We Must Increase Our Busts

(Bust of Ronald Reagan and unidentified gay male)


Alabama McDonald's To Display Reagan Bust

Customers at the Northport, Ala., McDonald's where President Reagan chomped down on a Big Mac during a 1984 stop will get to see a bronze bust of the former president, inside a case with a halogen light shining on it 24 hours a day. Along with a plaque, there's a framed photo showing Reagan eating his Big Mac." -Associated Press

In a related story, customers at Rive Gauche Restaurant where I tended bar--and more importantly, Rudy Giuliani came in with his body guards to take a long dump in the one-person men's room--will get to see a bronze bust of the former mayor inside a case with a halogen light shining on it 24 hours a day. Along with a plaque, there's a framed photo showing Giuilani taking his dump.

Discussions on whether the requisite 9/11 tribute will accompany Giuliani's bust, plaque and photo of him taking his dump continue.

And to think of all the dumps in all the towns in all the world, he dumped in mine.

Mother's Day 2006

It's Sunday, people, just so ya know, so get your shit together.

Anyway, here's a great flick . Reminds me of the so-not-very-mature-way my sibling and I behave at times. And even if you're an only child, you'll enjoy it all the same.

Foulke Off, Yankees!

Photo by Yankee Stadium Bleacher Creature, Anne Altman

Red Sox 14, Yankees 3

Beckett v. Johnson. What a match up. The chants of "Boston Sucks!" in the bleachers of Yankee Stadium started immediately, before the game even started, which is to be expected. I was heckled as I looked for my seat by a Yankee fan who spotted my red bandanna and red shirt and shouted, "If you were in your own park, you'd know where your seat was!"*

You're right, Mr. Rude, Arrogant, Venomous Yankee Fan. Because in my own park, my seats are BOX seats, not BLEACHER seats. Much easier to find. Plus, they serve beer. Jerk.

The Yankee chanting was overpowering for awhile, though Sox fans did pepper the seats in pockets here and there. Sometimes the blue crowd would change it up to "Red Sox Suck!"and then switch back to "Boston Sucks!" Then you didn't hear much of that. At all. Anymore. After A-Rod errored his ass off, and Boston scored 172 more runs, Yankee fans resorted to more unique ways of supporting their team: ripping the Sox cap off another guy's head and throwing it a few feet into the crowd.

"You throw like Damon!" a witness in a Red shirt shouted.

It was cute. He did throw like Damon. Poor thing.

Then the Sox scored 237 more times, and Torre came out to get Ol' Old Unit. Of course, Yankee fans booed the shit out of him, which I thought was mean, but that's how they do. I didn't boo him. I may have even cheered a little. Quietly, of course.

Then the Yankees scored a run I think. And then the Sox scored another 14,000 times. I started cheering "Boston Sucks! Boston Sucks! Boston Sucks! Boston Sucks!" trying to rally the Yankee fans who were left remaining. "Come on, guys! Boston Sucks! Boston sucks!" but they didn't seem interested in their own cheer anymore. Weird.

The only thing more embarrassing than wearing a Yankee hat last night was wearing Knick hat, which some little broad was "sporting"because no doubt she thought she looked cute? Hilarious! A Knick hat? In public?? Oh no she di-iint! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Stop it!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Schilling v. Mussina tonight.

Go Sox!

PS I got a great seat on the 4 train home from the Bronx. And there were seats to spare.

PPS When I walked in the door, Doodle was watching the post-game coverage, laughing her ass off:

*The last time I saw Mr. Rude, Arrogant, Venomous Yankee Fan, it was the sixth inning, and he was purple and busting every vein in his face, giving himself an embolism by shouting at a Sox fan 35 rows back something about ripping off his head and shitting down his neck. Now, that's not nice. It's also so very 1990. It was at that point that I was quite glad that the bleachers in Yankee Stadium do not serve beer.

Not By The Hair of My...

Don't Call Me Beepers

Here are a few nicknames that I have been calling my cat of late ( more or less unconsciously), until tonight when I became quite conscious of them, and I had to confess. (Think The Tell-Tale Heart*).

1. Boops
2. Beeps
3. Beepers

Absolutely unforgivable, right? I know. Friggin' ridiculous. And I wonder why she gives me dirty looks. I mean, Boops is one thing, and Beeps is another, but Beepers? Shoot me.

* I read several Edgar Allen Poe biographies two summers ago. He was not a likeable fellow. Resentful, hostile, combative, envious; all of these adjectives apply.**

**Just because Poe was a douche does not excuse me for calling Doodle Beepers. I just did it again.

Annoying Boy Name You Say?

38) Tucker

Great Commercial

My man Dave Hill landed a spot in this great commercial. Check it. You won't regret it. Unless you're a tool. Then you might regret it.

Does This Gown Make My Chin Look Big?

Holy Cow Still More Annoying Boy Names

32) Toby
33) Jayden
34) Chadd
35) Evan
36) Blake (A duplicate? Could be. Don't care. Still annoying.)
37) Ethan

Your Thank You Note Sucked

I found this in the trash. I know that sounds bad, but I'm not above junk picking. And I was standing on the corner of 37th and Park Avenue next to an over-stuffed trash can, and it was lying on the very tip top, half in it's envelope. I picked it up because I could tell from 3 feet away that it was a wedding thank-you note, to someone who lived on that very tony block, and I knew it would be terrible. I was right!

First of all, what you can't see, is that it is a heavy-weight card stock embossed with their names, Elizabeth & Chadd at the top. Chadd! As if it wasn't obnoxious enough a name, with the extra D, I can barely say it without going "Hi, I'm Chaddddd" in a douche bag voice. Try it yourself. It's impossible. Just imagine Elizabeth in bed with Chadd, moaning, "I love you, Chadd!" Um, ick? Yes, ick!

Secondly, it's obvious that Chadddddd wrote the thank you note, even though Elizabeth's name is first on the signature. He must be the one friends with Peter and Dale, and Elizabeth put her foot down on having to write that one. Whether or not Peter and Dale are a boy-boy couple isn't clear, but what is clear, is that Chaddddd has terrible hand-scribbling in the classic "boy handwriting" style that says, "Why the fuck did we have such a huge wedding, this thank you note shit really blows." Peter and Dale thought it blew too, because one of them swiftly threw that shit out on their way to work.

Now, on to the text. "Thank you so much for the beautiful wedding silver. We love it." Ok, yes, it's beautiful, and yes, you love it, because your stupid wife picked it out over 2 years ago and it was on the wedding registry. Yeah, it was generous, because it was probably the most expensive set in the store. Thank goodness for wedding registries, right Chadddddd? You bitched about it at the time, and now, aren't you psyched? That a gay couple with the disposable income had the cash to buy it? Otherwise it'd be your burden?

Oh, that's right. Elizabeth is your burden.

Put more effort into your second wedding's thank you notes, Chaddddddddd.

Reminder

Ohio State is a very bad, bad, bad, very, very, very, very bad school. The Fuck Eyes.

Dogs Don't Drive

Ooops--correction: Yes, in fact, dogs do drive.

" Greensboro, VT Road Dawgs" by Anne Altman, 2003

Shiny Happy People

Alright, alright, I get it, springtime is for lovers, and they're out in abundance on a lovely day such as this, holding hands, making goo-goo eyes, playing grab ass, smooching. Well, whoopie doodle doo. No offense, lovers, but since I'm not part of your happy couple brigade anymore*, and I'm a sour single, I don't want to see it.

Please join me in culling this PDA for my sanity, and the sanity of those who like myself, can't deal. I'm not saying you need to break out weapons and shoot these innocent people Son of Sam style, but a dirty look or two just might make a difference. Please, join me in giving love the evil eye.

*When and if I am part of this love brigade again, I am fully aware of contradicting myself and being a full-on hypocrite, so suck it.

Now That's Basketball

I'm going to sound like an old person again, so get ready:

"I don't know what's wrong with basketball today, but it ain't basketball. Now, back when I was a kid? That was basketball."

-An old person

But that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. Here is Boston legend Larry Bird. Depspite Magic's tenacity, that shot went in, my friends. It always went in. These were the days when a lady could get sight of a little man thigh.

Here is ABA cum NBA legend Dr. Julius Erving, dunking his friggin' ass off. More man thigh.

Yep, something's happened in the twenty years since NBA basketball was compelling enough to watch. I can't put my finger on it. Until something changes, it gets the back nine for me.

Dr. J reminds me of a story. When I was a junior in high school, my boyfriend and I were sitting on his bed and talking. He was telling me a story about his brother on acid or something, but having never done acid or any other drugs for that matter, I really had no frame of reference. He pointed to this very Dr. J picture I've pasted here, because he had it poster-sized on his wall. He said, "See that picture of Dr. J? Well, if you're on mushrooms, it feels as if Dr. J. is slam dunking that ball right next to your head."

I said, "Ok, what about acid?"

He replied, "If you're on acid? Dr. J. is slam dunking your head."

Who doesn't love a good analogy?

Hansom Cabs = Not Handsome

Sure, they're romantic. If you live in ye olde timey times, or you're out in the countryside somewhere. Not in NYC. Not anymore. Not when you're in a soup of car traffic --not hansom cab traffic-- in the middle of Times Square. Horns honkin' and lights flashing and everything horrible, right up in the horse's grill. I don't care how many skanky blankets they give you, you're downwind from an abusive bum driver with b.o., and it is not romantic. It is a phony baloney Cinderella fantasy, and the horses are treated like horse shit. They're not meant to have nostrils full of exhaust and a mean old dirtbag sitting in the driver seat whippin' the shit out of his bread and butter.

I'm not saying the horses have to be pampered in an excessive race horse style, but how about a little respect? Don't drive through Times Square. Put their stables in Central Park instead of that filthy slave pit near the Westside Highway. Let them sleep in the peace, quiet, and relatively clean air of the park where they're forced to tromp around all damn day. After his last haul of fat tourists for the day is done, and he's dropped them off at the Olive Garden, he's then forced to pathetically stumble 40 blocks home to that dark dungeon for a brief respite. Maybe eat a bit moldy hay and stand in a pissy stall for 5 hours before he gets to do it all over again. I'd say it's lame, but it's way worse.

I saw one particular horse freaking out in a maze of traffic last night near the TKTS booth where Broadway and 7th kind of meet in the middle. It was bumper to bumper, and the cars were touching the horses knees. He was struggling with his mouth bit, it hurt him, and he was shaking his head to try and either adjust it or alleviate the discomfort. He was anxious. There were a couple of fat asses from Ohio* in the buggy in the back, lovin' life. Since the traffic wasn't moving, and neither could I as a pedestrian, I was face to face with the horsie, and I said to the driver, "There's something wrong with his bit. It's too tight. Something's wrong." And he goes, "Traffeeck." So I'm like, yeah, there's traffic. Look, something's wrong with your horse." And he's like, "Traffeeck" trying to blow me off and get away from me, but because of the "traffeeeck" he wasn't going anywhere, and the horse was still struggling. Stupid dirtbag fuck.

Is it better to be a hansom cab horse than being dog food or sent to the glue factory? Doubtful.

*I'm guessing on this. But they had that Ohio look. You know the one.

It's a Beautiful Day

The sun is shining and the weather is warm, so I'm staying in and freaking out about all the housework that I need to do. I'm listening to the Saturday Show with Jonathan Schwartz on WNYC 93.9 FM. Yes, he can get incredibly corny at times and often will play one faggo show tune too many, but he's got a lot of great, rare Frank Sinatra which you can't hear anywhere else. Often he'll play a few half-hour Sinatra blocks. Today the songs are interspersed with pleas for funds, as it's their quarterly on-air fund drive, and they're blabbing on and on ad nauseam.

The blabbing is necessary in public radio, and I totally understand. They figure if they annoy you just enough, you'll call to make it stop. Homer Simspon did that one year while watching PBS, but he didn't intend to pay, he just wanted them to shut the hell up, and Mr. Rogers and Big Bird et al came to his house to kill him. Hilarious.

Anyway, if you want to make an e-pledge, do so here. I usually give, but not this year, because I donated money to other good causes, and now I'm putting cash aside to save the elephants. Can't save the world, Jonathan, so shut your pie hole. It's time for Hollywood and those rich bitches in the New York Social Diary to ante up, dig into their Hermes Birkin bags, and spread some of that friggin' money around.

Incidentally, did you know that "The Wonder of It All" song is not about Foxwoods Casino. It's a real song song, just without the "Fox...Woods...Yeahhhhhh..." at the end. Either way, it blows. Thank you for enlightening me on that one, Jonathan. Stick to the Sinatra, eh?

I May Be Mean

But I am not mean-spirited.

Different.

Cinco de Mayo

I find the whole pinata thing disturbing. Children are encouraged to beat an animal or person with a club until their guts are literally spilled out. Albeit it is a paper animal or person, and there is candy inside, but still.

Plus, I think the pinata is a Chinese invention anyway, and what haven't they invented? But it makes sense; I heard they tenderize their dog meat over there while the dog is still alive. Ingenious time saver!

Kim Jong Rumsfeld

People, let me tell you about my new favorite hero. His name is Ray McGovern, former CIA veteran. Yesterday Donald "Rummy" Rumsfeld was giving a horseshit speech in safe-haven Georgia to his following of white-haired white men Stepford Wives about some crap about Iraq. There were a few protesters in the crowd who were quickly tossed, North Korea style, because of course, they were saying stuff that was unpleasant for ol' Rummy. Ol' Rum dum. Like the truth and whatnot.

Then, a patient Ray McGovern stepped up to the plate, and fucked Rummy so hard with his own words that it was funny. Funny ha ha to see him squirm, but sad too, because McGovern is right. Rummy gave him a chance to finish (as you can see in the last line of the dialogue) because he knew McGovern has street cred, having been in the CIA an all. And everytime Rummy said "No, I never said that," McGovern countered with exactly what he said.

Hey, Rummy-- Don't say stuff in newspapers and on t.v. because that stuff is researched in this day and age. Hello? Easily researched. Get your lies straight. You're like one of those dudes with 5 wives who has to keep them all a secret from one another, and you're failing miserably.

Lord, I wish I were bright, composed, informed enough to catch someone in their lies like McGovern did so well. I wonder if he's also a law school graduate. I'd get up there and go, "You're a dick, you sick, rich, white elitist, racist, fucking liar bastard I hate you and hope you die." See? Less effective.

Here's a portion of the transcript:

Rumsfeld: ...it appears that there were not weapons of mass destruction there.
McGovern: You said you knew where they were.
Rumsfeld: I did not. I said I knew where suspect sites were and...
McGovern: You said you knew where they were. Tikrit, Baghdad, northeast, south, west of there. Those are your words.
Rumsfeld: My words-my words were that-no-no, wait a minute--wait a minute. Let him stay one second. Just a second....

Here's the video itself. And here's a good article by another Ray McGovern lover.

Apparently I'm in love with McGoverns, as I'm also smitten with George. Guys named McGovern should govern. Guys named Bush and Rumsfeld should be strung up Mussolini style.

Happy Cinco de Mayo, kids!

Rich Are Hideous in Hats 2

Alright, alright, I promise to lighten up on the Hideous Rich for a moment. But first, let's take one last look before we put it away.

Again, these photos are from the New York Social Diary of the rich, powerful and obnoxious. These particular photos are from the Frederick Law Olmstead party (he's the dude that created Central Park) and the invite must have said some shit about hats.

The rich have always maintained for the most part closed and exclusive society, but of late, a handful of Jews and blacks seem to have peppered the scene. How benevolent! You mean they have the money to purchase the Benefactors Table sponsorship and you let them in anyway? How kind! But transvestites? Unheard of! Miss Purple Nurple seems to be enjoying herself in her resplendent regalia. One has to wonder if she has had the full operation, or if she's still sporting her cock and balls high and tight with duct tape. It's hard to say.

Rich People Are Hideous In Hats

The flowers are real. The nose? Not found in nature. Neither is the face, but we're here to talk hats, ok, people? Let's not get distracted. Let's focus. Try to ignore the split ends.










Ok, back to the faces for a second. Let's face it, some people don't have hat faces. Just ask the Eleanor Roosevelt impersonator. Look how it frames the piano between her lips just so. And far right? Some people don't have hat heads. Turtles were invited to this gig? And last but not least, some people don't have hats. Lady, you chickened out on the hat because you thought you were too good for it, that you'd look silly, and now you look like an asshole.








These twats were all hoping that they would be the prettiest dog in the 4-dog lineup. The phony on the far left was sure the title would be hers. Second to left's pinhead is lost in the sauce. Pinky twinkle makes a pretty witch. And finally, I can assure you that the one on the far right, the one who skipped the hat for the Ray-Bans, is absolutely hating this picture of herself. And she should.








Never stare directly at the sun. You can be blinded, I say. Blinded! A very coiffed, very airy, very toothy fairy appears to have been sucked into her personal space with that hat. He's totally cock blocking her from her handsome-faced bride friend, so she's weed wacking the shit out of his white nose hairs to get around the pick.









Ok, yes, we get it--it was a garden party, so a watering can pocketbook was in order. Ehhhhh, no it wasn't. You took it too far, took it too far. You actually look like a bag lady who was caught picking shit out of the garbage. You also could be confused with someone a little retarded. Both not good.

Who Knew?

Apparently, there is a new show called Veronica Mars on the UPN network. Word also has it that there is an organization called the NBA (they're still around?). Now get this: I just learned that one Veronica Mars has been regularly pre-empted for one series called the NBA Playoffs, and some people are outraged. Hilarious! HAHAHAHAHA!

PS There's talk that the National Hockey League not only exists, but is in season, as we speak! Ludicrous! HAHAHAHA! Stop the madness! Can't breathe! I'm snarfing milk out of my nose!

PPS I heard there's such a thing as a Snufalufagus too! So says Big Bird, anyway. HAHAHAHA Sure, there is. Sure, Big Bird! Oh, Big Bird, stop it! HAHAHAHAHA!

Confessions of a Bad Parent

I've got myself one smart cat. She's really a catdog. She's sprightly and active and superbly trained. And ok, I love my kitty, and she loves me. That's a given. But I must confess that sometimes her precociousness and meowing can be so annoying that I tell her to fuck off. Sometimes. Like, literally, I'll shout, "What?!?!?! What do you want??? Will you fucking fuck off?" I know it's not nice, and I feel bad almost as soon as I say it, because even though she might deserve it because she's totally pushing my buttons, she's just crying out for a little attention. It's not her fault that she doesn't have a goddamned job and Mommy works all day. And I'd never, ever hurt her.

But....I can understand why a weak person, a terrible person, could be driven to abuse an animal. Just sayin'. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm against hunting for sport and boxing and all that shit, but when Doodle is all up in my grill at 3:45 am (the worst possible time possibly ever possibly decided on) wanting to play, wanting to eat, wanting to be annoying as she can be (she's got her reasons), I can't say that I fully have my wits about me at that hour, and a major beatdown that ends in murder when I'm sleepwalking is . . .well, possible. That scares me.

What if, in an uncontrollable fit of rage, I broke her neck, and then I immediately snapped out of it and was like, "Wow, shit, I really killed her, holy shit..." And then I'm holding her limp rag doll frame, fruitlessly performing mouth to cat. Then what? Because everyone and their mother knows how much I love my Doodle, and they'd be like, "How's Doodle? Where's Doodle?" And I'd have to be like, "Oh, she died."And they'd be like "Really? She was sick?" And "I'd be like, oh yeah. For a long time. Forgot to mention it. It was really sudden. Sort of. I mean, yeah, she's dead. Weird, right?" Because I could be arrested for that shit, you know? And it was a total accident, not pre-meditated or anything, so I'd probably get manslaughter, but still. That carries some jail time.

I bet if I confessed to beating my goldfish nobody would care. Fish abuse. Imagine trying to turn yourself in to the authorities for that one.

"Officer? I'd like to report a crime."

"Yeah? What sort of crime, ma'am."

--sob sob sob--" A..a..a.. murder."

"A murder? Ok, calm down, ma'am. What happened?"

"I- I- I- I beat my fish to death. I-I didn't mean it... --sob sob sob- But he's dead. -sob sob sob-He wouldn't swim through the fucking castle! He was pissing me off! I-I bought it for him! --sob sob sob--I'm trying to train him with the pellets on the other side of the moat, and he wouldn't fucking listen to me! He wouldn't swim through! So I punched him. In the face, I think. There was blood...and, and he fell back really hard, to the bottom of the tank, and then he floated to the top. He's dead! I killed my fish. I killed Sigfried! OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE???Why didn't he just swim through the castle? WHY?!?!"

These thoughts makes me feel like a bad parent.

Things My Mother Hates

Versace Can Suck It

A few weekends ago, my dear gal, Miss Carmen Garcia, celebrated her 17th Birthday at the Latin Lime party held at Corner 51. Ok, she's not seventeen. 28, I think. Same diff. You're probably thinking, "You, Anne? At at Latin dance club?" What, you don't think I can rock that kind of situation? Well I certainly can. It's called Fake it Til You Make It, kids. So I thought I'd sport these never-before-worn, hot Versace heels given to me by a friend in the fashion world who scooped them up after a photo shoot. If he hadn't been a gay man he'd have kept them himself, but you can't fit big man dogs into these sleek stilletos. Ohhh nooo. And I figured that the shoes would distract from the fact that I was wearing entirely too much clothing compared to my Latina sisters. I was wrong. I was distracting no one.

So, there I was, there I was, there I was, fitting in like a picante puta amongst the caliente crowd, up on the riser/bench area so I could scan the scene, when I shifted my 100 some odd pound weight to my right side, and

SNAP went the heel.

When most broads would have cried, died, and left the scene, I want you to know that not only did I stay, but eventually boogied on down, down, boogied on down, down, down, boogied on down. At first, I remained standing on the ball of my right foot, improvising the heel. (Hey, this bitch completed improv levels 1-4 at UCB and The PIT before she quit, ayite?) Picture how a flamingo might stand. Eventually I got tired of the quivering calf and kicked off my sunday shoes entirely.

(How often do you think Corner 51 cleans their carpets?)

Anyway, back to the piece of shyte shoes by Versace. They are Versus, Donatella's line. Donatella, I'd expect this quality from Payless shoes, which might have a tendency to break at some point down the line, but on the first wear? Doubtful. You should be ashamed of yourself, you bleached out, orange-skinned wide mouthed bass. Don't drive Gianni's empire into the ground. He's dead for cryin' out loud. Imagine how pissed I'd be if I had paid for these shoes??!?? (That'd be tough to imagine. Even when I sell out, I still won't pay for designer caca.)

Donatella, stop contemplating how often Corner 51 cleans their carpets, and look at me. There's no prize involved.

Here's me and the birthday girl. Can you guess which one is a better merengue dancer? I'm doing my best "FU, Donatella" impression. More likely, it's my regular face. I'm not grabbing her boob, but if it fulfills the fantasy, please, don't let me stop you.

Here's me dancing in a cage. Ok, it's a railing, but just go with it. The male admirers were all over me like bums on baloney. Ok, no they weren't.

And finally: Silly me, and glam gals Carmen, and Sue (who so generously took photos of us-- and my shoe accident, for insurance and bitch-slapping purposes). These shoes are going straight back to Versace for repairs and then will be sold immediately on Ebay. Basta!

Adios, muchachos!

Red Sox / Yankees Rain Out

The game has been rescheduled for August 18. To tide us over, let's enjoy this beautiful shot of Big Papi and Johnny Damon at Fenway from Monday's game. Does Big Papi look bitter? Even though he's making a stupid fraction of what he is worth? No, he doesn't. Because he's a class act with the disposition of a teddy bear and the power of a grizzly bear. (Don't underestimate him, because he will house you)

Go Sox!

Rich People Are Still Hideous

I'm well aware that some of you may not find this subject as fascinating as I do. I hope you understand that this will not prevent me from analyzing it to death. I understand that these images are upsetting, but it's the only way. We must confront what most terrifies us head on and banish the spectre of fear. Talk it out, each one, out loud.

Ball Bustin' Quiz (Re: Let's Get Ready To Bust Balls)

1. How old is he really?
2. Why did he lie about his age?
3. He will never lie to you because A) He despises lying B) One lie in the beginning of the relationship can ruin the rest of it C) He doesn't feel like making up 20 more lies to cover the first D) All of the above E) None of the above
4. How old is his grandmother?
5. How many years from now will you receive flowers and for what reason?
6. Being a man is more about honor and keeping his word than _____________
7. He wants kids: True or False
8. He is looking for: A) A swimsuit model B) A Kate Moss type c) Someone who does more at the gym than walking on a treadmill or training with 2 lb dumbells D) All of the above E) None of the above
9. He is looking for someone who loves A) great dinners out with incredible red wine B) A pizza indoors with great red wine C) Conversation over red wine D) All of the above E) None of the above
10. What color are his "Devil eyes" and will he ever grow old?
11. Bonus Question: Douche or douche bag?

Answers will be posted shortly in a seperate entry

Let's Get Ready To Bust Balls

The following is another obnoxious online profile I received from a 33 year old admirer. Read it. There will be a 10 question quiz in the following post. No cheating.

About me and what I'm looking for:

I AM REALLY 41 YEARS OLD!!! I changed my age for searching and matching purposes. My 92 year old, Irish Catholic grandmother who can drink me under the table says I'm a wonderful catch and grandmoms know their stuff so, I don't think you'll be dissappointed. Hey, thanks for reading my profile. Just to get a couple things out of the way: if you have kids, I can and would be a great step dad but, I ALSO WANT KIDS(plural) OF MY OWN AND NO SMOKERS PLEASE. I will never grow old. I work out 5 times per week but, am def. NOT a gym rat. So, what that means is, if you can think of something better to do, the gym can take a back seat. I have light green, "Devil Eyes" as they have been described and have been complimented on them my whole life. I have always been considered a man's, man but, am also a deep, old world romantic. 10 years from now, you will still receive flowers for no reason, surprise cards and stuffed animals under your pillow when you get home. I would rather spend a night in, relaxing and talking over wine with my hunny, than anything. I'm more picky about personality than looks. Personality is what you fall in love with, although, I know physical attraction is also important and my pics are posted. Personality counts now and 40 years from now. I DESPISE LYING. One lie in the beginning of a relationship can ruin the rest of it. I will never lie to you. I just don't feel like making up 20 more lies to cover the first. I'm one of only a few men, you will ever know, who will never cheat on his girlfriend, fiancee' and then wife. That doesn't mean, I don't love women. What it does mean is, being a man is more about honor and keeping my word than cheap conquest.I LOVE kids and if how well I handle my 9 nieces and nephews while babysitting on numerous occasions is any indication, I'm gonna' be a great Dad SOOO, YES, I DEFINITELY WANT KIDS OF MY OWN. (God Willing of course)So, if you have children, as long as you're willing to have more. . . . WHICH MEANS. .if you put in your profile that you are "not sure" if you want kids. . . .you are wasting your time because it's a non-negotiable! I don't date just to date. I'm looking for LONG TERM and permanent! Of course, nothing to hurried or rash. . . Meeting someone who exercises and takes care of herself is important to me. I work our 5 times per week and it's a part of my life. I don't think I could see myself being attracted to someone that doesn't workout. PLEASE, DO NOT take that to mean I'm looking for a swimsuit model. I'm just interested in a woman that does more at the gym than walking on a treadmill or training with 2lb dumbbells. Again, although I am not looking for a "Kate Moss" type, I am only interested in a girl who is IN SHAPE. I would like to meet a woman who is looking for the same thing I described above. Straightforwardness!! No lies!! Also, a woman who WANTS to be sexy. Desires to be desired. And great looks do not guaruntee sexiness. ATTITUDE, ATTITUDE, ATTITUDE!!! Please do not take that to mean I am looking for sex right away. Intimacy is only ONE PART of a great relationship. Someone who loves great dinners out with incredible red wine. Also, a pizza indoors, with great red wine. Conversation over red wine. Geez. . .there seems to be a red wine theme brewing here. Conversation just between the two of us sitting in a darkened pub with an old wood bar. Laughing at/with each other doing stupid things. Happiness, Happiness and more Happiness.

Let's Get Ready to Gross Out!

Some excerpts from a recent online dating profile I received:

"What I'm looking for: She can't keep her hands off of me, nor can I keep my mind off her. She is someone I can hold and talk to all night after our love-making is done..."

3.5 Eeeeeews out of 5

Would I Sell Out?

Yes. Abso-fuckin'-lutely, people! I just have not had the opportunity to do so just yet.

However, when I do sell out (and I will), I sincerely promise each and every one of you that I will not turn into a vain, selfish, smug, holier-than-thou, better-than-thou, asshole. I will not forget where I came from. I will not treat people like shit because I can. I will not name my kids stupid shit. I will not turn into a Scientologist. I will own a Hamptons home and do it alone.

"If you own a Hamptons home you can't do it alone - you need help. Hamptons Domestics provides the best butlers, chefs, chauffeurs, and maids to ensure that you don't have to lift a finger." -Hampton Domestics Employment Agency

I will however, require yacht staff. But I'm not going to be a dick about it.

Red Sox 7-Yankees 3

Sox win! My folks were at Fenway tonight, but I was at P.J. Carney's on 57 and 7th, where they didn't have the volume on the television. I really wanted to hear if douche Sox fans would boo Johnny Damon in his first visit to Boston as a Yank. I texted my mother and her response was "Yes and No" which is to be expected. He tipped his hat. He's hot. Pinstripes or not.

But who's hotter? Who is hip and how, and now, and wow, and downtown and totally happenin' ? Who rules the school? Who saves the day?

BIG PAPI, PUTAS!

I Love Beaver

My aunt and uncle opened a shoe store in the early sixties in Olean, New York. In the early seventies, they morphed it into a shoe store / leather goods store / head shop. They sold cool classy stuff like sterling silver lighter holders with turquoise and mother-of-pearl inlay, feather roach clips and cowboy hats, leather vests and belts, and of course, every iron-on t-shirt you could imagine---real opportunists cashing in on the craze. Oh, and some shoes. I spent almost every summer with my family in western New York State, and to an 8 year-old, that place was heaven-- like being a kid in an iron-on t-shirt store. Nothing completed the requisite ensemble of poker-straight hair, short shorts with piping on the trim, and striped tube socks pulled up to the knees than a snug fitting iron-on T that said stupid shit like "I'm With Stupid".

The hundreds of design demos were plastered all over the walls. From "Touch of Class" to a glitter Playboy symbol to holograms and scratch n' sniff--there wasn't a design you could think of that they didn't have. And if they didn't have it, they'd custom design it for you. Full service, people, full service. All of my cousins worked at the store, and I'd do some light chores and help out as well. My perks being things like making my own leather belt and hand tooling it by spelling out my name with lady bugs and butterflies. I still have the belt, but I don't have an 18 inch waist anymore.

The best perk of all, however, was being able to pick out a new t-shirt made from one of the new designs that season. I had several in my collection including a light green A-N-N-E in glitter letters on the back, and a basket of Scratch n' Sniff strawberries on the front--most of them were made from odds n' ends and scraps from stuff that didn't sell. I also I had the I'm With Stupid design on a yellow shirt and to complete the hilarity, I gave the I'm Stupid to my best friend Andrea, and could not understand for the life of me why she'd never wear it out. With me. Though I'd not be caught dead in the I'm Stupid shirt myself. But the new designs? WOW. They had the latest shit from bands like Yes and Boston and Fleetwood Mac to Crumb's Keep on Truckin'--I've been terrible with decisions my whole life and this was no exception.

One design, what to pick, what to pick?!?!???!?!!!!??!?!?

I labored over the choice all morning. One design caught my eye in particular and stood out amongst all the rest. It was a bright red shirt, with an adorable cartoon of a big fat beaver on the front with two huge big front teeth, biting into a log. (Much like the image pictured above. And this one likes baseball, I do) He was an adorable glossy, glittery decal. When they were brand new, before the washer and dryer did their cracking and dulling damage, the decal was pliable and shiny and nothing smelled better to me than the smell of plastic rubber decal. Hot off the press. Below the beaver was emblazoned "I Love Beaver".

"I want the 'I Want Beaver!' " I said. But my cousins, in their late teens, wouldn't make it the shirt for me. Pick another, they said. I whined and bitched and moaned, but they weren't having it. "Why not? What's wrong with the beaver? Why can't I have the beaver shirt?" I cried.

They replied, "We'll tell you in ten years."*


*For the record, they never ended up telling me. It should also be noted that my cousins' plan worked, and I didn't end up a lesbian because of bad advice on a new t-shirt. Though I did go to basketball camp for ten years and do feel like I look like a dyke most of the time.

P.S. I also wound up with a pale yellow hoodie which said "Slippery When Wet" --but it was a hand-me-down from the complete other side of the family. What are the odds? I remember wearing that number on the day we had to read our 6th Grade Reports to the entire class. Mine was on The Pyramids of Giza. Some of the teachers snickered; I just thought it was a clever road sign.

Dolphin Stabbed in Road Rage Incident

Here's a perfect example of how little I give a shit about adult people. I just read this headline: Dolphin Stabbed in Road Rage Incident and my jaw dropped in horror as I hurriedly clicked on the link. "Dolphin stabbed? WTF?!? What could have possibly happened?" Ok, someone was travelling with a dolphin in a fish tank in their car when a carjacker came up to the window and instead of grabbing the driver out of the front seat, in a surprise move, stabbed the dolphin in the back seat...

But when I saw that it was only a football player, I didn't bother to read the article. Don't drive like a dick and you won't get stabbed. Maybe. Don't listen to me, I didn't read the article.

Party People in the House Listen Up

The Yankees meet the Red Sox for the first time this season at Fenway Park tonight. Damon will be booed in his pinstripes, because it takes a sophisticated Masshole to understand that there are no traitors in baseball these days, the players follow the money and that's that. Wouldn't you? Hell, I'd sell out in a second. My folks will be at the game, so make sure you wave to them. I'll be at a regular bar in Manhattan to see the first couple of innings before I'm too disgusted with the local fanbase and have to go home.

Go Sox!

Rich People Are Hideous

Hillbillies don't own the inbreeding market; genetic anomalies and terrible plastic surgery abound in the New York Social Diary. This is just a small sampling. It's "eeeew" after "eeeew" after "eeeeew". I didn't bother to credit the "people" in these photographs. Who gives a shit? They're rich, ugly, and would never give me the time of day, so fuck 'em.





I must comment on this one. These two are standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder. What could possibly explain the difference in the size of their melons? Radiation?

The Picasso of Pachyderms

Elephants are awesome. And elephants who paint? Please. I'm in love. Most who know me understand that I don't really give a shit about people. But animals? Yes. This is a picture of Wanalee. She's fantastically talented, and I want to buy one of her paintings. I'm torn between Jet Streams or Marine Breeze, but one of them will be mine. The profits from the sale of her paintings go to assist endangered elephants throughout Asia. Check out Wanalee and her fellow artistes here.

Barbapapa Fun

Jam out! I just played Purple Haze.

Dave 'N' Cheese

I went on a stupid date with a stupid guy. I think his name was Dave. We met for a drink and he didn't ask me one single question about myself the entire time (half hour). My favorite part of our "conversation" was the following:

Anne: So, where is your office?
Dave: I don't work in an office.
Anne: Oh. Where do you work?
Dave: Dave 'n' Buster's in Times Square.
Anne: Oh, isn't that like an adult Chuck E. Cheese?
Dave: No.
Anne: Oh. I thought that was the place with the chicken fingers and video games and stuff.
Dave: It is.
Anne: So it's like a Chuck E. Cheese for adults then. Right?
Dave: No. Look, I don't know what Chuck E. Cheese is, but Dave 'n' Busters is nothing like it. I don't want to be associated with anything called Chuck E. Cheese.

Then you're going to have to go back into your Way Back Machine, buddy, and unapply for that job.

And no, I don't want to see you again.

Thanks.

Bye.

Put Your Bump Away

What's with all the press on pregnant celebrities? And who coined the term "baby bump?"

I say: Gross.

Because you let some guy doink you, I have to see the result?

Newsflash: You're not the first woman ever to become pregnant. Believe it. And now women have these websites devoted to the progress of their bumps. Um, get over yourself?

Whenever I see a pregnant woman, I giggle. "She had sex a few months ago...tee hee...Gross."

And sometimes, I think "Ewww, someone had sex with her? Gross."

But always I think, "Everyone knows you had sex recently. Aren't you embarrassed?"

Call me weird, call me bitter, call me a prude, I don't care.

After-the-Fact Stalker Gawker

NYC, what a town, what a town! Buzzing with celebrities everywhere I go.

Governor Jon Corzine, @ Starbucks on 36th and Madison with an aide last Sunday, April 22. I'd say he was sipping a latte, but he wasn't drinking anything, just using the place to do some work on a pilot program allowing for self-service gas stations in New Jersey for the first time since 1949. Or so I assume. I was the only one in the store who knew who the hell he was. The barristas were like, "Huh? He ain't even order nothin." He's trying to save New Jersey money, ayite?

Mr. Julia Roberts , @ Madison and 19th Street, running like a little fairy uptown on Saturday, April 29. His location was not surprising, since Julia has had an apartment on Gramercy Park for over a decade. This midget sperm donor must have been on his way to a very important camera man meeting. His career is on fire!

This is the Story of Barbapapa

This is the story of Barbapapa

Doo doo doo doooooo

All of the other Barbapapas

Doo doo doo doooooo

They can change their shapes and sizes

Very easily

This is the story of Barbapapa

Which Barba are you?