Speaking Of . . .

By now you’ve probably seen the video of Chris Morgan, the thimble-fuck who went on a tirade about women in a Long Island bagel shop recently. Turns out, that’s his shtick; to engage in public rants and then slap ’em on YouTube. He considers himself the Martin Luther King of short dudes and I’m not kidding. So I gotta wonder how long before he gets a White House invite. I want to see the handshake . . .

Speaking of . . . Bums. They should fine ballplayers who can’t bother running to first base. Let’s say . . . half a million Wagners every time they pull that shit. Their lazy asses would either find some urgency right quick or they would owe the MLB money in perpetuity. Better yet, MLB can set up a GoFundMe page with the money, for the fans who have to put up with crap like that.

Speaking of . . . Weeds. Cassandra Walker was fired from her job at Dairy Queen because someone wanted a Moana birthday cake and her boss fucked up the translation since this is Georgia we’re talking about. So . . . this happened.

Moana Cake

Fired? Give her a raise, because that is an amazing fucking birthday cake! I saw Moana . . well, the first three minutes anyways. And believe me, a wasted Little Pony is way better. Yo Duff Goldman, give this cake artist a job! Immediamente!

Speaking of . . . Cheeching. I partake on a semi-annual basis and my fifty third birthday seems a logical toking point. In spite of the fact that I’m not a drug user as per the definition (this guy), I do have my very own dealer. Now all I need to do is get in touch with Cassandra Walker for my cake.

Speaking of . . . Skunk. What’s up with the peeps who still abide by twelfth century hygiene? Otherwise known as BO. Listen, unless you have a serious medical condition, are homeless or Amish, there is no excuse. We are GED level lunchboxes compared to the other species that inhabit the earth. Soap and deodorant are the only things separating us from the sloth, and if you can’t bother to dabble in the stuff, then go live on that deserted island Tom Hanks made famous.

Speaking of . . . Stench luggage. You ever go in a public restroom and get hit in the face with that shroud of unspeakable hell? I call it the thousand year stench, after which I’m always forced to hold my breath. Only problem is, when I’m on the spot like that, I can’t hold my breath for very long. If I’m in the water, I can hold my breath for about a minute. But under pressure? Two and a half seconds, after which I bury my nose in my arm and curse the existence of humanity as I perch at the urinal and exhort my bladder to speed it up.

Speaking of . . . Pissing contests. Oscar Wilde would be thrilled to know they actually have their own Wikipedia page.

Speaking of . . . Wicked genius (Wilde . . not pissing contests), Peeps either get the movie Under the Silver Lake or they do not. I happen to think that if this flick was a stock, it would be a can’t lose long term investment. Because someday it will achieve cult status for being what it is. Hitchcock in Kurt Cobain’s iconic sweater.

Speaking of . . . Sweaters. I ain’t in need of one currently. Because it’s a hundred fucking degrees outside (wind chill) and I just put a bounty on Al Gore’s head.

Speaking of . . . Too soon?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matters Of Little Consequence

‘There is no one way to blog, there is simply a way to blog. Choose that which speaks to you, and if it doesn’t suit someone else? Fuck ’em’

My rebel yell style of play was going strong by June of 2007. The above thought came from a blog post which drew some acclaim for calling out the “Sam Houston Bloggers among us” who lorded over the blogosphere as if they owned the fucking place. It was a stinging response to a blogger who had called me out for not being down with blogging etiquette. The dude also happened to be one of Dan’s networking pals, and they had something in common; they were better at making connections than at actually writing.

Dan had been away from the blog for over a month when a case of viral meningitis landed him in the hospital. He was still keeping tabs from the sidelines though, and he had a few somethings to say about my bridge burning episode with one of his compadres. But I possessed hand, in the form of stats. And they were booming. My feud with Sam Houston had trickled from his comment thread to my own, with followers and daily notifications of crazy. We made it onto the featured blogs of the WordPress front page, after which I wrote a “Thanks But Who Cares” post in response which was quickly- and rightly- taken down by Dan. Admittedly, I needed a muzzle sometimes.

But I didn’t wish to be a part of a fraternal order. I simply wanted to spill my thoughts onto the page, with no preconceived notions or obligations to anyone or anything but the thoughts in my head. Because to pattern my writing after what I perceived to be the popular branding method would have been to cheat myself, and everyone else. It stole away improvisation and replaced it with a homogenized rendition.

I had effectively exorcised the Britney sugar walls episode with a post titled How To Prevent A Shark Attack, which sandblasted any residual effects of my spiritual nadir. Granted, it wasn’t great literature by any stretch. But at least it was writing and not a porn centerfold. The comment thread churned on for weeks, with a couple notable favorites; Like Patti. She introduced herself as a marine biologist and then began to critique my shark attack strategies, point by point. Then she let me know some of the best moments of her life were spent around sharks. So of course . . I had to respond in (not so) kind, and I finished my thoughts with this.

One last thing. If some of the best moments of your life were spent around sharks, it means you’ve never been laid. Good luck with that. And keep reading!

And then there was Marek- a German filmmaker who was interested in using the image in my post for one of his film covers. I told him ten grand would do the job. He took it seriously and we actually went back and forth in emails for a while before I had to break it to him that I was joking.

That was how the blog went. People either got the joke, or they didn’t. But regardless, they were reading us up. Because when we were good, we were very good. But when we were bad, we were buttah. The blog was a marriage of ugly and pretty words, and they were making babies. Furiously so.

It was to wit, the pretty words that won over The Dame. A Mother’s Day post titled My First Girl had her gushing like a school girl. Of course, outside of the Manson family, the overwhelming majority of dudes have pretty words at the ready for their mothers. I was gladly accepting of her glowing comments and our ever more involved emails to each other. But still, I was miffed at how a virtual stranger could fall for simple words. I read my Shakespeare, and I know that it works. But the logistics of it never did make much sense to me.

“You ask too many questions,” Dan said in response to my questioning her love and affection for my modern day romantic side.

“Yeah, because I realize that writing something beautiful and heartfelt is not the same as being something beautiful and heartfelt,”

“Whatever works, Marco”.

To my way of thinking, it was much too easy to make someone believe in something that wasn’t real. And with some background to go off of, I knew that she was clinging to the version of me that suited her struggling spirit. But hell if I wasn’t doing the same thing. And it didn’t matter any longer because we were a snowball, running away from the peak and straight into a catastrophe.

The morning of June 7th produced one of my least inspired efforts in months. I had too much on my mind and so I took the easy way out. I bashed the Washington Nationals new ballpark, which I equated to a money pit mausoleum for a minor league product.

The Nationals move falls in line with ‘elite’ franchise ticket prices, such as the New York Yankees, who are charging up to $400 for top seats this season, exempting natural blonde strippers. The Boston Red Sox charge $312 for an infield dugout box and $500 for a ten minute conversation with Curt Schilling. The Los Angeles Dodgers charge $450 for some premium, game-day seats close to the field and $300 for a picture with Tommy Lasorda’s penis pump.

When I got home from work that night, I checked the blog and then my emails. And there it was, the prayer to all my answers. The Dame. Her email was short and sweet and it included her phone number and an invitation. She was blaming her impetuousness on the Pinot.

I had no such alibi.

Heroes Of The Week!

Shazam

Magic King-dumb- In the immortal words of Whitney Houston, I believe that children are our future. Because with the way the adults are behaving, they have to be! In the latest episode of Grown Ups Behaving Badly, I give you this video (right here) of a family get together at Disney Land that got out of hand. As in open hand. And slapping. And hair pulling. And umm . . . kids? Can you please hurry up and save us from ourselves?

The Mets win!- Well, kinda. The Mets Peter Alonso won the HR Derby on Monday night, and hey . . it’s somethingSure the Mets season is a twenty four car pileup on the Grand Central Parkway. But they’ve got a couple bright lights in Jeff McNeil and Alonso. The brawny slugger beat out Vladimir Guerrero Jr for the crown, and will donate ten percent of his million dollar prize to two charities: Five percent to The Wounded Warrior Project and five percent to Tunnel To Towers. Chicks dig the long ball, and everybody digs a righteous dude like Alonso.

One if by land, two if by sea and freedom if by air!- To think, we might really be sipping tea right now if not for Continental Airlines- which I can only assume was the airline of choice for our revolutionary heroes. Because after we laid waste to the British airports, French and American troops safely landed at Yorktown International. On time, may I add, since there was no TSA yet. Thanks to the latest history lesson doled up by Trump, we learned that the Wright brothers were lying bastards. And now I’m dubious as to all those hardship stories about how the Pilgrims spent months at sea to get here.

History Theater- And speaking of . . . William Latson is the latest revisionist to history, as evidenced by his refusal to admit that the Holocaust actually happened. The now former Principal at Spanish River High School in West Palm Beach, Florida paved over the history books in a narrow minded missive he sent to a concerned parent last year. In the email exchange, Latson wrote ‘I can’t say the Holocaust is a factual, historical event because I am not in a position to do so as a school district employee,’. You know the old saying about how those who refuse to learn history are doomed to repeat it? We’re living proof.

They put the beauty in the beautiful game- With their 2-0 win over the Netherlands on Sunday, the US women’s national team clinched back to back World Cup titles. And with it, all that talk about putting up or shutting up can go to sleep for good. As Megan Rapinoe put it, “I held up my end of the bargain (with Trump).” And now she’ll go to work fighting for gender equity. U.S. Soccer and FIFA need someone to light a fire under their asses, and she’s just the gal to do it.

Royals under glass- Meghan Markle and Prince Harry are a pretty big deal in the UK, but that doesn’t mean they owe the British press every living, breathing moment of their lives. When the royal couple opted for a private christening for baby Archie, the press cried bollocks. And when a member of Markle’s security team requested that no pictures of the duchess be taken during a match at Wimbledon last week, Piers Morgan went bonkers. Never mind the fact that Markle was not seated in the royal boxes but rather, had been personally invited to attend by Serena Williams. And never mind the fact that the Brits might be paying the rent on Buckingham Palace, but that doesn’t entitle them to treat these people like wax figures in a museum. Morgan railed on, saying that Markle should move to America if she wants privacy. Welp, she is welcome anytime. As far as Morgan goes, not so much.

Just so you know, she can dance!- Phoebe Kochis is a 19-year-old dancer with Down Syndrome. She also happens to possess the kind of fire and spirit that makes a cold world feel so much warmer. She proved as much when she accomplished her life long dream by appearing on the ABC hit show So You Think You Can Dance.

Kochis didn’t walk until she was two years old. But it wasn’t long before she got to shaking and shimmying to such a degree that her parents enrolled her in dance lessons. And what dreams may come, well . . they did just that when Phoebe won the title of Colorado Miss Amazing, which is a pageant for girls with disabilities.

The dream evolved and it talked her into believing that she had to audition for one of her favorite shows when she got older. And so she began laying out that blueprint, from the age of six. When it was simply a thought, that became a belief and then a raging fire.

It took thirteen years, but once she arrived on the dance floor she’d always dreamed of owning, Phoebe showed the world what happens when providence smiles on you. She didn’t advance. But if you watched the girl do her thing, you understand that what she did advanced you. And it made you think. Long and hard and brightly on a world that too often comes back with change on our cosmic dollar bill. Phoebe flipped the script on the time worn expression that we should ‘ . . dance as if no one is watching . .’  because she danced as if the world was watching.

That works too.

 

 

 

 

The Sarah Michelle Gellar Invitational

Sarah Michelle Gellar

I know, right?

Welp, if you’ve ever had the pleasure of reading a What’s Hot Invitational, then you are familiar with Vera Farmiga as being the linch pin to this sexy ride. And while Vera ain’t lost an ounce of her felonious appeal, I decided to break out another tasty spice. This is like when Billy Crystal decided to take a break from the Oscars. Only, this is sexy.

Besides, Vera has a lot going on these days so she wouldn’t be able to drop by to comment (yet again!) anyways. She’s got a new movie in theaters with two more coming up next year. And she’s happily married, and a devout Catholic girl. So yeah . . I hopped on another bus. And Imma blame Paul Simon for that shit.

Sarah Michelle happens to be happily married as well. But she ain’t devout. And that matters something wisely to my way of getting down. I’m not doing too much research on SMG, because really . . why should she be different from any other female I’ve ever gone juicy fruit for? Other than this . . . if you haven’t seen Veronika Decides to Die, you should check it out. The soundtrack is slightly annoying, but her performance has chops. Deliciously so.

Lauren Rutledge

Laura Rutledge- ESPN host on Get Up and pastry pinup pretty lady, this gal has game. She’s the one (only) solid reason to tune in to the show. At least, I think she’s a regular on the show. Anyways, whenever and wherever I surf her onto my screen, she gives me a reason to stay tuned.

Jessica

Jessica Lucas- Bad girls rule. And Jessica played a bad girl with a good heart, which is really unfair, but Imma accept it. If you’re not caught up on Gotham, then you might want to stop reading what I have to say about Lucas, right now. Because her leaving the show . . and the way she left the show . . it left me verklempt.

Grace Gummer

Grace Gummer- She plays an FBI agent who couldn’t give a fig for glitz or glam on the show Mr. Robot. She’s a hard boiled beauty with wild Irish locks and a razor sharp sense of humor. Do we need more evidence in order to detain her? Because I am plenty fine with that.

Jennifer Garner

Jennifer Garner- This woman has played every kind of character- from a deadly assassin in Daredevil to a dream girl crush in 13 Going On 30 and she has served it up like a Boss Woman. To refurbish a line from Karen Carpenter, on the day that Garner was born, the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true soccer mom with the kind of acting range that would impress NASA. And the fact that she divorced the Boston Red Sox guy makes her that much more beautiful in my eyes.

Minka Kelly

Minka Kelly- The girl possesses an exquisite versatility in that she can hone in on a variety of moods depending on the hairstyle. From wearing it up to going all frizzy to straight to permanent press to Holy Jesus! And no matter what she dials up, she’s gonna tempura anyone with a Y chromosome. Hells, she’s gonna do the same for the double XX crowd now that I think about it.

Adria Arjona

Adria Arjona- Those eyes. I mean . . they follow me everywhere. After which I fantasize about how they’re beaming me up into her space crib as old Blue Eyes sings us into Jupiter and Mars. There’s no doubting those heels are a Carrie Bradshaw Grand Slam, but you have to check our her creamy schoolmistress getup in Good Omens. It’s a show about heaven and hell, to which she fits perfectly.

Alex Morgan

Alex Morgan- God Bless America. This sexy forward for the Orlando Pride and the co-captain of the US women’s national team is a two time Olympic gold medal winner and after Sunday’s win over the Netherlands, a two time World Cup winner as well. But that’s not even the most impressive thing about her, nope. Ya see . . the girl has Americans digging on tea now. Goooooaaaaaallllll!!!!

Welp, that’ll do it for this make over invitational. I’d like to thank the Buffy as ever Sarah Michelle for her sultry work as my emcee hammer. And a big gracias to all the ladies who participated in this historic edition.

Vera would be proud.

 

 

 

 

Matters Of Little Consequence

The best way to reach Atlantis is by drowning. So, yanno . . . be advised. 

By the spring of 2007, the blog was settling into a predictable rhythm. I derived zero enjoyment from the notoriety we had garnered after the Britney shot; partly because it was fucking stupid but mostly because it wasn’t my personality. Blog hits were a currency I couldn’t relate to in the least. But rather than dwell on it, I kept my nose to the grind by rubbing more spice into the beast in order to cull that ching. I wrote provocative shit and connected with other bloggers and brainstormed ideas with Dan late in the night.

Dan wanted to schmooze and to get known and I wanted to write and be left the fuck alone, so we were able to achieve a perfect balance. We were vastly different people who found a righteous third pedal with which to ride this duct taped circus tricycle into a flow that had some keeps. And so what if the means to our endgame was polar bear opposite? We figured there’d be insurance for that.

As someone with depression, writing had become a beautiful outlet through which I could invite my inner tempest without need for a visit to the psych ward. When I wasn’t chitting with sports bloggers or chatting with food bloggers, I was commiserating with depressed peeps like me. I treated blogging the way I treat cocktail parties. Fetch a comfortable drink, find a spot on the fringe and then cozy up to someone who fits my perspective.

Unfortunately my love life didn’t follow the same set of rules. In this respect, I always seemed to find the loudest crash. After a few soft landings to break me in to the new old fashioned ways of romance, I’d gotten down to brass knuckles. In the months leading up to my head on collision with the “Dame”, my common sense had gone rogue warrior. A top five mishaps from that most interesting period? Sure why not . . .

5- Tracy loved Jaeger shots and revolvers. Moving right along . . .
4- Lizette gifted me an Irish soccer t-shirt after our St. Patrick’s Day hookup. Her gun toting baby daddy proved to be too expensive for my umm . . blood.
3- Gina smoked weed whilst driving and her hobbies included bar fights and tat collecting.
2- Karen was always there. Like when she needed a place to crash rent free. Or when she needed money. Or when she needed to recover from a bad breakup. Yep, she was there.
1- Maria

How do you solve a problem like Maria? Damned if I knew. The girl was TNT in spaghetti straps, with the ability to seduce a Pastor on Sunday morning. We’d reconnected at her birthday party the previous summer, where everyone had been invited to feel her new boobs during champagne toasts. Months later during a snowstorm, she invited me over for a private showing. She had a couple bottles of wine and smokes, which clinched the summit for me.

I’d been planning an exit strategy ever since, because every moment spent with her brought catastrophic risk. Girl had a posse of ex boyfriends with warrants and possessive ex girlfriends who hated men. Understandably, I never actually slept during the time I was sleeping with Maria. Thank God for Dan’s incredibly shitty judgement, or I might have ended up being immortalized on some after hours cable crime show.

As if Britney hadn’t harshed my mellow enough, you can imagine my surprise when I woke up to a post on our blog written by Maria. Evidently she had sweet talked Dan into letting her write with us after I kept turning her down. So it was that she treated our readers to the specs on her boob job, her crush on Jesus when times got tough. And oh . . sordid tales of sex with Marco.

My brain exploded, after which I deleted the post, changed the password on the blog and warned Dan that I wasn’t planning on giving it back so easily and that if he ever pulled some stupid shit like that again, I’d tell Emie about his recurring dreams. And then I broke up with Maria, which was awkward considering the fact we weren’t actually dating.

I decided to practice celibacy after that. It was a combination crash diet and detox program, with lots of early nights involved. I read like crazy and wrote like a maniac when I wasn’t running and meditating and for about a week and a half I thought I had the stuff of monks. Until Dan, bless his dark, misguided heart, turned me on to a blogger who would end up changing my life forever. She went by the moniker “Dame” and her blog was a literary cutlery set.

I still remember the first time I read her. She was promising to exact revenge on her former beloved in ways that would have had Messalina shuddering in her sandals. And while it was evident this fellow had proven to be a master cheat, the Dame’s punitive measures were, to put it mildly, extreme. Her vengeful anecdote didn’t mention water boarding, since it seemed too lenient a measure. Everything else was on the table, however.

She believed in an eye for an eye- as in, applying a skewer to his roving one. She talked about how she was going to sleep with his friends, his brother and maybe even his old man if it came to that. I was well aware these specific threats were made in jest, but I was also aware there was no jest in her enmity for the sonofabitch.

Her ramble was homicidal, with only trace elements of sarcasm involved, to keep you from calling the authorities; sort of like a tinctured brandy in a whodunit that lets the damsel escape to some exotic locale before a single badge makes the scene. She was straight up wicked in her brilliance, with the kind of cunning that John Grisham couldn’t touch with a satellite. She had two moves carved to a platinum inset before you stepped out of bed, and while Dan called her crazy, I knew she was something more than that. Entirely.

Truth be told, her ode to a lover gone wrong read insanely. It was the kind of beau bounty that should have had me running into the Atlantic Ocean and not coming up for air until I reached a well lit tunnel dressed in cherubs. That would have been the normal reaction, sure. But me?

I was falling.