view her existence and fem-habits as an atrocity to society. And could buy tickets to see "The Devil Wears Prada" like it's completely acceptable social behavior. But personally I find 8-balls to be a much more time valuable way to massacre brain cells.

But my brain is not the only part of me that makes decisions. I have this other little bully inside me, who’s pretty fucking strong. (For a girl). A dumb little floozy we call Estrogen. I fucking hate this bitch.

My brain and Estrogen are constantly having battles that make Celebrity Death Match look like the Berlin fucking Love Parade. At sixteen or seventeen, Estrogen used to be the clear winner in these brawls. But as my brain has become more developed (read: smarter) Estrogen is starting to be revealed as the pussy she really is and losing these fights. (Thank fucking god.)

Estrogen: Omigod, you will look so totally hot in [perfectly useless fem-product that even Paris Hilton’s Ferret is smart enough to avoid].
Brain: “Shut up, whore."
Estrogen: “K!”

But sometimes she makes me do very stupid things that are completely out of my control. Like this weekend, when she discovered I was out of face wash. Even though my brain saw the perfectly acceptable bar of Ivory in the soap dish, I was drug by my heels to “check your logic at the door” Sephora . It was here that she successfully tied my brain to an outside poll and let it fry away in the mind melting Manhattan Heat. Thus, allowing me to fall under the temporary delusion that I would hand over my money to this store and try to, as their tagline says, “Believe in Miracles.”

I bought this:

Or as I like to call it, The Four Steps to Stupidity.

Step one: “Purity.”

A bottle of “soap” that really should be enough in one’s cleansing routine. But sadly, mostly for me, it’s only the first step. On the bottle it says, “Cleanliness is the beginning. Then you can begin to be who you really are.” What? A doltish shiny faced bitch who’s now slightly poorer in both intellect and pink coin purse for believing the mind numbing copy scrawled all over your box? I had no idea all that dirt and oil was hiding this. Thanks for exposing the idiot in me.

Step 2: Hope in a jar.

I’ll repeat. Hope in a jar. The actual name of the product makes a mockery of those dumb enough to consume it. (Including myself.) They’re selling fucking Hope. Not “Results.” Not "Shit that Actually Works." They’re selling, “Oooo, I hope it works! I wish, I pray, oh please, oh please!” I’ve also been hoping for an advertising job and, you know, eighteen million dollars. Will they sell me a jar of this too? (And if so, apparently I’ll be first in line to buy it.)

Step 3: Hope in a jar, part 2 for eyes and lips.

Notice the similarities of the bottle on the right to the former bottle of pipe dreams shown on the left. In this step, they have the nerve to sell a smaller jar of the same hope. Ironically creating less hope that I’ll ever regain a sliver of the former smartness that’s currently roasting away outside the entrance to Sephora. (If there ever was any in the first place.)

Step 4: Hope and a prayer.

The directions say to take a small scoop of this powder and mix it with a small dab of "Hope." Like this:

So let’s see. We've already established that I'm separating myself with my money for "hope." And thus, I’m a fucking dolt. So now you're just choosing to ignore this completely and expect me to be a fucking chemist? To take proper measurements and mix shit? You actually believe I’m capable of this? I think you may have won the Biggest Moron contest this time. And unfortunately your prize is my money.

So that makes one, two, three, four steps to what could have been a fifteen second affair with a bar of soap. Washing my face is now going to take about eight minutes every morning and night. Sixteen minutes a day stolen from what could have been time for more intellectually edifying activities like slapping my elbow with a spatula.

But time and brain cells are not the only treasures lost. The grand total of this cerebral abortion? Fifty-two bucks. I bet it’s not even that bad when you compare it to the beauty budget of your average “Devil Wears Prada” fanatic. But then I remember that most of the world lives off a dollar a day. And the girl inside me feels the sting of the bitch slap she deserves.

Luckily, it will take about 6 months to run out of this stuff. So, I’ll only fall victim to the bitch in me twice a year. My only wish is that next time I go, I’ll discover that Adobe has gone into the cosmetic industry, and started bottling Photoshop. Cause that’s a miracle that both Estrogen and I are willing to believe in.

sad news

2006-07-14T15:07:00.000-04:00

I just learned that one of my favorite childhood rides in Busch Gardens, Williamsburg is closing. So, in it's honor, here's a pic of The Le Mans, Conchita and her father circa 1984. (i think).

Cherish those fake race car rides, my friends. They won't last forever. One tear. (And then a beer.)

sorry for the cop-out post. more real stuff after the weekend. (maybe)

Hey, Nacho. Why you all up in my name n shit?

2006-07-10T21:17:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Libre,

We’ve got a bone to pick. You see, long ago, before you were just a twinkle in Jared Hess’ eye, I was christened the one and only “Concha Libre.” And it seems, my non-amigo, that you have stolen the title by which I'm known. How could you even dream of robbing the one and only Concha Libre: Famous Blogger with audience of eight? Did you think I wasn’t going to find out, Mr. Jack-my-name Black?

Maybe if you would have asked to borrow my name nicely, we could have been nombre compadres, no? We could live lovingly in happy Libre Land. We could lucha together and be the Libre champions of the world. You’d paralyze our opponent with a camel clutch. And I’d finish him off with some biting sarcasm. And it’s 1…2…3….and Libre victors we’d be!!!!

But no. You stole. And then something went wrong, didn’t it? Your movie sucked. Ass.

But don't take my word. In between the pained writhing, clutching their eyes and begging for mercy, here’s a few things the critics managed to get out:

“Nacho Libre is the kind of awful movie that ruins your whole day."

“After a while this movie just lays there like a wrestler body slammed one too many.”

“Slightly less funny than cancer.”

And cancer isn’t funny at all.

You know what else isn’t funny? Stealing. Oh it isn’t funny. No no no. Cause the Bible tells me so. And since you’re the mastermind behind this grande nomenclature larceny, you’ve got a life sentence to the unfunny jail. But I’m still free to live a life of libre. Do you see my commenters, my faithful loyal readers, mis amigos al fin, saying these things about me? Clearly, in la copa de lucha de nombres, I am the Italy to your France.

I bet you thought you were being sneaky by not stealing my whole name. "I’ll just steal the “Libre” part. She’s too stupid to notice anyway." Maybe you even thought your name is totally different. A concha is a shell, while a nacho is a chip. Let me tell you something, you Canal Street charlatan. A shell tastes a lot like a chip when it is stale. If you find the stalest chip in the whole pile, it would be just like eating a conch from the sea. And that’s all you are. Just a stale chip in the Mexican food of movie going.

But what can I do? You’re the one grossing 73 freakin’ mil. So go ahead. Steal my name. Bite my concha. Bite it hard. I hope you break your teeth.*

Signed,

The one and only: Concha Libre.

¡Viva la Concha!

*note: I realize some of you are familiar with Argentine Spanish slang and probably recognize the pun. It wasn’t really intended, as I have no interest in Mr. Libre getting anywhere near mi concha.

it's called vibrate, bitches

2006-07-06T15:33:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I was in the restaurant working a party, when a hush fell over the crowd. The party thrower decided it was time to inundate his guests with a little public masturbatory bather, otherwise known as a speech. During his rambles, a ringtone inevitably exploded from the silent crowd. The phone owner grabbed the disobedient device and ran to the back of the restaurant where I was standing.

“I put one of those ringtones on my phone,” he said to me holding it up. “So I’ve gotta wait here until it stops playing. You know, so I don’t interrupt his speech.”

I opened my palm and placed it in front of him.

“Sir, allow me.” He handed me the phone and I so very cleverly pushed the button labeled “off.”

And lo’ the angels ceased their song. And by angels I mean the idiot’s ring tone stopped playing.

He looked up at me incredulously. “How’d you do that?”

My friends, this is an accurate representation of the intelligence of a person who has chosen to replace his perfectly acceptable cell-phone ring with a ringtone: An illiterate technologically inept idiot. You can defend your awesome Kelly Clarkson song all day, but having a ringtone wins you a first place ribbon in The Biggest Loser Ever contest. Don’t believe me? Then look around you and take note of the type of people who purchase these sound pollutants and the songs they’re picking. With all the pop garbage spewing out of every fucking Motorola in this city, you’ll find the number of people with ringtones is almost directly proportional to those with embarrassingly bad music tastes.

Since they’re impossible to ignore, I’ve made a few observations about idiots with ringtones I often hear. Their selections usually say a lot about them, and quite possibly, what they think of themselves.

Jay-Z “Big Pimpin’”

Although the song conjures up mental images of yachts and blinged out bitches, I’ll turn around only to see a middle class white boy rocking out to the first few bars of his played out ringtone. News Flash: Getting a free Motorola for signing a contract that, if broken, demands your left nut, is not exactly the Cristal poppin’ lifestyle the phone’s crappy speaker is pathetically trying to blast. So put a normal ring on your phone and fucking answer it. It’s probably your mom.

Black Eyed Peas: “My humps” There are probably about 2.7 women in the world who have lovely enough “ lady lumps” to hypnotize a few jerk-off idiots into laying down their black American Express cards for some 7jeans. But unsurprisingly, the number of women touting this ringtone is significantly higher. The fact that your husband’s meager middle management salary purchased your new pair of Jordace jeans, does not make you a dancer in a Black Eyed Peas video. Quit shaking your swollen post pregnancy hips and answer the goddamn phone already.

Britney Spears: “Toxic” Not only is the name of this sound pollutant incredibly ironic, but let’s think back to the Britney we knew in the pre-I-married-me-some-white-trash-and-turned-into-a-beached-whale days. Remember her fan base? The ones you saw flipping out and screaming at her televised Disney World shows? Their average age was about nine fucking years old. So choosing Britney for your ringtone is like strapping a giant marquee onto your head that says “MY MUSIC TASTES HAVE NOT ADVANCED BEYOND A FIFTH GRADE LEVEL!” I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of dates, so you’re probably much better off storing your phone down your pants and setting it to vibrate.

Pussycat dolls: “Don’t Cha?” It amazes me the number of times I hear this ringtone and turn around to see a less than attractive young woman fall under the temporary delusion that she is “all that” and smugly pull her phone out of her purse as if to say to the world, well, “Don’t cha?” But if you’ve downloaded this eardrum atrocity to your phone, there’s something you should know: If you’re a chick, chances are, you’re not hot. I don’t mean this as an insult, but the fact that there are significantly less hot chicks than drastically unhot ones does not put the odds in your favor. And the chances of you being hotter than anyone’s girlfriend are about as likely as Britney getting a clue, an abortion and a divorce.

So, please. For the love of fucking god. Keep the Kelly Clarkson hidden in your iPod and the phone on fucking vibrate. Or you might find some crazy blonde chick grabbing your phone and snapping that little pink “buy one, get one free” razor in two.

catharsis

2006-06-27T13:25:00.001-04:00

(and now concha gets angry)

I don’t know how you grew up. And frankly, I don’t care. But let me tell you about how I grew up. I grew up in a place where shopping for groceries didn’t invoke homicidal feelings. I grew up knowing if the loudspeaker announced “Cleanup on isle 3” Someone went to mutherfuking isle three and started moppin'! I grew up not having to ask myself, “Will there be a prize in my Cracker Jacks, or perhaps a FUCKING DEAD RAT?” Cause I grew up with Publix, where shopping WAS a mutherfuking PLEASURE.

Then I saw this. The fucking entrance to fucking hell, my brethren.

Maybe their lawyers (stupid mutherfukers who think they can actually defend this place) call it Gristedes. But for the rest of you, you better fucking call is what it is. The nasty, fatty, artery-clogging, heart attack causing, excrement of fucking pig lard, lubricant between the sweaty cellulitey thighs of fat chicks: Grease. Fucking Greasy’s!

Here is a picture of the fucking piece of shit Greasy’s by my apartment. See how the sky is all ugly and gray? That’s cause it just realized that it’s the part of the sky hovering over Greasy’s, and it’s about to ball like a fucking constipated baby who’s fortune teller just told him that he’s gonna grow up to be nothing in life but a fat piece of shit mutherfuking Greasy’s employee!

The other night I was in fucking Greasy’ s trying to buy some dinner to end my pathetic day, when the stupid baby who grew up to be a fucking Greasy’s cashier started talking to me.

“You know what?”

No. I don’t know what. And I don’t fucking care.

“I was laying in bed next to this girl last night and I told her, ‘I think I’m in love wit chu.’"

Thank you. Now I have a naked fat man picture in my head. There went my fucking appetite. And by the way…why are you telling me this?

He fucking continued.

“So she rolls over and says, ‘Steve, what you talking about? We just havin’ fun, Steve.’ And I was like, ‘But really, I think I’m in love wit chu. I’m tryin’ to take it to the next level.’ And she was like, ‘Don’t be stupid, Steve.’”

First of all, telling a fucking Greasy’s employee not to be stupid is like telling a fucking emo to cut his bangs. Because one day this idiot woke up and decided, despite all the fucking fungus free grocery stores out there, he wanted to work at FUCKING GREASY’S. OF COURSE HE’S FUCKING STUPID.

FURTHERFUCKINGMORE, If I fucking had anything that resembled sexual relations with a fucking Greasy’s employee, it had better be because I had fucking IVs of GHB in all six thousand of my veins, regaining consciousness only because the fat fuck ripped them all out. And when I came to, and discovered I’d just been (eww, gross, gross, gross!) fondling a Greasy member, I’d say the same thing. And by the same thing I mean, “Put the IVs back in and get the fuck out of my house YOU FAT STUPID GREASY’S EMPLOYYEE!”

This is the fucking stupid door to get into Greasy’s.
(Note: none of these pictures fully capture Greasy’s grease in full glory. Much more acned in person. Much.) Most automatic doors do what they’re supposed to do and open when you step on the mat. But not this fucking door. Step on the mat here and it will say. “Oh, shit. Do I really have to stop eating cheetoes and get off my fat fucking ass to open the door for you. Goddamn fucking customers!” And then you will hear lots of creaking, which is actually the sound of it scratching its fat fucking lazy ass while it opens the door for you.

More grease.

I'm so fucking glad they could get off their fat greasy asses to clean up this germ infested half finished soda can left in the spice rack.

Uh, yeah. That would be dried mud on that beer bottle.

Gee. I was looking all over for the maxi pads. There they are! Silly me, I should've known they would be next to the Jolly Green Giant. Great organization, ass wipes.

This would be the way the genius custodial staff decided to fix the leaky seafood shelves. Really works up your appetite for tuna.

Seriously. With the way this place can ruin appetites, there's no need to buy Lean Cuisine.

AHGHG. I hate fucking Greasy’s!

Believe it or not, once in a while they do make lame attempts to mop up the constant dripping grease of this place. One time I actually saw a fucking Greasy’s employee cleaning the floor. Unfortunately the ramen section was hovering above the part of floor he just mopped. So I had to gingerly step over it. But when I did, the fucking piece of shit grease cleaner shouted out, “You fucking stupid bitch! Fucking walking on my clean floor you fucking stupid bitch!” And this was all in earshot of the manager. But did he threaten to call corporate? Run to me and apologize on behalf of his delinquent employee who would surely be facing some kind of immediate punishment? Offer to comp my Ore-Idas? No. He fucking only grunted and went back to licking the grease out of the corners of his register.

I suppose you may suggest that I do something like stop going to Greasy’s. “They just opened a Trader Joe’s in Union Square, Concha. Why don’t you try that?” To which I’ll answer, “Exactly. It’s in Union fucking Square and I’m not about to ride down the whole green line just cause I ran out of fucking Pot Noodle!” I say we all go to every Greasy’s and dump buckets and buckets of Dawn on them, since it takes “grease out of your way” and all. Only then might we be able to rid the world of this artery clogger, and buy our Pot Noodle in peace.

the bride of frankenstein

2006-06-20T20:31:00.000-04:00

At work on Friday night, I had a fucking pounding headache. The pounding part was ever amplified by the fact that unless I’m hung-over, I don’t usually get headaches. So I’m not used to the feeling of a little man on cocaine running around inside my skull, pounding on the inner walls of my brain with a sledgehammer like an ADHD child on a kilo of meth. Yeah, it hurt.

“Can you go down to the ladies room and see what’s going on?”

I looked up into the face of my manager. The entire night I had been awash in a sea of “Can you do this?” “Can you do that?” so I gave him a look like he had just asked me to extend my shift an extra 14 hours.

He sensed my pain. “Please?” he added. He was being sincere, so down I went.

My judgment was clouded from my headache, so I immediately pictured a group of women all partaking in a drug buffet in one of the stalls. (And had I still been working in South Beach, that’s probably what would have been going on.) My plan of action was to march me and my headache all authoritative-like and threaten to call the cops, unless they shared. After I had consumed every drug known to man, I’d just float home, having successfully killed that asshole with the sledgehammer in my brain.

I was confronted with something very different.

Walking down the dark stairs to the restaurant’s bathroom, you get the feeling of walking into the basement of a horror movie. The bathroom is quiet and barely lit by an overhead light, while candles eerily flicker in the corner. When i opened the door, I found a woman standing in one of the stalls. She was overweight, some sort of foreign, with an unbuttoned shirt, droopy eyes, and an agape mouth. There was probably a little drool there too, but me and sledgehammer man agreed that we weren’t about to get close enough to investigate.

Eyes practically rolling into the back of her head, she looked up at me and with a deep, almost demon-like voice asked, “Where are my pants?”

Sledgehammer man and I looked down further, and asked ourselves the same question. Because, good fucking god! Where were this woman’s pants?!

“I can’t find my pants.”

Now, one’s first guess would likely be that she was really – I mean like 87 tequila shots – drunk. But as I stood there in the dark quiet bathroom and watched the candles flicker in her bloodshot eyes, I thought I was starting into the possessed face of Damien’s much older sister.

She reached a shaking finger towards me and pointed to the pants I was wearing. “You. You have pants. Give me yours. Give me your pants!”

Me being 5’9” and 130 pounds (187 if you added the sledgehammer) and her at 5’ 2"ish and probably well over 160, I wanted to state the obvious: “My pants would only fit around one of your toes.” But given the fact that she was standing in the stall of a fine dining establishment’s restroom, inquiring the whereabouts of said missing pants, I don’t think this woman could comprehend the concept of being a fat fucking bitch.

Like a demon after my soul she started to stagger towards me and slowly chase me out of the restroom.

“Give me your pants! Give me your pants!”

I suddenly felt like I was a scared-to-fucking-death little kid in a haunted house, running from a ghoulish skeleton, who was inching its fingers toward me with a greedy appetite. So me and my pants hauled ass up the stairs back to the bustle of the Friday night restaurant crowd, safe from the monster in the bathroom stall.

“A!” I called to my manager, breathless. “A, we’ve got a…a…a ‘situation’ in the ladies room. Woman…no pants…drunk…”

She gave me a puzzled look. Probably cause I looked like I had just seen a ghost.

“Just go down there and check it out.”

My headache now miraculously gone, I walked out of the kitchen to experience the comfort of being surrounded by tables of fully dressed non-ghost like people. And I walked out just in time. Because standing in the back of the restaurant, I had a great seat to the show.

The woman had decided it was time to leave the restroom and join the rest of us. And with the speed of a zombie, she sloooowly and pantslessly walked down the middle isle of the restaurant and out the door with all eyes and snickers on her. Since staring at cellulite isn’t much of an aperitif, the management had badly wanted this situation contained. But there was nothing they could do now but ogle and giggle at the fat lady in her granny panties as she walked down the isle. In the spirit of the procession, I thought about humming a little ‘Here comes the Bride’ to the tune of her walk. It would have fit perfectly. Except for one difference. She wasn’t carrying a bouquet. She was carrying her skirt.

karma tastes like shit

2006-06-19T23:26:00.000-04:00

Most of you that know me, are well aware of the amount of shit talking I do. Be it, fruity drinking guys or that fucking anorexic bitch over there, there’s always a plethora of excrement flying out of my mouth. And I guess it’s payback time. Because lately I’m having to swallow heaping spoonfuls of my own sarcastic comments. And Mother Karma is not letting me up from the table till I’m finished with dinner.

The first course of this meal was prepared by the Rican. Last week when getting the mail, he couldn’t help but notice a package from Victoria’s secret arrive at our apartment. He brought it over to me, hoping I'd open it immediately. But me excitedly tearing it open was only prelude to his disappointment. Because he gave the contents one condescending look and then turned his nose, announcing he liked nothing.

“Fine.” I said, throwing the catalogue at him. “Why don’t you go through this and Art Direct me some underwear.” Not one to turn down the chance to peruse the scantily clad, he agreed.

“What about that one?” I asked, pointing at a thong I think most guys would agree with. “That one’s cute.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay. But there’s no point in getting it cause it wont look like that on you.”

My face dropped. To the floor.

He, to my disbelief, continued. “What? You know you don’t look like that. I know you don’t look like that. Everyone knows.”

My face was practically fucking the floor.

…and on. “I mean no one looks like that except for a Victoria’s Secret Model. You don’t. So what’s the point of pretending you do and buying something even though it wont look as good on you.”

My face and the floor were now having post coital cigarettes.

All women are painfully aware that because we don’t have 36 hours an afternoon to spend in the gym, nor have the money to afford the microbiotics/coke diet, that we don’t look like Victoria’s Secret models. We don’t need to be reminded. Although I was too dumfounded to say it then, I should have replied with, “Yes, I’m well aware of my sub Victoria’s Secret Model looks. Because if I looked like a one, I WOULDN’T BE DATING YOU.”

During one of my half assed attempts to be a tenth as attractive as the model I’ll never be, I pulled on some sneakers and did my early morning visit to Crunch. Never having been one of those put-on-a-full-face-of-makeup-and-prance-around-the-gym-like-the-Victoria’s-Secret-Model-I ain’t types, I was more the pull-on-an-old-pair-of-Umbros-I’ve-had-since-I-was-fourteen-and-the-rest-of-you-can-just-fuck-yourself chick.

This particular morning I was in a body sculpting, Victoria’s Secret Model looks attempting class. Taught by the sort of perky cheerleader type, that, if I ever have kids, and my daughter turns out like her, then she will have to be taken out back and shot.

Miss sprightly gym class instructor came bubbling and bouncing over to me and pointed to my shorts.

“OMIGOD, LIKE, I TOTALLY USED TO HAVE THOSE!”

Great, I thought. Way to point out my ugly shorts.

“THOSE MUST BE SO OOOOOLD!!!!”

Yes. They’re old. Thanks for drawing the entire class’s attention to my circa 1994 gym short fashion sense. I realize that since you’re shamelessly playing Kelly Clarkson music, you must not mind revealing your incredibly embarrassing music tastes. But some of us and our ugly shorts, would rather go un-pointed out over the fucking microphone in the back of the class.

“I HAVEN’T SEEN THOSE IN LIKE SOOOOO LONG. THAT’S WHAT YOU WORE BACK IN THE DAAAAAAY. UMBROS AND A TANKTOP. THAT WAS SO COOL WAAAAY BACK IN THE DAAAAAY.”

I thought “back in the day” comments were still reserved for my dad. But apparently, kids, I have my own back in the day, and that was the day of the ugly Umbro. Which means I am officially old. No wonder I don’t look like a VS model.

So far I’ve had to swallow the fact that I’m Umbro wearing and sub VS model looking. But I can still write, right?

Lately it pains me to answer the “What do you do?” question. My ad friends get it. But questioned by anyone outside the complicated world of portfolios, and my answer may seem like a desperate string of excuses for why I don’t have a “real” job. Last week I was asked this question by an old man I was waiting on in the restaurant. While I should have stated the obvious (“I’m serving you your fucking foie gras, what the fuck does it look like I do?”) I decided to save my own face and give the short answer to my most dreaded question.

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh!” He clasped his hands together excitedly.

“What do you write? Novels? Theater? Screen plays?”

“No, sir. I write advertising.”

“Oh. His voice dropped to a nadir of disappointment.

“I thought you were a real writer.”

Fine. You got me. I’m the fucking unemployed pack of Splenda in the pastry shop. But you should see how I rock the runway in a pair of Umbros.

If you like Piña Coladas....

2006-06-09T15:01:00.000-04:00

Picture this: You’re sitting in a restaurant. You reach down for your crotch (like you probably do about 14 times a day) and there it is again. The umpteenth confirmation that: Yes. You are %100 percent male. But cha coulda fooled me. Cause on the table in front of you is a Sex on the Beach. And you’re sipping it with all the glee of a gay parade.

If I’m waiting on a guy who has ordered a drink that shoud only be consumed by pre-teen girls, I make sure to garnish the glass with an overabundance of pineapples cherries and other fruits that symbolize the female genitalia. You may be wearing pants, but underneath you’ve got on panties. And somebody’s gotta let your poor date know before she gets back to your pathetic apartment and finds herself in the middle of a reverse Crying Game script. Here is a list of drinks that as a man, you should NOT be ordering.

The Cosmopolitan

I find it pathetic enough that there are still large numbers of girls who shamelessly quote Sex and the City and try to find parallels with the plot and their own lives. But chances are, you’ve convinced one of these halfwits to be your girlfriend for at least two weeks. In that short time, you must have learned that the Cosmopolitan is the show’s signature drink. So by ordering this pink puke, you have just carelessly thrown away your manhood. Now you only resemble a Carrie wannabe. Except not nearly as pretty. Which would make you Miranda. And no one wants to be her. Just ask the dimwitted little PR assistant who was dumb enough to go out with you.

Piña Colada
There is only one place you can order this drink. A tropical island. Preferably a deserted one so nobody can see what a douchebag you are.

Bay Breeze
I used to be somewhat of an acquaintance with an RnB singer (that alone already breaks the gay meter) who drank only Sea Breezes. He also sings a song that I’m sure your ears were once unlucky enough to be poisoned by. Excuse my particularly awful singing voice, while illustrate one the most pussified songs in existence.

“I don’t wanna know
If you’re playing me
keep it on the low
Cause my heart cant take it anymo’”

Unable to be a man and dump the bitch, he’s basically giving her an open invitation to cheat on him. He’d rather just live in the deluded bliss that only his Malibu Rum can provide, and nurse his pussy with “Bay Breeth.” If this is your drink, this is also you.

Strawberry Daquiri

Just cut off your dick and stick it in the glass. It’s got better use as a swizzle stick. (Although I’m sure at least one woman has told you this already.)

White Wine Spritzer

Is it a coincidence that the name of this drink so easily lends itself to the lisp? I think not.

Wet Willies
I hope you’re only here because your girlfriend and her six friends dragged you out, and you’re angrily sipping a scotch in the corner. But if you’re sitting at the bar with several sampler cups, and you (insert lisp) “just cant decide between a ‘call a cab’ and a ‘frozen flaming homo’” then I suggest you skip the charade and head over to Scores. I’m only sorry I avoid Wet Willies LIKE THE FUCKING CHICKEN FLU and won’t be there to make fun of you to your face.

Of course you’re now asking, “Well, Miss Concha, fine dinning guru, what IS acceptable for me to drink?” I’m glad you asked. Cause by admitting your ignorance, you just let ME know you’re a fucking HOMO who’s probably sipping on a Mai Thai right now, with your pinky out and a cocktail umbrella behind your ear. And lemmie guess. The umbrella’s a rainbow.

Why so angry, you ask? As a server, I get looked down upon plenty. This is my chance to talk back. So, boys, next time you shout out a supercilious “Miss!” and expect me to take you seriously, I hope you’re slamming down a Johnny Walker neat. Or I’ll make certain you’re next drink is garnished with a neon pussy – giving your date a heads up that, despite your almost convincing man mask, she’s actually on a date with Miranda.

Cheers.