The Apocalypse & Me

Prairie dogs are ushering in the end times.

2009-05-24T18:28:00.004-04:00

Courtesy of my hometown newspaper the Dalhart Texan, formerly Dalhart Daily Texan.

JIMMY UPDATE! JIMMY UPDATE!

2009-04-07T05:48:00.002-04:00

Jimmy Scott will be at Jazz at Lincoln Center this week! Of course it's the week I'm gone. (After all, the Universe is still winning.) But you can go. And should go.

April 9 - 12 (Thur - Sun)

7:30 and 9:30

Dizzy's Club Coca Cola

Johnny-is-no-Jimmy is ushering in the ends times.

2009-04-07T03:34:00.001-04:00

Here is an entry that's been hanging out in my Drafts folder for a year or so. Eat it up.

I had been waiting to see Jimmy Scott perform at Jazz at Lincoln Center since last fall when I purchased tickets for his entry in the Center's American Songbook series. Although Mr. Scott remains frustratingly under the radar - after all he is 82 and has been performing with all the legends since the 40s - just watch the above YouTube video to understand why he himself is legendary. I was fortunate to see him live three years ago at the Kennedy Center Jazz Club. Upon introduction, he gingerly mounted the steps to the stage with a fragile but determined delicateness. I was uncertain how the evening would play out. Would he be able to last through an entire set? But as soon as he began to sing, the life entered into his face and arms, and his voice, still fragile but now remarkably fiery, began to drop and wander - playing with the melody, teasing the notes, tossing them aside, discovering new sounds and joys. He was amazing. And not like "that shine-reduction powder is amazing" but God-creating-the-universe amazing.

So last Saturday, with my friend Sarah in arm (I had attempted to make it a date night with an unnamed individual, but that's another story and another quarter), we rode the elevator to the Allen Room in the Time Warner Center and passed those waiting in the cancellation line. I felt some self-congratulatory satisfaction that I was not one of them. After having our tickets examined twice, we entered into the theater, which has a fantastic view of Columbus Circle and Central Park South. But there were people in our seats. People who were supposed to be there. So we headed to the nearest usher to resolve the situation, and I looked at my tickets again (probably the tenth time I had done so that day) and read:

American Songbook
Sponsored by Pfizer
Jimmy Scott
Fri, Feb 22, 2008 8:30 PM
The Allen Room
Frederick P. Rose Hall Broadway at 60th St.

Wait. Friday? FRIDAY!

A day late.

A plaintive moan escaped my lips. What kind of fool was I? It had been in my daily planner as Saturday since forever. Curse you, Mead! I was directed to The Lady at the Kiosk, where I explained my case, confessed that I was an idgit, and begged for anything she could throw my direction. The Lady at the Kiosk said, "Wait." For there were lots of people in the cancellation line (Damn.), and we wouldn't know anything until closer to the show. So we waited, and I watched those lucky cancellation line sonabitches pass me into the theater. I tried to excude sad-adorableness to win over their sympathies. After all, Sarah had just told me I was dressed cool, like a rock star. How could they not be moved by puppy-eyed, Guitar Hero boy? Just as we were resigning ourselves to sad fate and considering heading over to Landmarc to get drunk at the bar, a magic woman came to us with two tickets. "Here. Hurry. You need to run." Gratitude poured forth from every orficice as I grabbed the tickets and ran off down the hall, but we were stopped by another even more magical woman. "Wait! Take these. They're amazing seats. You'll love them." So we swapped tickets. Taking our new $90 tickets to our rightful spots at the very front.

We congratulated ourselves. This is how it should be done every time. The view. The complimentary wine. Good friends. And Jimmy Scott.

(Announcer)
Ladies and Gentlemen.

JOHN......LLOYD......YOUNG!!!!

What the ?

And a thousand little thoughts scampered through my head as I swung around: Wrong night AND wrong theater? Is that the piano player? If so, why is the audience standing up, cheering? Who is that white boy walking down the theater steps looking so fucking pleased with himself? Is he the opening act?

And that's when it came together. Jimmy Scott would not be singing tonight. He was making one and only one appearance. Which I had tickets to. But did not attend.

No. I was attending the concert debut of Mr. Young, Tony Award-winning former star of the Tony Award-winning Jersey Boys, who would be singing your mother's favorite hits of the 40s, 50s, and 60s. Mr. Young was so excited for this opportunity to show his fans his true self, and, apparently, that true self is Frankie Valli.

Sarah and I admitted defeat. The Universe had won. I poured the wine, somehow sending the cork flying toward our neighbors. And I laughed like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

Old Smokey is ushering in the end times.

2008-12-29T02:14:00.009-05:00

A song from my childhood.

Does it need to be on YouTube? Yes. Everything should be. Is it flattering to myself? Of course. I'm wrapped in a fleece blanket groaning. Remember, being earnest is the same thing as being good. Will it move history? Without question.

Without question.

Here are the lyrics to my particular version so you can sing along:

On top of Old Smokey, all covered in blood,
I shot my poor teacher with a .44 slug.
I went to her funeral. I went to her grave.
Everyone they threw flowers, but I threw a grenade.
The cops came and got me. They put me in jail,
But i grabbed a bazooka, and I blew 'em all to hell.

Apparently nothing is ushering in the end times.

2008-12-26T17:57:00.018-05:00

A fellow with a moustache

Clearly I received no motivation from KT. (What a little bitch, that one.) 6 months since my last post. Half a year has gone by! Many animals and insects are birthed/hatched, mature, mate, eat their young, and die in that time span. They live complete, full lives. I've never even eaten any of my young. I've never even had any young! God, what a waste. (And I'm sure we're all tired of reading posts about not posting. How postmodern and boring.) When I turned 23 - an age of which I am no longer - my dad told me he'd already had three kids by the time he reached said birthday. Three little things! Just imagine the additional credit card debt I'd accrue with that financial load. Oh, but I hear they're wonderful. And that everyone should try one - at least once.

Soon after undergrad I decided I didn't want to talk to anyone who was married, had kids, or owned their own home. Honestly, what did we have to discuss? But, realizing how quickly that whittled away at my list of friends and relatives, I eased off. However, the sentiment somewhat remains. So many of my friends, family members, and former classmates are "growing up" and doing the adult thing. They have career jobs and fiancés and fiancées and pregnancies and health insurance. There's only so deep I can dive into a conversation about mortgages and teething before I realize I won't have enough oxygen in the tank to resurface if I attempt to descend any further.

How long is it acceptable for me to continue to achieve remarkably little? Because, let's be honest, that's what I've done. Thank the angels that I'm still in my twenties. People will forgive you for most things while you're still young. And you've still got a good head of hair. And I know I'm covered at least till 30 (perhaps I can stretch it beyond that - thanks, head of hair).

- You said what? Oh, but you're young.

- Haven't had your big break yet? You're young. Don't worry. It'll happen.

- You're finished already? (sigh) You're so young, aren't you.

I bet I can even shoot a couple people in these last few years and avoid any prison time. So I will remember to take advantage of my youth while it is still with me. But at some point there will be a switch from earnest and more than a little adorable to pathetic and more than a little creepy. Mark my words. Taking the 7 train a few stops to the Sunnyside Center Cinema on Christmas Eve to watch Disney's Enchanted by yourself, only for the film to be broken and have to walk home - that's sad but kind of cute. Now if I were a 50-year-old? Forget it. Coy glances across a packed subway car. Twenties = Cute! Fifties = Psychopath!

Yet all this horse chatter doesn't explain why I haven't updated the blog. I guess there weren't enough things ushering in the end times.

"What?!" you say.

"Oh, did I miss something?" I say.

"A black man was elected president! What other sign do you need?" you say. "Were you waiting for a GAY black man to rise to the office? An HIV+, gay black man that pissed on the American flag during his acceptance speech at the Republican convention?"

"Well, I guess not," I say. "But all that seems a bit much."

"What does?"

"Well, it seems a bit much to make your point," I say. "Somewhat belabored. A little too focused on shock value."

"But at least we're talking about it."

And then you smile. Tenderly I slide my hand under your blouse, and we attempt to make a Hope baby.

That said, I did spend a good portion of the year trying to convince some people that Obama was not the Antichrist, while they tried to convince me he wasn't Jesus Christ. But a true believer remains faithful in the Gospel of Change. Amen and amen. History having won out and the final court cases challenging his birth records dwindling down like the warm, dying embers of a winter's fire, I'm happy to be making my purchase of the Penthouse Obama commemorative edition.

Now what to write about it? Oh, that's right - myself! I'm a little sick. Drinking lots of orange juice. Sucking on some Cold-EEZE (It's homeopathic!) and using my Zicam Gel Swabs (It's homeopathic too! As long as it doesn't kill my sense of taste and smell. Uh oh). It's sad when a violent coughing fit is the most exercise I've done in a week. A month. A year. But I should stick around on this earth long enough to get out an ushering-in-the-end-of-the-year-is-ushering-in-the-end-times post.

No promises though. So mourn me now.

USHER THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-06-22T18:00:00.008-04:00

OMG. OMFG.

Why can't David - whoops sorry ;) d.a.vid - write anything new? Hons? And don't even getmestarted on the name d.a.vid itself. What is that? Who does he think he is? will.i.am? Like his name can be found anywhere in the celebipedia. Oh and here are some lustalicious rainboots i found at Teen Vogue.

Totally sidetracked but hons - what takes him sooooooo long? Its not like he's working on the next Harry Potter (Oh! i hope *fingers crossed* there r more. She can't just finish it. That's so brutal to all her fans - of which i am one. JK, u wouldn't abandon a baby would u? Leave it on the dirty mensroom floor?) Maybe he thinks he's gonna win an oscar or teen choice award for his blogging. Well that's superdumb d.a.vid because u can't win either for a blog. Those awards r for entirely different categories. So Entirely.

And blogging is no Everest. i'm doing it right now. And i'm only 14. i'm DEF NOT a 30 yr old with a Masters-------and i'm blogging. Succexcellently i might add. (Master of what? That's funny. Would a real Master be working at a hair salon? Eating at McD's?) And i'll give u more of what u really want.....

GAY CHICKEN VIDEOS

Why do "str8" guys do this sorta thing? (The str8 in quotes means i'm skeptical whether there actually str8 - more on that later) Maybe its cuz there so horny and they spend way too much time together. Like if there in sports u know there always in the lockerroom hanging out. Or maybe there all really GAY! That'd explain why Brister was such an ass to me at the Holiday Ball and wouldn't even talk to me the entire night. EVEN THOUGH HE WAS MY DATE AND MY DAD PAID FOR HIS TICKET AND THE LIMO!!!!!!!! Whatever...htf should i know?

And pics of the Jenner bros

So much cuter than the Jonas bros who r all like 10 yrs old and dressed by their gay uncle (confession: Joe may be growing on me a teeny bit. But not if he keeps looking like this!!!!!!!!!

OMG! A fur coat? He looks like my mom's friends and i don't crush on MILFs!)

Anyways...back to the Jenners.

BRANDON

BRODY!!!!!!!!!

i luv the last one of Brody the absolute best because its a totally fun candid pic like one i'd take with my bests. U know he'd be a BLAST to hang out with. Lucky bitch LC. Extra points for the bad boy tat. Click on the happy face to go to Brody's OFFICIAL webpage.

He's also working on a new TV show called Bromance. So excited. Contestents get to compete to be one of his bros. Luv it. And i'll def be keeping u posted. (Bromance? Anyone else notice the gay thing again?)

Oh! Here's something totally different and way weird. The new WORLD'S UGLIEST DOG has been named. i'm totally serious. And no its not Miley Cyrus. JK! JK! I'm sooooo joking (kind of). The dog is Gus. Here's a pic.

And NO it's not the woman. That's the owner, sillies. I'm being soooo naughty today ;) Here's a better pic of Gus - if u'd want a better pic.

Doesn't it look like he'd fit really well under a car tire? Now don't go all Tom Cruise on me. i will not be ur Matt Lauer. i'm not saying it should. All i'm saying is that Gus's body looks like its shaped to fit under a tire. That's all. i made a pic to show what i mean.

(That took me 4EVER to make that pic. Maybe if d.a.vid had more pics like that i'd understand why he never posts. BUT HE DOESN'T!) So we have a new World's Ugliest Dog. Yeah! And pretty soon we'll have a new president which is almost as exciting. i guess i'd be more excited if i could vote but i'm obviously not old enough. My dad says i should care anyways BUT WHY? Its not like it effects me. My dad keeps going on and on and on and on AND ON about how much things cost now and like the price of gas ---- which r pretty ridic reasons why he and my mom won't drive me and my bests to the mall. So what if gas is like $10 a gallon. i don't drive so its not like i'm paying for it. Ughh!

Whatever. i guess i should go. Apparently i'm supposed to be watching the new Jonas bros movie and i missed it already on the disney channel AND on ABC. But its showing on ABC family tonite. i promise i'm not really a fan no matter what ur assumptions r (make an ass of u and me. ha) i'd rather listen to Tokyo Police Club or even Lil Wayne's new album. What r u surprised i listen to Lil Wayne? i'm not a ghetto girl by any stretch but i like rap - Kanye is all over my iPod.

Well thanks for reading. Tell d.a.vid to write something already. Its been major.

Peace Luv & Fun,

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Busted is ushering in the end times.

2008-05-27T00:44:00.005-04:00

"Sexy d.a.vid Jump" by photographer Sinpu Tokyo

So the Fates have conspired together, forcing me to cobble together another post. I'm all gimped-out with my foot elevated, rested on pillows like the little princess that it is. Crutches waiting for the call to action. I hurt this foot by doing something real brave and practical, a task representative of pure, unadulterated common sense. Hypothetically, the same injury could have been sustained by sliding on my ass down the handrail at the entrance to the Columbus Circle/Time Warner Center subway station. Quite possibly the resulting fracture would be very similar had I reached a velocity that far surpassed my expectations and the positioning of my dismount focused all my substantial mass at a singular point of impact, which very well could have been my left heel colliding into the concrete step. But let's not deal with "what ifs" and "might have beens." Let's for once address the factual realities with which we are reluctant to engage, to encounter honestly. The truth of the matter is d.a.vid is a Great and Good Man, a marvelous Hero, angelic and empathetic. Whatever he does is done for the Good of Humanity, so do not brazenly question his actions. Doing so will only shrivel your testes and flatten your ovies.

And like Ushers says - gotta do it for the ladies and I gotta keep it hood. (I really, really like Love In This Club. It's exceptionally dumb, but I close my eyes and sway. I mean - let's be honest - make love? "Making love" is not something done in clubs. Hook-ups? Yes. Fucking? Yes. Slipping roofies? Yes. Making love. No, no, no. LISTEN RIGHT HURR.)

As I hobbled along the subterranean pathways, laughing with my friends as they laughed at me, I spotted a three foot piece of rigid conduit that some union construction worker had fortuitously left behind for this very occasion. And I claimed it as my walking stick. Cane in hand, across the hard floor I moved with somber dignity.

clank. Heavy, desperate step. clank. Heavy, desperate step.

While switching trains at 42nd St/Time Square, my elaborate production caught the attention of a group of high school age blipsters, standing guard over Hip with their skinny jeans and bold, plastic sunglasses.

"Hey! Clap every time he takes a step!"

clank. Heavy, desperate step. CLAP! clank. Heavy, desperate step. CLAP!

And I tried to give them a good show. Letting them know I was in on the joke, fully participatory. Hell - I was the one telling the joke, feeding them the setup. They just beat me to the punch line. I turned and gave the group a double thumbs up and then step-fell down the stairs to the 7.

I only live four blocks away from my subway stop, and I promise that I attempted to walk it. My roommate even volunteered to carry me on her back. Shaking laughter prevented us from an earnest effort, and she's way too cute and petite to be my sherpa. So I had to hire one of those ubiquitous Town Cars and pay $6 plus tip to get home.

I didn't go to the doctor. Then I did. Work made me. "I don't mean to be cruel. But what can you do on crutches as a floor manager?" I went to the ER. They took an x-ray. They said it wasn't fractured. Then they said it was. I went back for a follow-up this week. Then they said they weren't sure. As the doctor was sending me on my way, I asked if he wanted to examine the foot itself. Perhaps remove the shoe, socks, and elastic bandage? He said no.

After all this, I am treating this injury exactly as I would have if I'd never gone to the doctor at all. I even provided my own crutches. (Thank you Free Stuff section on craigslist and mobile roommate.) But now I get to pay. Pay without health insurance.

I wish I were a kept man.

In honor of my busted state, I am posting this d-d-d-dope video of Tim Fite, a Brooklyn-based rapper/alt-country singer. He's just a little busted too. When I saw him perform at Joe's Pub in January, I thought he might be a mite mentally-handicapped. His on-stage movements are somewhat spastic with a lot of stop-and-go, like someone's constantly hitting rewind and fast-forward. (Watch the video. You'll understand.) He gave everyone a vision exam and read us a self-penned picture story with a tapeworm as its protagonist. He also has this reverse rat tale growing at the front of his hairline. Special needs or not, he's excellent and raps about consumerism, racism, war, poverty, other rappers, and dicks. Smart lyrics and memorable hooks.

Download his entire album Over the Counter Culture for FREE! Or you can find his latest, Fair Ain't Fair, on iTunes.

If I'm busted then I'm in excellent company.

Spring cleaning is ushering in the end times.

2008-03-16T18:59:00.015-04:00

So it's not actually Spring, but nevertheless I am changing up a few things here at The Apocalypse. Nothing severe. No major remodeling or amputations. Nothing requiring stitches or a change of breeches. I have, however, added three (Read it: THREE!) new links.

{ONE}
I'm making Graeme Mitchell's blog a permanent feature (until God dictates otherwise), so I can check it easily...from no matter what computer I am using in the WORLD!

Now if I only knew how to pronounce that first name.

"Legs" - Graeme Mitchell

{TWO}
Learning to Love You More is a wonderful web-based collaborative assignment by Miranda July, who's very special film is Me and You and Everyone We Know, not Yours, Mine and Ours (learned that the hard way), and Harrell Fletcher. Each task they present requests participation from the online community, participation that requires engagement in the beyond-online world. I was particularly impressed with the manner in which they encouraged readers to spend time with individuals who are dying. I was fearing affected, overly-indulgent photos of the visitor/visited or treacly craft projects masquerading as earnest homages, but it was only a list of names and a few stories. No prize game to impress us all with. Just respect.

I'm a little late finding this, but it's still a gem, and I thank Ani for directing me to it.

Make a child's outfit in an adult size - Wheat Wurtzburger/Anna Kerlin

{THREE}
The ever-employed Lyndsey has a blog for her mother to read - It's Always Something - but I'm going to snoop.

On a sadder note, I am removing the Viva Pedro link until further notice. Of course my opinion of the filmmaker has not changed - he's absolutely God-kissed - but the showings are over, and now our only option to catch the series is by purchasing the pricey boxed set. HERE. HERE. NOT HERE. HERE.

It's those little New City moments that are ushering in the end times.

2008-03-14T08:21:00.011-04:00

"classy lady and man - feb 08" by the fantastic Graeme Mitchell

There are many reasons why I love this city. This is one of them:

Last week, while acting the part of Receptionist #1 at the Hiro Haraguchi Hair Salon, a client approached the desk. She was very well put-together and well-preserved with an impressive, rather bodiful coiffure to match her impressive and rather bodiful fur coat. She wore a pair of sunglasses with cold, silver frames - not the head-swallowing dinner plate variety so popular with sluts nowadays but something more akin to Aviators. After paying with her AmEx (because who doesn't pay with their AmEx in New City?) and returning her wallet to her purse, she faced me and, almost apologetically, she said, "I'm going to ask you an insane question."

"OK," I thought and said out loud.

"I just had my eyes done, and I'm going out to dinner tonight with my daughter and her fiance. I need to know which pair of sunglasses I can wear...

to a restaurant...

for dinner...

at night."

I then closed my eyes, thanking God for this city.

"These? I just picked them up from Prada. Or..."

And she removed the current pair, allowing me to briefly view the bruising which followed the natural lower curve of the eye socket - purple, blue, and red blots, like a toddler playing with markers.

"These? I can't remember where these are from."

She replaced the sunglasses with another pair, a throwback to the 50s. Unlike Prada's hard lines, these were a bit playful, translucent with a pinkish, skin-toned hue.

Now, let's be honest. They were both sunglasses. No one would mistake them for anything else. She knew that. I knew that. What we needed to do was choose the pair that didn't shout the fact so damn loudly. And so I directed her to the latter option, praising their subtle qualities, attempting to instill in her the confidence she would later need that evening as she stepped from her elegant, chauffeured ride into the elegant, impossible-to-book restaurant past the elegant, impossible-to-please fellow patrons in her furs and sunglasses. Which she will not remove for the entire meal.

P.S.

Here are a few more selections from Graeme Mitchell's NYC Journal series. The subject matter is not new. The streets of New City have been covered many times over by numerous photographers, including Walker Evans, Diane Arbus, daughter Amy, and many other masters of the genre, but Mitchell's execution, especially when studying people, is faster-paced and seems to play with the unseen more, allowing for/encouraging confusion and mystery.

"girl being carried"/"boy on train - jan 08"

"man's back - oct 07"/"garbage can - mar 08"

"street light - feb 08"

Two things to do before the world ends

2008-03-12T00:50:00.013-04:00

{ONE}
A Saturday or two back I was walking up Orchard around 4 AM after a solid night of dance-dance-dancing, and I saw a storefront window that read "ABSOLUT MACHINES." Intrigued and hungry, I clippity-clapped over to the door and recognized right away that, whatever it was, its hours were suspiciously gallery-like. So I clippity-clapped over to Veselka to eat a little chili. And did nothing with this spark of interest for hours.

Rested and belly full in Queens, I tracked down said machines at absolut.com/absolutmachines and created the below musical composition with Absolut Quartet.

Ha! I kind of just lied to you. Didn't create it per se. By playing a simplified keyboard at the website, you feed a magical code to the machine in Manhattan, and it, in return, composes a piece based on the theme you introduced using percussive instruments, a marimba, rubber balls, and wine glasses. (Sounds like someone's going to get an STD!) It's spectacularly exciting. Better than the Absolut Choir, which is robotic voices and no rubber balls. But Absolut Choir did allow me make a collection of blocky figures in Sweden sing "George W is god" and "Bush is Lord" in repetition. Both machines are part of a project Absolut developed with tech magicians under the heading: In an Absolut world, would machines be creative?

On Tuesday I stopped by the installation with Joy and Ben and was able to interact with it live. Below is the video of me dancing to one of my pieces. It really gets off-the-hook around 1:35. If I look a little awkward, it's because the machine didn't give me much percussion during my song...and because I'm awkward. Added bonus: my hand-in-coat-pocket dancing is really just me flashing elementary age children.

If you're in NYC, visit the installation. And bring your wide-eyed eyes. If you're not in NYC, then why aren't you? But if, for whatever reason, you currently are not blossoming in the New City, visit the website. It's a like playing God, manipulating something from miles and miles away. Sometimes Good results. Sometimes Evil.

Absolut Machines
186 Orchard St
Tues - Thur, Sun; 1 PM - 7 PM
Fri - Sat; 1 PM - 9 PM

{TWO}
Also currently accessible in New City is Michel Gondry's Be Kind Rewind installation at the Deitch Projects' Wooster location. Like The Science of Sleep before it, Gondry has created an interactive exhibition in conjunction with Deitch based on his current film. But this time it's better because within 2 1/2 hours you and your less attractive friends can create an amateur movie in the spirit of his own. The space is filled with multiple sets that can be altered to show daytime/nighttime or city/country surroundings. With the provided props and the low-tech/no-tech visual wizardry Gondry is known for, you can put together a sloppy masterpiece, decorate the VHS tape display case, and leave it in the video store for others to watch in the in-house theater. (Avoid the selection with Sophia or Sofia in the title. Something about a mother/daughter or lesbian couple - hard to tell - with a fortune teller and a train.)

Although all the group slots for filming are reserved through the entire run, most of these are open groups - meaning they will take additional participants. So contact Deitch to add your name, and, while making a fantastic, poorly-edited home video, you'll also be making some new, less attractive friends. Nice.

Be Kind Rewind (thru Mar 22)
Deitch Projects
18 Wooster Street
Tues - Sat; 12PM - 6PM

Slower-than-molasses advancements are ushering in the end times.

2008-02-25T22:15:00.006-05:00

OK, OK - so I move with the breathtaking speed of Angela Lansbury underwater and my progress in general doesn't speak well of my get-up-and-go, but here they are - The Chosen Headshots, as chosen by myself and you (you being the convenient pronoun since it can be either singular or plural). See, you did accomplish something in 2007. There was no need to take it out on your wife.

So thank you for voting. I did take your input into (and out of) consideration. Now comes the easy part, where casting directors stumble across my blog, fall in love with my approachable gourgeousness, and offer me a role in The Hottie and the Nottie 2: Not Without My Lip Gloss, You Fuckin' Bastard!

Wish me luck.

THE COMMERCIAL LOOK

THE LEGIT LOOK

Puppet Sketch is ushering in the end times.

2008-02-20T07:55:00.003-05:00

I have a friend - a wonderful friend - who created a puppet video with his friends - with his wonderful friends - and it is fairly awesome, more or less fantastic, and sad (which you know I love). The premise alone is enough to justify the youtube admission price: two gloriously oblivious but happy puppets working a suicide hotline.

Enjoy.

Untitled Glasses Project is ushering in the end times.

2008-02-04T15:51:00.001-05:00

Centuries back I went to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in 3D. It was actually my first ever viewing of the film. That third dimension seemed more of a distraction than an integral part of the movie, but the glasses were fantastic - thick-framed, high-quality plastic, unbelievably sexy. So I popped out the lenses and donned the frames for a couple of days. Just like the time I found old sunglasses outside of the bakery's dumpster during undergrad and wore the frames for a good month, much to the dismay of close friend Ginger. I am a little predictable.

However, this time I went one step further and forced everyone I work with to wear them too, including a few boyfriends (of coworkers, not mine - I only date kittens).

Ladies and gentles, here is Untitled Glasses Project.

Glorious hair is ushering in the end times.

2007-11-19T11:59:00.000-05:00

I spent one summer in Abilene, Texas between my junior and senior years of college. Each day I worked at a bakery from 5 am to noon. After work I would run the perimeter of campus in the midday sun, fall asleep on my living room floor for an hour or two and then attend rehearsals for The Tempest until 11 pm. On the Fourth of July I took my truck out on the Loop to fill up with gas, and at a convenience store I came across the local crowd preparing for the community fireworks display.

Never before had I seen such a rich and varied display of mullets, and I had lived almost my entire life in rural Texas. Long singular streams, practically rat-tails. Short explosive curls. Demure waves appearing from beneath the backwards-turned baseball cap. Men and women. In all the hues that one can buy in a box at the grocery store. It's not my intention to label all West Texans as the mullet-sporting type, but, on this day at the early evening hour, they were out in force buying 12-packs and bags of ice for their coolers and Smarties for their little ones. Perhaps mullet wearers acutely feel the call of fireworks and tailgating. Perhaps the extended locks of hair act as highly-evolved antennae for patriotism. Of such things, I do not have knowledge. I am not an initiate. In grad school I did try to simultaneously sport a fauxhawk and faux mullet (fauxlet). But both were half-hearted attempts, even by faux standards.

Mixed bathing is ushering in the end times.

2007-10-11T19:39:00.000-04:00

Bathers from Wenceslaus Bible

Pool gives students a mixed choice.
And with this, the gates of hell opened wide.

The Destroyer of Bed-Stuy is ushering in the end times.

2007-08-29T02:32:00.000-04:00

CONTENT ADVISORY: Please be advised that this video is of a very graphic nature. You should not view it if you are pregnant, think you may be pregnant, have liver disease, are in the advanced stages of HIV, or are a pre-op transsexual.

This frightening footage was provided to me by Woman as evidence that indeed the Apocalypse is upon us. It is worth noting that the disturbing attack occurred on the one-year anniversary of this very blog.

Dear readers, keep wearing those clean undies because you never know when it's going to happen.

My heart goes out to the families of all the individuals lost during Tuesday's noon massacre. A neighborhood-wide block party will be held this Saturday from 10:00 am to 4:00 pm to raise money in order to provide assistance with the funeral costs. There will be streetball, a "Walk It Out" contest, food vendors, choirs from various local churches, alcohol from various local liquor stores, curious but intimidated hipsters watching from 2nd-story apartment windows, grown men on tiny bikes, appearances by some of your favorite loiterers, a mobile police unit, and a 15% discount off all merchandise at Fat Albert's.

Happy Birthdays are ushering in the end times.

2007-08-29T01:29:00.000-04:00

Our Lady of the Apocalypse

Exposed brick walls are ushering in the end times.

2007-08-25T02:49:00.001-04:00

I became unemployed on August 3. Since then, with the exception of my week-long trip back to Texas/Kansas, I have been trolling for apartments here in "New City" (coined by my three-year-old niece). I'm tired. I'm discouraged. And my pits are sweaty. I can't handle another complicated train ride out to _____ Heights (fill in the blank with all the options) only to find that the apartment's bedrooms are railroad, something omitted in the ad. Thank you, but I'll pass on roommates sneaking through my bedroom for a midnight bathroom run. Or that as of now there aren't floors or walls. Or that the apartment doesn't have heat, and the current tenants had to deal with leaking holes in the ceiling and no hot water for three months. I've even resorted to walking up and down, around and about neighborhoods we actually like (and just might be able to afford), calling the numbers listed on For Rent signs and stopping at apartment buildings to see if they have availability. My six hour stroll through Woodside and Sunnyside in Queens may have shaped my calves but added nothing productive to the hunt.

See, last year we did a stink job of finding a place. We entered into the apartment search with two non-negotiable criteria: a neighborhood in which Little V felt safe, and three bedrooms roughly the same size.

We failed meeting both. Little V can't make it to our place in Bed Sty without receiving the special attention that only strangers know how to lavish on young women. And Little V beds each night in a storage closet with a window. Funny thing is, it was Little V and I who decided on the place. We saw the exposed brick walls, and our bodies went limp.*

We're really trying to be smarter this time around but know very well that we will not find the ideal. I had to inform my incredulous mother a few times that almost nothing we can afford will have air-conditioning. "Nothing?" "No. Put air-conditioning out of your head. Banish it!" In the end it will come down to what we're willing to give up. Quality neighborhood? Closets? Convenient subway? Late-night chicken joint?

"I've Been in the New City Real Estate Trenches" List

1) Want fictional neighborhoods? Craigslist has them. East Williamsburg - the less threatening name for Bushwick and/or Bed Sty. Upper West Side/Washington Heights. What? Where did Harlem and Morningside Heights disappear to? And Bushiburg?!?

2) Blocks from the train. How about 30. Close to all transportation. Close to nothing. In addition, a 7 minute walk to the subway is never 7 minutes. And that 15 minute commute into Manhattan? Dump that in the same rubbage bin where you abandoned Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the American Dream.

3) Up-and-coming neighborhood. You will be part of the initial wave in the gentrification process, so prepare to deal without a Starbucks until the second round of white settlers move in.

4) Brokers! Brokers! Brokers!

"Look at this view." I'm staring at the back of a warehouse wall. "You can see the Empire State Building from here!" Leaning. Leaning further out. Straining to see around the bulky, elevated subway platform. Leaning. Leaning... "And the garden's right below." The weed patch and chain-link fence.

"The neighborhood has everything." Not true. "Grocery stores." Shady bodegas that only sell Doritos, soda, and liquor. "The most beautiful park." Yes. Half-a-mile away. "Restaurants." Pizza and Chinese you order through a hole in the protective glass window separating the customers from the employees.

"Do you all have jobs? Look at this. Brand new! No one's used this stove top. No one's used the oven. You will be the first. You'll be the first to turn on the gas, place your head into its womb and end it all! Look at these ceilings! You could store a giraffe in here! A giraffe and it's mother! Is everyone employed? Why would you want a living room? You each have beautiful bedrooms. 1, 2, 3 beautiful bedrooms. You just eat in there. Close the door. It's your own. Yes, the bathroom's small, but all you need to do is get in and get out. Do you want a closet? I'll build you a closet. Oh, you want a door? I'll build you a door. I will make it out of dirt and spit. It will be ready by tomorrow. How many of you are there? Does everyone have a job?"

5) A liquor store must always been accompanied by a church and vice versa.

6) And, most importantly, if you're walking down the street on your way to an open house and you think to yourself, "Now, this is a cute block," don't worry - your apartment will not be on this block. It will be on the next block over. The one with the dilapidated row of disgruntled brownstones and apartment complexes with dime bags on the ground in front and entry doors with the street number spray-painted on them. (The same applies for apartment buildings. The cuter the building is, the more likely it will not be the one where your future hovel will be found.)

*Regarding those exposed brick walls, the mortar slowly and continually crumbles off onto our appliances, window sills, and floor. Even after we demanded that a second coat of shiny something be applied, the Great Shedding continues. At night I can listen to the tiny cement bits say goodbye to their loved ones and jump from the brick ledges, fatally landing on boxes and plastic bags far below.

New headshots are ushering in the end times.

2007-08-19T02:24:00.001-04:00

After intensive elective surgery and colorization.

Before.

A wide-eyed innocent poses for the uber-talented Sylvia Renick and marvels at the wondrous instrument she holds in her hands, a magical contraption that can capture his image better than any tintype. This black and white boy knows nothing of the color spectrum and believes that sunshine and happiness grow in gardens alongside rows of bell peppers and okra. In a few months, this boy will somehow convince himself that George W should be reelected.

FLASH! BANG! CHA-CHA-CHA-CHOOEY!

Three years later I've realized that I had to stop buying relaxed fit jeans, that life takes a little seduction now and then, and that the only headshot I had limited me to playing the role of the 16-year-old preacher's son. Inspired by the teachings of Queen B, I decided to upgrade my headshots in order to give myself a little versatility. Here for your consideration, dear readers (if I haven't already driven all of you away with my glacial posting), are a few results from my sitting with photographer Laura Rose.

Now it's time for reader participation! Kick ass! Vote for your favorites. Help me decide what I should use for my commercial look (casual, open, endearing) and my legit (intriguing, more serious). Also, which shot is the most smug? And which look is most likely to get me into your pants? I'll post the results if anyone actually votes. How cool is that!

"Commercial" Look

1) 2)

3) WINNER (see February 25th entry)

4) 5)

6) 7)

"Legit" Look

1)

2)

3)

4) 5)

6) 7)

8) 9) WINNER (see February 25th entry)

10) 11)

12) 13)

Inactivity is ushering in the end times.

2007-08-18T13:54:00.001-04:00

My former kingdom.

Oh how I'm not doing anything.

Remember my last post (way back in '88)? About me leaving my toy soldier position? Well, once again I'm saying adieu to employment. Honestly, I don't want to make this a habit, but I can't deny when a job is ending. I could if I wanted to. I could try and pretend I didn't see the inevitable finality of it all and continue to iron my button-up shirt, carefully select a sweater vest, and arrive every morning at 8-ish to 787 7th Ave. However, such willful oblivion won't produce a paycheck. So I must turn to unemployment and address him directly:

Mr. Unemployment, I welcome you as a temporary guest. Make yourself at home because I know this will only be a brief stay since you must soon leave to pay a visit to Dennis Hastert. Mr. Unemployment, I thank you for enabling me to return home to see my family and to spend more time apartment hunting. But, Mr. Unemployment, remember you are a guest in my home, and you will respect my rules. Please take off your shoes at the door if they are muddy. Do not leave food crumbs on the dining table nor hookers in my bed. And under no circumstance will you touch my bank account. I have hot water on the stove. Feel free to make yourself some tea.

Now some of you may be asking yourself, "Baby girl, what job is d.a.vid leaving?" Well, I was the temporary administrative assistant at BNP Paribas's Asian Equities desk. A position I acquired through eavesdropping, thank you very much. It all started when.....

It was a magical June day, the kind which gives you faith in God. David was meeting his friend for a night of theatre at Lincoln Center. As he stood at the railing of the lobby's mezzanine, he overheard a voice which sounded like sweet cherry blossoms. A woman spoke with frustration to her friend about the disappointing performance of her current temp. David was curious and continued to lend an eager ear to this conversation. According to the woman, the temp came in late and never stayed past 5. Apparently he was a thorn-in-the-side to all her coworkers too.

When David's friend arrived, he told her of the situation and asked if he should introduce himself. His friend replied, "David, you are a sparkling star in this night sky. Recognize your abilities and offer yourself to her like the human sacrifice you are." With those encouraging words and both of their respective friends momentarily absent, David approached this woman and attempted to initiate oral stimulation on her if she would only allow him to interview for the job. The woman demurred, but David insisted that she at least consider him for the position because he was capable and as gregarious as a chipmunk. The woman, named Grace (How wonderfully true!), said, "What the hell," and the two exchanged information. They then returned to their own friends and entered into the glorious world of Theatre.

All this occurred as described (more or less) on a Thursday evening, and by Friday morning David had a new job which did not require him to dress like the eroticized fantasy of a uniform fetishist.

So for four months I endured the pressures and enjoyed the benefits of the world of finance. But my tenure has come to an end. I have trained my replacement and thrown my fortune to the wind (and to Craigslist).

And as I sit here, jobless, and wait for my current lease to expire at the end of August, I like to pretend that I don't need to be looking for an apartment. This allows me to relax and do things like update my blog, buy new sweater vests from Daffy's with my credit card, and watch the glorious horror film, The Descent, jumping like a nervous school girl about to make it with a boy for the first time.

This toy soldier's final tour of duty is ushering in the end times.

2007-07-01T21:55:00.000-04:00

All good things must come to an end. And other things end, too - like this job. I had made a promise to myself that I would no longer be a toy soldier by the time I turned 25, and my July birthday looms. Farewell, FAO. I will miss my employee discount.

The end times are ushering in the end times.

2007-07-01T21:40:00.000-04:00

When major events happen in our lives, we’re always told that there are lessons of significance to be taken away, to be stored in our “now that we’re older and wiser” manila folder – vital lessons that will make us better people.

I guess so.

But sometimes the only truth I manage to retrieve from these rapidly passing days is a repetition of the theme: things happen. And how inspiring is that?

People are continually and feverishly analyzing situations and events, trying to decipher the clues in order to discover cause. The burden of the occurrence is placed on Time, God, Fate, Science, Karma, Butter, Satan, Stupidity, etc. And it’s quite a consuming pursuit. “Why do bad things happen to good people?” “Why do good things happen to shitty people?” “If God really loves me, why can’t I keep an erection?” And the like.

My apartment was burglarized recently (or burglered, if you prefer), and those enterprising thieves relieved me of my iMac and brand new Canon SLR camera and lens. Oh, the drama! And the horror! What’s most tremendously frustrating is all the thousands of pictures that were stored on my computer (which I hadn’t backed up on an external hard drive). Pictures I’ve been taking of the city since February and its mass of details. Pictures of random subway passengers, mannequins in the windows of Bergdorf Goodman, mosaics in Williamsburg, dusty church marquees in Bed Sty, the proud owner of the Jesus tire repair shop a few blocks from my home. Also gone are the folded hands of my grandmother as she lay in her casket and the shots of rooms in my grandparent’s home in New Mexico that were taken in an attempt to keep the reality of their everyday lives from retreating into indistinct past.

One friend wrote in an email: “I strongly believe that for every bad thing that happens to us, there is an amazing thing to match it. That being said, you have some great days ahead of you so brace yourself for goodness.” But this sort of viewpoint makes me wonder: Is there similarly an awful thing to match every good one that happens to us? If so, then perhaps my remarkably blessed life was due for some ass-kicking.

Another friend, in an attempt to be comforting (or dismissive), said, “It’s only material things. You’ll always have the memories.” Actually, the whole purpose was to capture what the memory cannot contain. With photography, I’m able to isolate and manipulate, to extract from the context or make the connection undeniable. I could highlight what my eye saw and allow others to see how I viewed the world, which is a combination of idiosyncratic skewering and common banality. And I’m not claiming the world has lost unseen masterpieces (though it has, though it has), but I have lost pieces of myself. I was leaving little markers on the ground as I wandered along, as I evolved, matured, and regressed. These markers allowed me to look back to see where I’ve been, what I’ve learned, what I’ve forgotten. Memories are treasures, but they’re often vague and can lose their once potent impact. A picture is a frozen viewpoint, evidence of a precision imposed.

As irritating as the whole thing has been, it’s only a crisis in a relative sense. And I can’t worry about assigning blame or about demanding recompense because life continues and things are still happening, and I want to be present in the middle of it all.

So, boys and girls, today’s lesson is remember that you must always never, ever take one single moment of…. No, that wasn’t it. The lesson is that if you trust with your heart, angels will stand guard of… No. That can’t be right. Ahhh yes! The lesson for today is that when food hits the floor, you have 10 seconds before it goes bad…or is it 5? Oh never mind.

My kimono-clad NYC stage debut is ushering in the end times.

2007-06-10T18:06:00.000-04:00

David or Nono the doll? Click here to find out.

So it was bound to happen sooner or later. To be honest, I tried to delay it for an indefinite period of time by simply doing nothing, but, like all stories of greateness, mine too requires a beginning. And this beginning is the Morse code production of Aphra Behn's The Rover, which will be on stage this coming Thursday through Sunday (June 14 - 17) during the Looking Glass Theatre's Spring Writer/Director Forum. ! .

True to my word, my entrance into the world of NYC theatre is an inconspicuous affair of simplicity, grace, and refined taste. How else would you describe my appearance in drag as the handmaiden to a famous courtesan - complete with kimono and song? And to parade my dexterous acting skill before the rest of my castmates, the director also gave me the role of sidekick Frederick, whom I have turned into a fop of a fellow with wandering eyes and posing hips. Come to think of it, he'd probably feel quite at home in a kimono, too. So, for those of my readers in the tri-state vicinity (that's if I still have any readers - Oh Lord!), come on down to the Looking Glass Theatre on 57th St between 9th & 10th and witness history in the making. I can't promise you it's worth $15, but, if you have a student ID, you can sneak in for $12. And it's definitely worth $12. No question.

So instead of taking your hooker out for post-coital McDonald's in Times Square, drop her off early and spend that $15 on me. Follow this link >>>>>>>Looking Glass Theatre<<<<<<< to their website where you can follow another link to another website from which you can buy tickets - or undiluted joy, as I like to call it.

Tony Hoagland is ushering in the end times.

2007-06-08T20:37:00.000-04:00

I've been listening to Garrison Keillor's reading of this poem by Tony Hoagland since January, and I think it's a phenomenal piece of writing. The construction almost tempts skimming, but its roots are entrenched and stubbornly complex. It manages to simultaneously reveal how the everyday is insignificant and undeniably extraordinary. Click on the poem's title to go to the Writer's Almanac website and listen to Keillor's drowsy-voiced infusion.

sky trail - solarider (great pictures throughout the blog)

A Color of the Sky
by Tony Hoagland

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.
She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I’m glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more.

"B" is ushering in the end times.

2007-05-20T23:22:00.001-04:00

My doodles are ushering in the end times [4].

2007-05-20T22:20:00.001-04:00

Grandma is ushering in the end times.

2007-05-04T05:29:00.000-04:00

She was a spectacular woman. Determined and full of fire. She'd meet you at the porch door after the long drive into the country, and you knew that, if you were patient and played outside for a while, there'd be a Dr Pepper party coming along soon.

She'd tell you to stand up tall and be proud of your height, and she'd snap at you if you had your hand in your mouth or near your eyes. Germs were for the foolish and lazy.

When the food was ready, she'd ring the dinner bell and cry out in her singular manner. A cry that could also be heard coming down from the bleachers, over everybody and everything else, while you stood on the football field in the middle of the game.

She was proud of her heritage, of her family's past, but she was even prouder of its future. She made me laugh like no one else. She had feisty one-liners and sometimes they stung.

She'd hold you tight in her hug and start to tickle your sides, but then she'd squeeze your hand and, with a serious look, tell you how much you meant to her and how she was so proud of you, of all her bunch.

Her singing voice was direct and unflappable, and she'd take the bass line. She'd volunteer you for anything and have the utmost confidence that you would make it a smashing success.

She liked dogs and cared little for cats. She loved her great-grandchildren. She had no patience for whiners.

She had traveled the world but was more than content to be living in the sparse expanse between Sedan and Amistad. Come summer, she was moving into town.

She'd pat your friends on the behind upon introduction, and you'd expectantly wait for that look of surprise to suddenly appear on their face.

She loved a man fiercely for over fifty years, and they were a balanced pair. She loved him even after he died, and she tried to keep real flowers at his grave, but nothing stays alive in that summer heat.

Her hair was thick, and her eyes sparked. Her faith was strong.

She would always say how lucky she was to be in this family.

But we knew we were the lucky ones.

The hard truth is ushering in the end times.

2007-05-02T22:07:00.000-04:00

So I've had some time to consider the (non)response to my last post. Frankly, I found it difficult to believe that my blog has had no affect whatsoever on whatsoanyone. That's crazy talk and utter paranoia. I've seen the dramatic reversals in your medical charts. I've been there when your slimy newborns reluctantly push out into the cold fluorescent light of the hospital room. I've witnessed you painstakingly sneak-up on and attack orphans and stray puppies. I know my words are not falling void.

But something was not right. I began to mull over the possibilities, and one glaring conclusion out-glared all others. I am sorry for not seeing the signs earlier, for not helping you out when your silent cries of silence tore through cyberspace in an attempt to pull me out of my inattentive slumber.

I know that you, my readers, are illiterate. Please, don't be ashamed that I have uncovered the "hard truth." We cannot hide behind social decorum anymore. Do not tentatively turn your face from me, little ones. Look me in the eye. Stay proud. Many people, for many reasons, never learn to read nor write and, therefore, are unable to join functioning society and post comments on spectacular blogs when the blogger requests a little reader response. It's not your fault. Let's blame your parents. Parents! Damn the parents! Oh...damn!

But today I make the pledge that you, oh reader, will learn how to discern an A from a Z and a Z from a Zed. I will not leave you impoverished and abandoned on the streets, feet feebly wrapped in yesterday's newspapers to ward off the approaching gangrene. No, no - my homeless shall beam with pride as they read to passerby the headlines running along their decaying soles. My heart aches to think of you straining to find meaning in the foreign characters and imposing symbols scattered across my pages. You longed for a simple picture and feared the appearance of a cartoon with a caption. Today I understand it all so well. I was a negligent friend and mentor. But no more. I am going to teach you the alphabet, beginning now.

I love you, and I want to change your life for the better. But I can't help you if you continue to resist me. Remember, I know what's best.

Repeat to yourself, "d.a.vid knows what's best. d.a.vid knows what's best. I like it when he puts his hand upon my thigh. d.a.vid knows what's best."

Milestones are ushering in the end times.

2007-04-03T23:42:00.000-04:00

OVER 1000 HITS! And in only seven short months. I wonder how long it would take me to find a cure for Parkinson's disease if I really put my mind to it?

How has The Apocalypse & Me changed your life? Whose cancer went into remission? How many babies were conceived while reading these pages? How has your hate for kindness grown? I'd love to tell you how this amazing blog has changed my own life, how it has altered my entire existence, but - honestly - I don't read this crap.

My doodles are ushering in the end times [3].

2007-04-03T23:29:00.000-04:00

My open fly is ushering in the end times.

2007-03-28T23:04:00.000-04:00

I may have gained many things since starting my new temp job as an administrative assistant in the equities division of an international bank - great pay, lots of hours (even more great pay), a look into the frighteningly intense little world of finance, the pleasure of being a number of people's bitch, and bountiful opportunities to pair cardigans with skinny ties - but I have lost the ability to zip up my pants. (And this is not naughty, lecherous braggadocio.)

Four times I have left the bathroom with my zipper undone, and I have had just as many close calls. Once I was barely past the men's room door when I discovered I was playing peekaboo. Another time I had walked back to my desk and was heading to the elevator when I looked down to see if my shirt was lying flat and realized the barn door was swung open wide. And twice I've made it completely out the building, eight stories below, carelessly allowing my cows to wander, oh wander away. I've walked up and down a busy side street hunting for a car service, dragging two rolling suitcases with my unzipped zip. I've even taken this extroverted fly as far as the cafeteria/gourmet grocer across the street where I browsed the aisles for 15 or so minutes waiting for my pizza to finish baking - perusing the selection of hand-popped popcorn drizzled in rich caramel and dark, decadent chocolate, cocoa-dusted, milk chocolate-enveloped, organically-grown coffee beans, and tart, unpretentious bonbons in le plus parfait tins. I'm sure I lost the whole herd that day.

What the hell is going on? I was raised well. I'm not an exhibitionist. I always wash my hands (which is way more than I can say for most of you laughable, clueless manboys). I'm afraid I might get quite the reputation for myself. "That's the guy who's always flying low. What a dumbass." Or "There's the creepy kid who can never remember to zip up his fly. At least he's cute." Or "What is his problem? I bet he wouldn't be a good father - so careless. It's a shame because he's so pretty...even though his new short haircut isn't that flattering. Kinda looks like a ball. Maybe he's going to get it worked on again this Friday." I bet that's what they're muttering at their desks to their omnipresent 3+ computer monitors as I walk by.

At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that this whole time my penis has not been on display. It has been safely, decorously tucked away beneath layers of undergarments, chastity belts, and S&M gear. But, if I keep this up, who knows what will happen? how much in the end will be shamefully flaunted? how many lucrative promotions I will subsequently receive?

My absence is ushering in the end times.

2007-03-20T23:02:00.000-04:00

I apologize to my readers (rough estimates place the number at either 7,000 or 3) for not updating in so many years. I mean, I haven't done shit. Not even an old cartoon or an extreme closeup shot of a natty shoe or potted plant. But to be honest, I'd forgotten I had a blog. Ok, ok - seriously - I'm tired. Trying to get pregnant is really taking all the energy out of me. We have so many schedules to balance, and we're always watching the calendar, keeping track of my ovulation. I really envy those of you for whom it came about rather effortlessly and/or accidentally. Whoops! I guess we're quitting smoking sooner than we thought, etc. It has been such a struggle for us, but I know that in the end, when all those other unused, unfertilized eggs are discarded, the few fertilized ones we chose to implant in my womb will bring about the happiness in our lives that we've never had and keep divorce at bay. (Fingers crossed.)

So, keep your eyes on this site. Big things are coming! Until then, go back in time with me and take a look at the readers' comments from "Housewives are ushering in the end times" (January) to help out with a couple of questions I have:

What is our biological instinct? And why should it be governed (if it should be governed at all)? I do feel that there is very good reason for its regulation, but I also believe that instinct can be overburdened by unnecessary, harmful, and possibly unnatural demands, expectations, and even asphyxiations. (Huh, d.a.vid? As opposed to what? Natural asphyxiations?) And if instinct is to be regulated, by what? whom? Just whose hands are jiggling that lever about?

Now go out there and make me proud! And if you've got nothing of value to contribute to the discussion, at least write profanities in the comment section, bitch.

My doodles are ushering in the end times [2].

2007-02-27T21:12:00.000-05:00

The elderly are ushering in the end times.

2007-02-22T03:29:00.000-05:00

Nothing is a more prescient warning of the impending apocalypse than the sight of a fragile octogenarian moving through the winding tunnels of the NYC subway system, confused, lost, and racist.

She is someone's bigot grandmother whose children have long since severed ties. He is the racist great uncle whose only son died in Vietnam and can no longer wear lace-ups because of his bigoty, arthritic hands. With each hateful, belabored step they slow down the progress of all the tolerant commuters. Their mere presence depresses the collective spirit of the youthful, enlightened passengers. Oh God! These old people are soul-crushing! I don’t know if my open-mindedness can take it!

Research has repeatedly shown that crow's feet and catheters, whether physically present or simply present as a barely-acknowledged yet troubling mental irritant, negatively impact the work ethic of the buoyant, optimistic Young Americans resulting in a loss of billions of dollars to American businesses each year. In fact, the extent of these financial losses dwarfs even those of sexual-harassment payouts and the under-the-table plastic surgery procedures for board members combined. This aggravation is so detrimental to American corporations that 80% of Fortune 500 companies have now established permanent young persons centers, or PDCs as they are referred to in-house (Pretty Damn Cool), to combat the mental anguish any association with America's elderly bigot population causes. Inside these PDCs are rooms specially constructed for Seven Minutes in Heaven sessions, private theatres in which The Colbert Report, That’s So Raven, and all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer are played in a continuous loop, and dorm style duplexes complete with multiple refrigerators and pantries stocked with Pizzeria Pretzel Combos®, near beer, Juicy Juice®, ramen noodles, and condoms. These PDCs are intended to distract employees from their unceasing thoughts of dying and/or dying a bigot, from vomit-inducing nervousness brought on by fearful days spent wondering what embarrassing, un-PC, and inconveniently life-threatening situation their bigot mom, dad, grandparent, or even godparent is getting themselves into, and from the general discomfort felt after watching an old person cry.

It is this same population, the bigoted elderly, which is unable to find the acceptable humor in and acceptable setting for racist jokes. Their laughter is that of the ignorant - believing the joke to be funny and appropriate instead of funny and inappropriate. They simply are unaware that the correct environment for a tolerant, white person to tell a black joke is in the company of other tolerant, white people. And never forget that they are also closer to death.

It is also pertinent to consider the manner in which the racist elderly complain with clockwork precision about the general demise of things, about how the youth of today are disrespectful, lazy, going-nowhere, free-lovin’ whores. Excuse me, but who were our teachers? That’s right, our elders. Can you chide the burnt cookie when the inattentive baker is to blame? And I take offense at the notion that this nubile generation is burnt or even overly crisp. We are the Young America that popularized YouTube and gave you Paris, Britney, and *NSYNC. If anything, we are slightly doughy.

So what is their function? To make us sad? To make us less liberal-minded? If so, their success is comparable only to the astronomical ratings glory of American Idol, Season Six - off...the...charts. It is imperative that we sever ties with these hateful ghosts of America’s past and renew focus on the tween market and its hummingbird-like attention span and ever-more-revealing low-rise jeans. The sooner the members of AARP are placed out of sight, out of mind (feel free to read that both figuratively and literally), the better and funkier the lives of Young America will be. For ours is a new national anthem, one to supersede the hip-replacement dirge of yesteryear. Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the singing of the national anthem, "SexyBack." And ours is a new pledge of allegiance, a work of significance to erase from memory the bedpan ode of our forefathers. And remain standing for the pledge of allegiance, the lyrics to "SexyBack."

I’m bringing sexy back
Them other boys don’t know how to act
I think you're special, what's behind your back?
So turn around and I'll pick up the slack.

Jay Brannan is ushering in the end times.

2007-02-06T01:15:00.001-05:00

shirtless (surprise!) pic from jaybrannan.com

While I was busy not posting anything, Brannan uploaded to YouTube a performance of the song I referenced in my January 8th entry, "Housewives are ushering in the end times." I've now included it as a link in that original post, but thought I'd add a special notice so those of who you don't methodically reread old posts for minor improvements/tinkerings (quite possibly not a word) could hear it as well. And the title, as it turns out - "Housewife."

UPDATE: So I've had difficulties keeping the video on my blog. It coyly disappeared when I added a new post. To listen to the song, click on the picture, and you'll be taken in a crystalline carriage to the magical kingdom of YouTube.

My doodles are ushering in the end times [1].

2007-02-05T21:32:00.000-05:00

Now, don't worry. That title isn't scatological. (Sorry, Ashley.) Although, for those of you whose mind hadn't gone there, now it has. (Sorry, everyone else.)

If you know me, you know that I draw all the time or drew all the time - a frequent doodler. An eye here. A stiletto there. A lady adorned with tribal patterns (tribal patterns as stylized in the mind of a 21st century white boy) on the back of this English notebook. A bloated tableau of my high school classmates caught in various compromising positions and ridiculous constructions entitled "Physics Extravaganza" on the surface of that chalkboard. Do I remember the title correctly, Mr. Green?

Beginning my last year of undergrad I embarked on a somber series of single-pane cartoons which, for the most part, I alone found amusing. So encouraged by this tepid response was I that I continued to produce additional cartoons all through grad school until I had pieced together a trifling portfolio. With the scant adoration of my peers expanding the sails of my confidence, I submitted these cartoons to St. John's student-published weekly, The Gadfly. Here is a rough draft of the cover letter:

Not exactly a confident sell, is it. But I still had hope that at least one undergraduate in the editorial staff would respond warmly, and I would open the paper on a Wednesday in the near future and view one of my published cartoons with pleasure (immense) and surprise (mild). Perhaps it was the wound-licking cover letter or the quality of the cartoons themselves. Or maybe it was the inclusion of full-frontal nudity or the consistent reliance on gallows humor. But my little gems were not published, and my submission was never acknowledged. (In case you're wondering - and why wouldn't you be - "GI" is Graduate Institute not Government Issue. Oorah!)

However, your first mistake was assuming the past lies dormant. Your second, pairing those pants with that top. And your third, believing him when he said, "I love you." I will now use the immense power given to me by this new medium to rectify the oversight, the injustice and post highlights from this brilliant collection (or the whole damn thing - you won't know the difference). Take this into consideration: the humor, if present, is inappropriate and slight, and some are more observational than funny. But I still like 'em, and you just might.

Housewives are ushering in the end times.

2007-01-08T23:29:00.000-05:00

May 1912 cover of The Housewife

No, this entry has nothing to do with those housewives of network television notoriety who on a weekly basis strut about from one melodrama to the next, requiring a costume change whenever they make a house call or pick up the telephone. However, let it be known that Nicollette Sheridan has the most frightening cleavage on TV. I wish wardrobe would stop putting her in anything low-cut. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. I continue...

No, this is not a diatribe against housewives. I'm not taking any position in regards to the "rightful place" of a mother. Let the mother decide what is best for her family and herself. On a personal note, I treasure the environment created by my stay-at-home mom - "stay-at-home" being a ridiculous misnomer; with four kids under her charge, she rarely managed to stay at home and never seemed to pull off anything resembling downtime. She was a constant for us, in a different way than my father. She was the center around which we whirled. We never needed to fear because she could always be reached - coming to our rescue, whether it be the minute disaster or the vaguely epic ("I forgot today was picture day! Mom! You don't understand! I can't wear my glasses in the yearbook photo! I need my contacts! Ohhh, this is worst thing that has ever happened under the watchful eye of God!). Additionally, I don't consider either option - housewife or working mom - to be emblematic of modern-day feminism. Both can be empowering or subservient roles, and I do think that it is possible that either position can be the wrong decision for the given situation and that ultimately the decision can be made for the wrong reasons. I continue...

This little post is about the wrangling over the term itself, about whom can be knighted "housewife" and who's been vested with the authority to bring the ceremonial sword tap-tapping down. And if it is the aim of some women to relinquish the title, is it acceptable for other groups to claim it?

Singer/songwriter/professional quirky girl Nellie McKay has a number on her debut album, Get Away From Me, entitled "I Wanna Get Married." In a clever, tuneful manner McKay rejects the once seemingly mandatory role of housewife relegated to women. Her position on the issue isn't cutting edge and probably wouldn't even make waves in Oklahoma. Women have been abandoning the housewife role for decades, ever since they began burning their bras and realized they'd need to get jobs in order to replace those crispy, smoke-infested, absolutely unwearable brassieres. However, the song is a charming journey into the tabula rasa life of a woman who wants no identity apart from husband and children. Life outside the framework of her picket fence is inconceivable. For women like McKay rebellion is found in the shedding of such a deadweight, ridiculous moniker as "housewife" and all the Brady-goodness it represents.

But now the twist: What happens when others wish to occupy the housewife role? when these applicants aren't quite so traditional?

A month or five ago I was at a club listening to singer/actor/annoyingly apologetic YouTube poster Jay Brannan who is part of the ensemble of John Cameron Mitchell's endearing new film Shortbus - if your lexicon is comfortable allowing "endearing" to include that which is sexually explicit. One of the songs in his set very well could have been titled "I Wanna Get Married" or "Please, Please, Let Me Be A Housewife." A few years back, when he was in a relationship in California (which resembles NYC in its percentage of obvious sinners, remember?), he wrote about his desire to be nothing more than a housewife for a husband to return home to. In a clear, easy voice he sang about wishing he could fix his man drinks and cook meals and various shit. For Brannan, as a gay male, rebellion is found in assuming the mantle of housewife for himself, the very one being cast off by a segment of its original wearer, the heterosexual female. Controversy results from a simple act of conformity, of emulation.

Poppa-Top Poppa from the Tracy O'Neal Photographic Collection at GSU

What a stir we have here! But in reality nothing new is understood about the larger cultural context from which the housewife predicament has been pulled. Under this ambitious social umbrella one can encounter fun, dinner conversation ready topics like gender, sexuality, structure of the family, gay marriage and gay adoption rights, and why Star Jones Reynolds is America’s favorite drag queen.

So often that which seems to offend our sense of what is decent may only be an affront to the current, culturally ingrained norm. In recent years I have been trying to pull together a comprehension of "natural" and the significance of its definition, considering both denotation and connotation. What does it mean when someone says, "That's just not natural"? Are we referring to the nature of the wild? the nature of the test tube? the nature of reason? of the airplane which gives man its unnatural wings? of the life-extending medical devices and modern-day magic potions? of life-extinguishing solutions? the nature of the biological family? of the extended family? the nature of tradition? of religion?

In light of what is "natural," are women the only ones who have the right to be so desperate in the abode? And does our familiarity with the comforting picture of a woman in an apron preclude us from allowing others to engage in families and in the home in meaningful, beneficial ways?

Untitled 96 - Cindy Sherman

NYC is ushering in the end times.

2007-01-03T02:18:00.000-05:00

Now, for some of my readers hailing from or currently residing in America's midsection, a region whose moral pants are securely being held up by the dependable, panic-inducing constriction of its Bible Belt, the title of this post is an obvious and uncontested fact. Is the sky blue? Is New York the devil's playground? The Big Apple has been ushering in the end times for decades and will continue to do so until God torches it Sodom & Gomorrah style in order to provide lesson material for Sunday School classes across the nation. Because of this, one of the absolute worst insults to be smacked with in my hometown is the slanderous "East Coast liberal" label, and nothing says over-intellectualized, godless, effeminate, spineless-due-to-their-not-eating-meat, suspiciously French "East Coast liberal" like a New Yorker.

Last summer I was back in Texas working with my dad. We stopped by a local, family-owned meat processing plant, efficiently ran by a Mennonite husband-and-wife duo, for a service call. Dad looked over a new project with the husband, and, since my general ignorance regarding all things electrical would contribute nothing to the early planning stages, I was freed up to talk to the wife who was manning the storefront. She is a wonderful woman, quick to laugh, possessing a vigorous life energy and perhaps a slight bawdiness. She was bewildered and somewhat horrified to discover that I was moving to NYC.

"But there are so many sinners there...and in California."

"It's not like we don't have sin here in the Panhandle."

"Yes. But I guess there it's just more obvious."

And all this after she told me one of her sons could very easily be a Calvin Klein model. Could there be a secret stash of People magazines hidden behind those church cookbooks in the home of this particular world wise Mennonite?

Because today I picked up the first roll of film I've had developed in about three months, I thought I should post some of my favorite shots in a tribute to New York City, Home of Obvious Sinners. Disclaimer: I'm still getting to know my computer and all-in-one printer/scanner/copier - Why won't you print? Oh, why won't you ever print!? - and I'm not entirely content with the image quality here.

But don't feel neglected, Texas. I have close to twenty-five rolls of film waiting to be developed in a shoe box on my closet shelf, rolls containing nothing but pit barbecue, rodeos, tractors, Rocky Mountain jeans, and dirt roads.

New York City: Home of Obvious Sinners

This is a tight shot of the shop window for the Louis Vuitton store on 5th Avenue before the holiday exhibit went up. I like pulling a thing out of its contextual surroundings to make it appear unfamiliar, strange, abstract:

(Left) An autumnal view of Central Park as I walk from the N,R,W subway stop along Central Park South on my way to work.
(Right) From the same vantage point, The Sherry-Netherland and the GM Building side-by-side but with a palpable generation gap. The GM Building (on the right) is home to my glorious, bewitching, kinda tacky, debt-inducing FAO Schwarz:

Really love this one. I caught one of my more interesting coworkers in all his tightly groomed fierceness and showing hints of those unsettling and dangerous undertones which sometimes violently jerk out from underneath his pert, calculated composure releasing rushes of profanity and indignant anger.

These two Midtown shots were probably taken from Park or Madison Avenue. When the architecture is so similar, sometimes the divisional lines between buildings can blur in a mirage of reflective glass, concrete, steel, and upward motion:

A close-up of the floor levels for one of the elevators in the GM lobby. I couldn't get the picture to scan without the faint line crossing the upper half:

Windows at Bergdorf Goodman.
(Left) An unfocused look into a window at the men's store displaying clothing items by Burberry (on 2) and Jil Sander (on 3). I tried flirting with both the white lettering and the clothes inside, giving neither my full attention. The scan for this one isn't very satisfying.
(Center, Right): Street scenes reflected on windows at the women's store across 5th Avenue.

REAL LIVE NEW YORKERS!!!!!:

The Cascade Laundry facility on Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn. I pass this everyday on the walk to and from the G line. I already associate the harsh smell of the chemical cleaners with those workdays which require me to wake up before even the Good Lord. If we were supposed to get up before noon, God himself would have created alarm clocks. Oh, you blasphemous hordes!:

And finally, meat...somewhere. It must have been a street festival. Definitely not a protest march:

Wishing everyone a wonderfully unnerving new year. I feel that mine can't be anything less than spectacular, but in what manner? Finding myself ringing in 2007 at an outrageous party attended by Michael Musto, Johnny Weir, Amanda Lepore, and both old and new friends must entail either fantastic success or unyielding doom. I wonder which one of these strangers next to me on the N train is Lot. It might do me some good to introduce myself. I hear he has connections you wouldn't believe.

My front-page appearance in The Wall Street Journal is ushering in the end times.

2006-12-23T00:48:00.000-05:00

Some of you may be aware of my recent publicity coup. If not, you need to adjust your radar. My moving and shaking should be noted in everyone's buzzworthy list.

Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the front page of The Wall Street Journal from Friday the 15th, December 2006:

That's right. Your favorite toy soldier has managed to catapult, in a remarkably short amount of time, to the very front of America's most trusted business daily. I'm included in the above-headline teaser, sandwiched between a piece about NASD CEO Mary Schapiro and a feature on the new "jetrosexual" trend (i.e., cheap custom-tailoring from Asia). Needless to say I'm the biggest draw. Mary Schapirwho? And jetrosexual? No one reads about fashion from the WSJ. The millions of sleepy commuters, mid-level managers, and alcoholic business executives come to its off-white pages to steal a glimpse of a handsome young man outfitted in the brilliant red, black, and gold of the FAO toy soldier. Did anyone need their $17 cup of coffee to wake-up that glorious morning?

In addition, an even larger picture ran alongside the story in the Marketplace section:

Oh my. The whole situation is more than slightly ridiculous. I am after all in a toy soldier outfit, lest you forget. My debut into the stratosphere of national print media required me looking like the silliest little soul in five boroughs. (Strike that. Yesterday I passed a woman dressed as a toilet dancing outside of Charmin's public restrooms in Time Square. I'd sure like to read her blog.) And yet I appear so completely overjoyed to be working at FAO and having my picture taken. Clearly there is no place I'd rather be and nothing else I'd rather be wearing. But I couldn't even get a name credit in the caption, even though the photographer wrote it down on his ruled pad of paper along with how long I had been working at the store (2 months) and what my position was actually called (toy soldier).

Read it again, and you'll discover just who is named: Ed Schumlts, FAO Schwarz CEO (understandable since the piece is about him), and Otto, stuffed monkey. What? Do you see what's happening? The damn monkey is trying to muscle in on my big moment! Not satisfied with tattooing his name on his plush, squeezable foot, Otto wrangled the inclusion of his own, separate picture into the story and an actual boldface credit in the caption. What a publicity whore!

Next thing we know, Otto will be flashing his junk to the paparazzi as he drunkenly steps out of a zippy little Beemer driven by Wilmer Valderrama.

So I must be vigilant and watchful. The cheap, white cotton gloves are coming off. I will fight for the publicity that is rightfully mine. No longer will I simply be known as "toy soldier"! No longer will I be relegated to a two-second video clip playing as part of a background loop during an FAO piece on CNBC! No longer will the picture I pose for with American Idol judge Randy Jackson and family never run in the NY Post like the photographer said it would! And, most importantly, no longer will Otto undermine my ascent to the top! Brace yourself, readers. Tonight the downy-soft stuffing of one hundred Ottos will cover the floor of FAO's flagship store, and one hundred Otto-emblazoned feet will rest on the keys of that famous piano, never again to dance to upbeat renditions of "Chopsticks" and "Heart and Soul." Tonight, Otto, you have become Public Enemy #1!

PUBLIC ENEMY #1

(And so what if this post is focused overtly on myself, exactly what I promised you last time it wouldn't be. If you want to read a blog that's not in some manner about me, write your own, and I won't read that. Oh, by the way, I was never a Girl Scout. Ha!)

Non-fortune fortunes are ushering in the end times.

2006-12-12T22:08:00.000-05:00

When the sesame chicken is finished and all that is left in the Styrofoam® container are those superfluous hunks of broccoli that no short-order cook actually intended for you to eat, the inevitable moment of closure awaits. Yes, fortune cookies aren't very tasty. And no, they're not native to China. But even if you don't eat the cookie - an innovative blending of stale and bland - you must crack it open to discover what the future holds...in bed. That said, nothing irritates me more (gross hyperbole) than finding out that my fortune is not a fortune at all but some ridiculous platitude or nonsensical sentence fragment. "A smile is like the flower in the midst of rocky soil." "Money is nice to have when you need it." "Love is good. Have fun day." I want to know if great financial success awaits me, if an old flame will re-enter my life (assuming I had old flames), or if I should be wary of street vendors who conspire to bring about my death. Non-fortune fortunes are just as awful as the edible packages in which they arrive. I want to shoot the message, the messenger, the minimum-wage worker folding the cookie around the little slip, the devil soul who generated the fortune-less muck, and your mother.

However, today at the Cuban-Chinese restaurant on E 60th God presented me with the first non-fortune fortune that I actually enjoyed:
What a wonderful read - a little disconcerting and a nice twist in the humdrum, everyday, slow shuffle off to death. Plus, it's bookended with smiley faces! But what secret is not-so-secret? Do all of you already know how self-conscious I am of what I've been able to retain from my graduate studies and how I fear someone asking me to elaborate on any number of philosophers? Don't tell me you're privy to the inexplicable sensation I have while standing in the shower and I see myself as a figure in a Peter Paul Rubens painting, composed of fleshy masses, rolling muscles, proportions heavy and protruding - and relish it. Maybe you've long suspected that I delete the emails I receive from Amnesty International without reading them. Or you find pleasure in the sad fact that I really can't do much more than the basics on my brand-new, pretty expensive, wondrously beautiful iMac. Oh, and I'd be more than a little embarrassed if you've been talking amongst yourselves for a while now about how, had the opportunity presented itself, I would've made out with a few undergrad and grad professors just to be exempted from the final paper assignment. (Don't worry, Adam. This doesn't include you. You never gave long writing assignments anyway.)

Now this next part is dangerous and possibly masochistic. I'm asking you, dear readers, to drop off your own suggestion. Don't be afraid/timid/obvious. We're all adults here - excluding for now the substantial number of hits I receive from tweens (2BZ4UQT! LOL). If you have an idea, hand it over. Remember, I can always delete, so you're not being given as much power as you may think. And I promise that the next post will not be focused so overtly on myself, and I will not ask you to spend any more precious time thinking about me than you're already liable to do. Girl Scouts' pinky swear. Honest.

P.S. My lucky lotto numbers are: 40 49 42 47 29 44.

Readers' comments are ushering in the end times.

2006-11-20T19:57:00.000-05:00

Dear readers,

You are glorious, often lithesome, and most definitely, when a conscious effort is made, cut an imposing figure. Thank you so much for your contribution thus far. Of course it's all worthless - a sad, shrugging-of-shoulders acceptance of the inevitable. An avoidance of the real question at hand. What can be done to maintain the tenuous harmony of the earth? Will it help if I choose paper instead of plastic? Should I save the seal pups or club them to death? Must I fashionably convert to something fashionable or remain refreshingly true to my down-home roots? Regarding this dilemma, for advice apt and true, still I wait.

To address the misguided but treasured comments deposited here after my last post:

Ashley,
I haven’t reenacted anything from Big. I have danced in the hip-hop style to current radio hits while working a lavish in-store bar mitzvah…outfitted in my toy soldier uniform. So, sadly, there is far too much video of me “dropping it like it’s hot” when it was actually very, very hot inside the woolen costume and furry “bearskin cap.” Without a doubt this will resurface to bite me in the ass, perhaps as early as later on today.

Paula,
Your commitment to my immortalization is endearing. However, it doesn’t compare to the brick by brick, floorboard by floorboard reproduction of the auditorium at Dalhart Junior High School undertaken by my mother to commemorate my stint as MC for a very special 8th grade voice recital, during which I sang Streisand’s “People” and “Memory” from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s much-loved, much-maligned Cats.

Michael,
Please don’t leave any comments on my blog regarding panty-shots. They may shrug at your vulgarity down in Tennessee, but here in NYC we still care a thing or two about genteelness and decency.

Adam,
A very sagacious warning addressing overexposure, albeit a belated one. If only I could have received these words two years ago. That said, the swimsuit issue of Focus on the Family magazine is my favorite. Where else can you find Joyce Meyers, Anne Graham Lotz, and Rick Warren grace the glossy pages in tasteful, Christian-appropriate bathing suits that are not only comfortable and flattering but also do not lead to covetousness because the line and cut of the garment encourage the glorification of the Heavenly Father? Also, a reliable highlight in this annual issue is the unveiling of Ted Haggard’s always-enjoyable line of swimwear and intimate apparel for men.

And remember, a d.a.vid a day keeps the doctor at bay. (If that’s true, then I guess it’s up to me to provide a d.a.vid a day. Is it too early in my career to justify the services of a ghostwriter?)

The Church of Celebrity Worship is ushering in the end times.

2006-11-16T06:58:00.000-05:00

Since I'm on the subject of celebrity, specifically my own, I think it's imperative that my substantial readership and I together must address the cataclysmic effect my impending celebrity will have on the world. And I'm talking about actual celebrity, not some half-assed, specious claim which attempts to link celebrity with the likes of a frequently photographed toy store employee reeking of anonymity. (Loser.) This will be a full-blown, Us Weekly, In Touch, Life & Style, grocery store check-out line saturated celebrity apocalypse.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I am not actively pursuing fame and notoriety. However, this albatross duo has been giving me backaches for some time. In late junior high and early high school, I was so influenced by the premonition of my inevitable celebrity that I saved absolutely everything that had my signature on it, that had been in my possession for any period of time at all, that could in any conceivable manner be associated with my person, so eventually this paraphernalia could be gathered with ease for future retrospectives, archival projects, and auctions with Sotheby's. I never made extensive notations in books I was reading for fear of what later generations of Speerians (Speervians? Speerites? Speerophiles?) would uncover in their exhaustive searches of my personal memorabilia. Would they consider my remarks dashed out in the margins of One Hundred Years of Solitude shallow and ill-founded? Would they successfully conjecture that I had no idea whatsoever how to read Shakespeare in the 10th grade? Even in undergrad I still experienced the hanging-ons of such a mindset. Example: In quick notes to myself on Post-its regarding menial tasks for the day I would follow a questionably spelled word with an obligatory (sp?) - just in case someone happened to look at my grocery list. They must be aware that I was aware that this particular word had been troublesome. (unrelated: Why do I hear a rooster crowing in Brooklyn?)

Our world is oversaturated with celebrity in general. Any actor/director/celebutante/spokesmodel/dj can't pick a wedgie at three in the morning without the world reading about two hours earlier. The tabloids have gotten that good. Do we really want to know what baby food they give to their one-year-old in vitro twins, where they buy their favorite bottled water, or how they learned to love again after they thought they'd never love again (for the fourth or fifth time)? Judging by the never-ending addition of celeb-glut magazines, apparently so.

This has me troubled. I can't bear the thought of carelessly heaping my celebrity onto the already stinking pile of decaying oversized sunglasses, Botox appointments, product endorsements, jilted lovers, adopted babies, Vanity Fair confessions, and nipple slips. It would be irresponsible of me to show such utter disregard for the well-being of Mother Earth and her children of all shapes, sizes, and gender reassignments. Think about this: DC-based American Forests has a Climate Change Calculator which allows you to determine how many trees you must plant to offset the fossil fuel-generated CO2 you produce through daily activity - heating, electricity, emissions. In a similar manner, what can we do to counterbalance the consequence of my unavoidable celebrity? This, like saving America’s forests, is a serious issue to be given due consideration. Perhaps a panel of international experts, including of course an actual Goodwill Celebrity or two, could convene at the UN to address this pandemic. I am not one to spit in the wind, bite the hand that feeds me, or shit in the bled I sleep. I desire to be a responsible human/actor/celebrity/demigod, and I am starting with you, dear readers. I am searching your highly educated minds to uncover what can be done. Please leave comments with your suggestions. The children of Africa demand your diligence. Your post could save the world, so let's get busy planting figurative trees! Or literal! At this point I’m open to anything.

P.S. - If by chance my readership isn't as vast as I'm certain it is and the response turns out to be less than stellar, I will have to start posting suggestions of my own. I'm a busy man. Please do not force me to waste my time when you could be wasting your own.

My newfound celebrity is ushering in the end times.

2006-11-07T02:45:00.000-05:00

In my position as a uniformed toy soldier. . . . . .

I really don't even need to finish that sentence. The impact has already been sufficiently felt by the reader. Like a sharp gust of wind against the face or the quick belch which hits the unsuspecting ear with the force of a percussive rimshot. Hell, I give an involuntary reaction to that introductory phrase, and I received warning about it a month ago.

The other day I was standing guard at the 58th Street entrance – waiving to passing cars, saluting contractors in their work vans and chauffeurs in black Lincoln Town Cars, dispensing goodwill in general – when a man and his family drove by in their SUV. The light turned red, so traffic stopped. He rolled down his window. I saluted, smiled, waived. He yelled, "You need to finish college!" I yelled back, "I have a master's degree!" "Then you're a goddamn fool!" And with that, our uplifting dialogue came to an end.

There are some things one doesn't set out to accomplish: memorizing every lyric to The Bodyguard soundtrack, watching VH1's marathon showing of an entire season of America's Next Top Model, buying a John Tesh album. I'm sure being employed as a "character" at any number of theme parks/tourist attractions must be included in this list. Does anyone aspire to don the cumbersome trappings of Donald Duck and wander around the sprawl of Disneyworld, suffering the whims, fetishes, and tantrums of young and old? Although I'd prefer not to stand outside of FAO Schwarz five or six days a week dressed like an English bobby - being told for the 500th time, "Hey! You're not supposed to move!" and responding for the 500th time, "Bitch, you don't know me! Where d'ya get off judging me!" - it's a necessary irritant. I mean, a job is a job, right? Whether you're a CEO or a plain ol' ho. And while I did not move to New York to be a subservient, though widely celebrated, doorman, the pay isn't awful, the hours are flexible, and the customers are for the most part great.

It's all a matter of choosing the tomorrow over today. I mean, I'm always willing to endure the temporary hassle of post-surgery bandages if I'm promised a stunning new nose or set of cheekbones. Good things come to those who wait. Or sometimes they don't, and you just have sadness.

But an amusing aspect of this job and the supposed subject of this post is my status as one of the most photographed people in New York City. Honest. I am something of a minor celebrity, albeit a nameless figure isolated from any individual identity apart from my association with said employer. But nevertheless, a type of celebrity - an unlikely species in the celebrity genus. I appear in memory cards and photo albums across Europe, Asia, Australia, Central and Latin America, and the contiguous United States. Do people actually compile photo albums in the Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Six? On average I will have my picture taken 50 to 100 times a day. If it's busy, closer to 200. And we haven't even entered into the holiday season. I hold babies, hug wives (and probably mistresses), pose with countless Flat Stanleys. I salute (right- and left-handed), smile, stiffen, look very stern. I stand next to the genuinely excited, the mocking, the ironic, the unwilling, the crying. Soon I will start popping up in strangers' Christmas cards. A co-worker informed me that I could also make unwished-for showings on the internet with other people's naughty bits superimposed. But this individual is a something of a self-hating drama queen and cannot be relied upon too heavily.

Regardless, here I am being paid to give the appearance of history, to hijack another country’s tradition for profit. But the tourists love it. They, who have actual soldiers guarding actual monarchy in actual castles, will wait their turn to have they’re picture taken with me – a fake soldier in America’s castle, the department store, guarding nothing. In it’s extreme, Europe has Paris; America has Paris Las Vegas with a half scale replica of the Eiffel Tower. But to be fair, we bastardize our own history and landmarks just as frequently (New York-New York Hotel and Casino; the instant nostalgia of any “neighborhood” Applebee’s). It’s this exciting combination of self-consciousness over our own relatively short history and collective greed that has created my current job. So, if being greedy is the American way, at least my enlistment in, what a friend has coined, the Sugar Queen's standing army allows me to be cheerful about the whole mess.

Plus, I get to hear all day long how good I look in uniform.

Balls are ushering in the end times.

2006-09-03T03:42:00.000-04:00

I think this photograph of mine says it all. Why do we still let our children and wives play with them?

AFA is ushering in the end times.

2006-09-01T02:26:00.000-04:00

So, it's no surprise that AFA (American Family Association) is helping to ring in the Apocalypse. What's surprising is how effectively they've gotten under my skin. In high school, AFR (American Family.....Radio) was in my home everyday, and I listened to the more-often-than-not clunky Christian pop, the earnest Christian hosts, and an occasional, awkward message from AFA's founder, Don Wildmon. Think of Pat Robertson's halting delivery on his 700 Club, and you've got the picture: co-hosts trying to smooth over the incoherent statements that are only tolerated because he founded the damn organization. AFA likes to raise a stink and bombard companies and television networks with emails from its members. "Boycott Disney!" "Boycott Ford!" "We saw Janet's nipple! FCC, you better fine CBS and give it some good ass whuppins!" Etc. They protested the unedited airing of Saving Private Ryan and Schindler's List. They care, but they're really angry. Or they're angry but really care. Whatever. When I came across news about those little rascals' newest complaint drive, the pudgy passionate artist man who lives inside my kidney became riled up, and I stood on my chair and loudly said, "O Captain! My Captain!" Or something in a similar vein.

Here's the lowdown:

CBS is re-airing an Emmy and Peabody Award-winning 9/11 documentary, simply called 9/11. The documentary has already aired twice since 2002. The difference this time is that it is running without any commercial interruption or sponsor underwriting. The airtime which has been freed is being filled with additional interviews. For this broadcast the interviews will not be edited, and the language of the rescue workers will be heard in its frank delivery. CBS could experience some backlash because AFA views this as a direct affront to the recently increased FCC indecency fines. Here is an excerpt from AFA's website (The boldface is the site's own.):

"9/11," which will be shown in prime-time, contains a tremendous amount of hardcore profanity. CBS has stated they have not, and will not, make any cuts in the amount and degree of profanity. CBS will ignore the law. The network is suing the FCC over the indecency law, saying they should be able to show whatever they desire whenever they desire. CBS wants no limits.

Apparently, trying to air the actual words of emergency workers who were present at Ground Zero is the same as letting an f-bomb dropping Snoop Dog grope a gaggle of intoxicated, topless Spring Break coeds. Let's be honest: CBS wants no limits. (That boldface is my own. Thank you very much.)

What frustrates me is that an organization like AFA is incapable of seeing anything beyond the Big 3: Sex, Violence, and Profanity. It stamps television shows with a Good TV/Bad TV label in its AFA Journal solely under the guidelines of how frequently profanity is used or if the message and content fall under the vague umbrella of "family friendly." What the AFA doesn't understand is that art and any message it conveys cannot solely be judged by content which may be deemed objectionable. (And I'm making no claims that all television shows qualify as "art." Are you listening, Laguna Beach: Season Three?) A "profane" piece of art may in reality be frighteningly profound, and a viewer-safe program may be exceedingly inconsequential. Or vice versa. AFA itself applied this standard of reasoning when endorsing The Passion of the Christ, honestly one of the most excruciatingly violent movies in recent memory (Again, the boldface is theirs, not mine):

AFA has officially endorsed the movie The Passion of the Christ by Mel Gibson. We are urging everyone to see what Dr. James Dobson of Focus on the Family called a "film that must be seen." [...] We encourage to you to order enough tickets for your Sunday School class or small group. We especially encourage your church to provide a ticket for every youth in your church.
Oddly enough, AFA felt that the message of the movie trumped its objectionable content and specifically encouraged younger viewers to attend. In turn, I am following the precedent set by AFA. I believe that the historical importance and relevance of the documentary trumps any objection to the language used by the rescue workers in the film.

I know that realistically I cannot counter the millions of AFA devotees who will send en masse the letter of complaint to the FCC and CBS, but I'm taking something of a symbolic stand (Oh, how dramatic!). I used the petition that AFA has provided, erased the pre-filled body of the letter, and wrote my own in support of CBS's move to air the documentary. If you would like to follow suit, click here. If you use this link, an email will be sent to both the FCC and CBS. I do not know if AFA monitors the petitions which come from its website. If you've been really motivated (way to go, d.a.vid), perhaps you'll want to contact FCC and CBS directly.

Here is my exceptionally well-crafted letter:

Dear FCC,

I encourage you to responsibly review CBS's decision to air the 9/11 documentary in its unedited content. I have not seen the original edited form but will be watching when the documentary re-airs. The language may be hard, but the event itself was hard. These are the lives of the everyday men and women who experienced this tragedy as either victim or rescue worker. It is unnecessary to place fines against the CBS network for letting these individuals bring the truth of their experience to the American people. Appropriate parental advisories are sufficient to warn the viewing audience of the program's content. The censorship of the language of the rescue workers does nothing more than deny the humanity of the individuals who were present. It is not discouraging to discover that heroes are human too - quite the opposite. To understand that these were simply regular people, with the characteristics and shortcomings we all share, who were risking their lives to save others, is quite encouraging and awe-inspiring. It is the honest search into and assessment of our humanity that allows us to endure - to face the past, to understand the present, and to move forward into the future.

Thank you,
______ _______
(Now let me include a disclaimer: I have not seen the unedited or edited versions of the documentary. I imagine that the images and language included will be horrific, but that is not surprising considering the nature of the event.)

Couldn't AFA be using its 3,067,061 members (as of September 1) to be promoting other causes: Bible literacy; good ol' fashioned literacy; eradicating poverty or, perhaps, hunger; spreading kindness; giving hugs; calling their mothers; learning more complicated double dutch variations? When did they hijack the terms "decency" and "family" and make them so irrational? Having standards is not the same as being stupid.

Blogging is ushering in the end times.

2006-08-28T16:30:00.000-04:00

I was eating a bowl of Kashi brand Good Friends cereal this morning, enjoying those little flakes that are strangely similar in appearance to Sun Chips, and my sunny breakfast was ruined when I began to think about the state of the world, specifically the ruin brought on by bloggers. Who are these people? Where did they come from? And when will they leave?

A few things can be certain about these particular internet terrorists: they were teenage journalers, given to meandering entries of loss, love, loss of love, and swirly sketches of hearts being consumed by the Death Dragon, Jack, which sent the young soul into a goth-lite state of self-indulgent sorrow long enough to spend their entire paycheck from the snow-cone stand on clothes and accessories at Hot Topic. They deem their mundane everyday to be significant enough to be set apart from the mundane everyday of the masses and be read by these said masses who will quickly assimilate it into their own mundane everyday. Nice. Most likely they're narcissistic and feel smug satisfaction when dispensing unasked-for advice. They'll probably tell you what they had for breakfast and the exact thing that was going through their mind as they took another spoonful of Kashi brand Good Friends cereal. And if we're lucky they'll also have a myspace site from which we can discover which Saved by the Bell character they are most like and whether or not they're alcoholics. The titles of their blogs are clumsy attempts to be humorous or, God forbid, witty and often make no sense whatsoever. And just like the user pictures found on myspace, the unattractive bloggers obscure their faces behind wicker nightstands and strategically placed cameras to prevent the viewer from seeing the truth of the matter. It's pure smoke and mirrors. Even the word itself is ugly - blog. Klingon with a touch of sinus infection.

But perhaps the most pressing question is, "Why do we indulge these vain terrorists and actually read the rubbish they spit out?" Because, when all is said and done and the fat lady is crying over her spilled eggs which were counted before they hatched, we all want to be bloggers too. We want more people than our mothers to care about what's running around in our tiny heads. We want to show off our ironic detachment and the casual manner with which we traverse between high and low culture as we toss off pithy comments and seduce a susceptible audience with our unique and humorous perspective. I am unique, right? We want to dazzle you with our postmodern dance moves, aware that you're aware that we're aware that you're aware. And we want to tie things up with a nice closing paragraph which is both cynical and a little wistful.

Oh, and we all want to be famous.