It's Fleet Week in NYC!

I'll be quite busy entertaining the sailors per usual. I've already baked 300 blueberry pies.

If you're interested in seeing some hot ass in their tight whites, here's the remaining schedule of events.

American Idol

This guy is my idol.

Whatever it takes to get that salt n' pepper hair, that double chin... I have been modeling myself after this guy since I was knee high to a grasshopper and WHATEVER IT TAKES I WILL NOT STOP UNTIL...

Guess What Happens

When you leave your iron on from 11 am 'til 2 am?

Nothing.

If you're lucky like I am, that is!

Almost burned the place down!!!! HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA So close to killing a hundred people plus pets HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA could have been slightly embarrassing HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Let's Get Ready to Crumble

The Sox are in a little trouble here at Fenway, 4 to 2 Yanks, second inning.

Time to leave the house, must tear myself away.

When I come home, this frown better be turned upside down, BoSox.

I'm cereal.

Dress Up That Drab Vacuum Cleaner

Dress-A-Vac

Doll up your upright vacuum with whimsical covers. Handcrafted with plush heads and hands. Keep your vacuum handy and hidden*, free up room in closets. Dress is made of polyester/cotton. Imported.

Easy On & Off! (Creepy)
Save Closet Space!
Fits most Upright Vacuums!
Turn Any Upright Vacuum into a Great Conversation Piece! (Hey, you put a tacky dress on your vacuum cleaner. What a freak!)



Dress-A-Vac

- Bear
Item 78139

- Bunny
Item 40592

- Cat
Item 40618

- Maid
Item 40600


*Throwing a cat/bear/bunny/maid-in-a-dress costume on your vacuum makes it disappear?

All I'm sayin' is, if you come home to find your husband with his hand up the vacuum's dress, you only have yourself to blame. Of course, if he accidentally sweeps when humping it across the room, maybe these things aren't a bad idea.

Who Wants Their Ass Licked?

I meant KICKED.

I'm serious! Come on. I don't roll that way. Everyone knows I'm an ass kicker not licker.

Aww shit. How embarrassing.

Stumpy Proverb

Uncle Stumpy Olkosky, circa 1955, Olean, NY

In addition to his classic "You can't make honey out of pigshit" my wonderful Uncle Stumpy also used to say, "Never trust a man who don't drink or don't smoke." Words to live by. (He's smoking at the pump in this photo folks, so I trusted him implicitly).

'Tis true, though! Mormons freak me out. Sorry, Mormon readership, but I believe that Stumpy was the one true Prophet. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Dial 0

At my job at a law firm, I sit out in the satellite of office stations designed for the legal secretaries. Our desks are positioned directly across from whom we support, and quite public, so there's no place for surreptitous nosepicking or anything, as it's like "TA DA!!!! HERE I AM!" The only thing is, I'm not a legal secretary, I don't support the person who has the office right in front of my grill, I'm too busy at my job to play Solitaire, but I do have respect for the majority of these secretaries because of the caste system here perpetuated by a certain number of attorneys that constantly undermines their intelligence. Anyway, this just happens to be my desk, because I'm what they call a temp, and frankly, I'm just happy to be employed.

What's generally annoying, but quite interesting at times, is the how the attorneys who don't know who I am or what I do, just assume their asses off and reveal their selective incompetence. So I'm sitting here, by myself, as all the secretaries are gone out to lunch. An attorney about 5 years or so younger than I walks up to me and asks, "Is Cathy here?" (Cathy sits next to me). "Is Cathy here?" is legalease for "I need help." Of course, Cathy isn't here, because if she was, Cathy would say, "Hey, I'm right here!". So, I looked to my left and replied, "I don't see her." And then mustered up a "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh, yes," the attorney answered. "The light is off in my office."
"Ok. I'd dial 0 and ask for maintenance and say "The light is off in my office. Anything else?"
"Well, I burned my hand on my flatiron this morning, and might you send a few ice packs to my office?"
"We have ice packs?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Well, I'd dial 0 and maybe they can direct you. Last week when I burned my hand on scalding hot water, I made an ice pack myself using the ice from the panty and a paper towel. Worked wonders."
"Thanks anyway."
"You might want to do that instead of wait on something interoffice mail--they say you should immediately ice a burn."
"No, I'm fine."

Then she left. A woman who went through 4 years of undergrad, 3 years of law school, passed the New York State Bar, and knows how to use a flatiron on that afro of hers can't dial 0 or use the ice machine? Please. Selective knowledge. I once worked at Comedy Central for an dumb ad saleswoman who would be gabbin' it up with other office gabbers right next to the fax machine and only finally include me in the conversation with a, "Can you fax this document for me please?" and then back to BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH Bergdorfs BLAH BLAH Barneys BLAH BLAH..."

"Sure, once you take your tits off the fax machine, I'll get right to it."

A-Rod is an A-Hole?

Hey, I read it on a bumper sticker, so it has to be true. Notice also WBCN and Patriots pride. For those of you not familiar with Boston shit, WBCN is the gold standard of rock stations. Oh, and the Patriots are a wicked good football team.

In the spirit of trying to be positive (a Red Sox Lover versus a Yankee Hater), I want the record to show that I did resist buying the Gay-Rod t-shirt after the game, so I'm not all bad. Just a little bad.

Who's bad?

Glorious Fenway

Luckily I was able to see the Red Sox spank the Yanks at Fenway yesterday. Tonight was a different story (sorry, sis), but a great game regardless. Though I'll take a Confident Manny Clobber over a Was That a Pop Fly?A-Rod home run any day. Here is a nice shot from last night. We'll get 'em tomorrow.

Photo by Anne Altman, 5/22/06

Ann Taylor Lied to Me About the Size of My Ass

Clothing store mirrors DO lie. Here's my ass as it looked to me in the mirror as I tried on a snappy pair of slacks the Ann Taylor dressing room at the North Shore Mall on Sunday morning. I think we all agree: That's a hot piece of ass!

But to my chagrin, here is my ass today in those same snappy slacks, out of the store. Just as it looks in your regular, run of the mill mirror, just as it appears in real damn life. I think it's obvious that Ann Taylor lies! What a bitch! I was deceived into purchasing a pair of extremely unflattering pants*!

* Don't hate on my new boots, belt and hat. All my idea. I already had the coat--it's Papagallo. Isn't it fantastic? I know several fashionable people-in-the-know who would shoot their grandmother in the face for that coat.

I Have a Low Tolerance for A-Holes

I'm back from a short respite out of town to see the Red Sox kick some Yankee ass at Fenway. However, from the very start, a-holes were out in full force to get me down. Here's the short list:

1. A woman with her 3-year old who were behind me at the security line at JFK. Let's call them Mommy A-hole and A-hole Junior. A-hole Junior was such a beautiful genius, that he didn't have to stay by his mother's side, he was privileged to run around like the little a-hole that he was, "helping" with the bins, and not getting in anyone's way at all, no, not at all, so, so, adorable, that nobody wanted to punch him in his little a-hole face. Not even me.
2. Ms. A-hole TSA Agent, who barked at us as we went through the bins and laptops and keys and shoes (thanks to bitch Richard Reid) and the whole bit. When she said "ALL JACKETS OFF (but pronounced it AWWWWWFF) I REPEAT, ALL JACKETS OFF" and I didn't flinch, I knew she was talking to me when she said "IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT TYPE JACKET" (I was wearing a blazer). Heh heh. I didn't take that shit off.
3. Whoa! Look who is sitting directly behind me on the plane, but Mommy A-hole and who's that little bundle of A-hole? Oh, it's A-hole Junior? Right behind my seat? Yay! Do we get to hear him run his mouth while you run yours on your cellphone? Double Yay! Wait, the best part is to come when the flight attendant tells Mommy A-Hole that she has to put A-hole Jr. in a seat with his belt on and she replies, "But all the other airlines let me hold my little A-hole in my arms" and then A-hole screams "I WANT TO LOOK OUT THE WINDOW" and then Mommy A-hole says, "I know, I know, but the lady said no. I'm sorry, A-hole, but Mommy can't let you look out of the window because the lady said no." If that's not a full-on A-hole in the making, I don't know what is! Can't wait to meet A-Hole Junior all grown up in society! In a few years, you'll recognize him berating a waiter somewhere, so stay tuned!
4. At Fenway, I was blessed with an encounter with Missy A-hole Yankee Fan, who delighted in tapping me on the shoulder and smugly barking, "You're in my seat." With her slutty maroon lipstick, pink Yankee hat, trampy denim skirt and flip flops, traipsing in with another Yankee fan in the 5th inning. "Well, where have you been?" I asked, feigning concern. The only reason we (season ticket holders) were not sitting in our seats, is because the row was empty, and we were letting a little kid sit in ours until the "guests of honor" arrived. Then her escort, tapped me on the shoulder with an "We are expecting two more, so I just want to make that clear, so there's no problem." Yeah, got it, a-hole. Your problem is going to be that the underdressed broad isn't going to bang you tonight, great seats at Fenway or not. Sure, she's turning 31 tomorrow. Funny thing is, the broad was freezing her ass off and poorly dressed for the 45 degree weather, and I was about to ask her if she wanted to use my extra fleece until I realized that I wasn't big enough a person to lend something to someone who was just a huge a-hole to me.
5. And finally, Mr. A-Hole TSA Agent at Logan this morning, who hates his job so much that he has to be a huge a-hole to everyone he meets, confronting me about the blazer. Of course, I didn't take it off, and he made me take it off. I crammed it into a bin, pulled it out on the other side, and as I walked away, he said "You're welcome." What an a-hole! For what? For saving me from putting a weapon in my coat and being able to shoot him in the crotch with it? What, for being a totally grumpy a-hole at 5:00 a.m.? You're welcome. Ridiculous. He said it to the person before me and the person after me. It was his a-hole schtick. People don't get to say "You're welcome" if they didn't do anything for you. I replied, "I didn't say 'thank you', but thanks."

Wow. It was like A-hole Asteroids! And I survived. I know the next a-hole is but 'round the bend, but until then: Go Bosox!

Fashion Instruction Level One: So You Say You Bought a New Jacket

Dear Readers,

Let's say you buy a coat, suit jacket or blazer with a slit/pleat in the back. A pleat is a cut in the fabric formed into two flaps. 9 times out of 10, the manufacturers put a loose stitch that tacks the pleat sections together so they don't get wrinkled or smushed in shipment or storage at the store. Don't fall victim to this temporary "X" stitch and walk around in public with the "X" stitch still in, the pleat puckering around your huge ass. As you can see from the diagram I have sketched for you here, it is a TEMPORARY STITCH, for you to remove once you get the garment home. Not unlike the cardboard in a shirt collar. In other words, TAKE OUT THE STITCH IN THE PLEAT, because IT IS A PLEAT AND NOT SUPPOSED TO BE STITCHED. Sometimes it's referred to as the kick pleat, and how are you going to kick in your jacket with your pleat stitched together? You're not.
Get your shit together.

First Post in My Post-Dial-Up World

Greetings from the new hi-tech Altman Headquarters! I'm watching the Mets crush the Yankees in the second game of their Subway Series on my new digital cable whilst simultaneously enjoying the lightning-quick switch between clicks here on the computer. Both awesome! All I need is someone to call me on my digital phone, and the technology triumverate is in full fast action.

I wonder if I'll miss the minutes that used to tick by while waiting for a page to reload; I used to do most of my quality hypothesizing and grey hair growing during those moments, but...progress, progress. I suppose we must all yield to progress at some point.

I asked of the guys replacing my old equipment, "Have you ever seen a more ancient cable box?"

One of 'em goes, "Nope. This one was before my time. I was still playing in the street when these were around."

I'm said, "Alright, dude, take it easy. Get back to work, Grandma's tired."

When I Have a Fiancee

I will refer to him as "my Beyonce".

In the interest of time, the engagement will be brief, seriously cutting into my opportunity to say "my Beyonce". But believe you me, on that plane to Vegas, I'll make up for that lost time and will "my Beyonce" my ass off to the annoyance of everyone including my Beyonce.

You Know I'm Hammered When...

1. I start air violining to "Juke Box Hero"
2. I switch it up to the air flute
3. I start spelling people's names out loud
4. I start talking to the D.J.
5. I blow air into the palms of my hands to create huge fart noises
6. I fall down
7. I answer every redhead in the room with "Whatever, Fire bush!"
8. I pull an Irish Goodbye*

*We don't say goodbye. We just bolt.

So You've Chosen Netflix as Your Suicide Method

Want to say goodbye to this cruel world, but you're too lazy to get off of your ass to do it? Have I got news for you! Death can be delivered to your front door with a simple click of the mouse in the form of your next Netflix order (and a little help from a friend to assist you with your DVD player).

Death by Netflix works similarly to that of lethal injection and also involves a 3-step process.

First, the powerful anesthetic:

Second, the paralysis inducer:

And finally, the cardiac arrest trigger:

Each step, viewed by itself, is sufficient to kill a person. 13 Going on 30 is known to induce unconsiousness quickly, but if not viewed properly, one might awaken later, fully conscious, paralyzed by the Baby Geniuses, and unable to communicate. Worst case scenario being that you would experience the torment of 13 Going on 30, the conscious paralysis of Baby Geniuses, and then the agony of the burning SuperBabies Baby Geniuses 2.

With this method, most likely you'll be deader than a doornail before Jennifer Garner's credit rolls by. Just make sure your friend leaves the room after pushing Play each time.

Good luck, and see you on the other side!

From Russia with Love

Newbluebaby sent me this clever little Russian language learning tool. Translate your name into Russian by typing it here. Learn yourselves something, ayite?

Disturbing Photo for Friday

Belle of the Cell

The 2006 Fall Prison Line is here! Curious choice of words in the item description, no? (in bold)


Elastic Waistband Pants

Slip on elastic waist. No pockets. Elastic woven 1 1/2” heat resistant rubber, 26 gauge. Elastic waistband attached with 4 needle bander, double lock chain stitch. Elastic guaranteed for life of garment. All seams three needle felled. Back serged and double needle lock stitched and bar-tacked. Leg hems folded and lock stitched. 7.5 oz. poly/cotton twill. Color: Orange. Other colors & sizes may be available on request.

Comm. Code Size Price each
200-17-10009-8 Small $6.19
200-17-10011-4 Medium $6.19
200-17-10013-0 Large $6.19
200-17-10015-5 XL $6.70
200-17-10014-8 2X $6.73
200-17-10016-3 3X $7.17

To order this product, please click here.

Watch Someone Pick Their Nose at Your Own Risk

In keeping with the high-brow content of Two Can Anne (everyone's Go-To Source for what's-a-happenin') I'd like to tell you what-a-happens when I don't avert my eyes when I have the misfortune to spy someone picking their nose*

I get sick!

Don't look! Not recommended! Sometimes they eat it!

Hanky Panky with Tom Hanks-y? No, Thanks-y!

(Photo of less successful Buddy Peter Solaris sobbing whilst hugging the bosom of not hot Hanks)

I hear Tom Hanks and his attempt at sexy leading man role was one of the major reasons reviewers gave the DaVinci Code the back 9. Apparently the lead in the book is supposedly a hottie (what do I know, I didn't read the book), and apparently people don't think a slicked back afro on a billboard-sized forehead transforms ol' Bosom Buddy into Cary Grant.

Like my dad says, "You can't make honey out of pigshit!"

'tis true!

WOW! OW!

I just spilled scalding hot water onto my right hand! It's hilarious how much it hurts! In fact, I'm feeling suddenly nauseated from the pain! Makes you feel alive! HAHAHAHAHA! What a fantastic week I'm having! Can't wait until I choke on a chicken bone at lunch! It was nice knowing you all! Bye!

Horn Honking Etiquette

The other night I was in a taxi headed downtown in semi-miserable traffic. Some douche was honking his horn excessively, and because I like to stress myself out in situations that are beyond my control, and I was desperate to find out who was doing the beeping just so I could know, just so I could see that the offensive behavior wasn't validated, just so that I could turn around and give them a dirty look and sigh repeatedly and be annoyed. It's how I do.

BEEEP BEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEEEP !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

More beeping. I turn around only to realize that a HUMVEE, an H2 to be exact, is doing the beeping.

I propose the following legislation:

1. You are unallowed to drive a Humvee anywhere else but Iraq or another desert.
2. If you owned a Humvee prior to this legislation, you are not allowed to beep. Humvee owners get to be Humvee owners, they may not exercise the privilege of exacerbating their obnoxiousness with beeping.
3. If you must honk, horn honking is only allowed unless they are alerting someone to their imminent danger. As in: HONK! My brakes are out! HONK HONK! And I can't stop, so you might die! HONK HONK HONK!
4. To ensure that honking is used in emergency situations only, all cars and their horns will be wired to the drivers' genitalia and upon use of the horn, an electric shock will be inflicted with each honk.

Umbrella Etiquette in NYC

I propose the following legislation:

1. If you're a single person carrying an obnoxious golf umbrella on a city street, you are required to also be lugging a set of clubs and eating a pimento cheese sandwich.
2. If you're not carrying a set of clubs or eating a pimento cheese sandwich, then you will be fined no less than $250 and up to $500 for carrying an oversized umbrella. UNLESS you are sheltering 6 or more people, and you must use the H. O. U. Lane designated for high occupancy umbrellas.
3. Get the hell out of my way, you witch. If you're that afraid of rain, stay home.

Upsetting

The baby ate my dingo.

Bad baby!

The Handicapped Bathroom

If you happen to see non-handicapped person exit the bathroom designated for the handicapped, you can bet your bottom dollar (9 in 10 chance) that they did #2 in there.

What Happens When One Eats Too Many Little Bags of Oyster Crackers?

Stay tuned, folks!

Always Remember This

'tis true!

Hurts So Good

Agent: I've got the perfect role for you, William.

William Hurt: Shoot.

Agent: It's a bit of a stretch.

William Hurt: I'm listening.

Agent: Ok. You play a man.

William Hurt: A man.

Agent: Yes. A man. Who's been hurt.

William Hurt: A man who's been hurt.

Agent: Yes.

William Hurt: Hmmm...I don't know...

Agent: William, you can do it.

William Hurt: But...

Agent: William?

William Hurt: Ok.

Climb Every Mountain

I read in the news yesterday that a double amputee climbed to the top of a mountain, and of course, that story made me depressed and feel even more like a lazy fuck. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited for him, but then there's me.

Just now, newbluebaby sent this fantastic clip regarding another mountain climber.

The gays can climb?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

'tis good!

Douche Things to Say

There are some things that can't be said without sounding like a douche. My man Dave Hill demonstrated this beautifully one night when he said to me, "I have three agents. Wow. I just sounded like an asshole." Boy, did he ever! God love him. But he does have 3 agents. How's a man with three agents going to give you that information without sounding like a douche? Impossible. I one-upped him with "I have four agents." And of course, that was a lie because I have no agents, but you get the idea.

In the spirit of douche things to say, let's have a little fun:

1. "I have three agents."
2. "I'm friends with the band." (That one's mine. Said it this afternoon. Douche!)
3. "My Rolex is scratched."
4. "This is decidedly the nicest weather we've had since we got back from Switzerland."

Come on, join the fun! It's douche-tastic!

You Ain't No Fambly

Liz sent me this ridiculous piece of "legislature" coming out of Black Jack, Missouri which prohibits 3 or more people living together "unless they are related by blood, marriage or adoption." I thought family values was all about keeping a family together. Now we're discouraging people from living with their baby's daddy? Come on!

Black Jack, didn't you see Rosie O'Donnell's HBO special where she had a whole cruise ship o' queers sail around the world? Gay families with children? It was awesome. I bawled my eyes out. Does this mean the dog is out on the street in Black Jack too? What if he was never officially adopted?

What's wrong with mixed families? They mind their own business, what are they afraid of? Do they think mixed families are reefer dens? Yes. And they're scared of fags. It always comes down to fag hate.


St. Louis launched a new slogan this year:

"St. Louis: Perfectly Centered. Remarkably Connected."

I've designed Black Jack's new slogan:

"Black Jack: Terrified of Dope Fiends. And Butt Sex."

Letting Go

Rumor has it Paul McCartney and Stephanie Mills are separating after four years of marriage. Oh, and that I'm a bitch. Here's the conversation between me and my colleagues that ensued once I discovered the juice on www.perezhilton.com:

Me: Paul and Stephanie are splitting!

Christina: Good.

Me: What?

Christina: He didn't even wait five minutes after his wife* died before marrying that skank.

Me: One-legged skank.

Claudia: She's going to walk away with a lot of money.

Me: Hobble away.

* I liked Linda. Only her fake British accent (which Madonna has borrowed) and profuse use of the word "veggie" got on my nerves.

Mystery de Coiff

Why on earth does it take all day for my hair to look great yet only to peak in it's amazingness as I'm brushing my teeth getting ready for bed?

It's all shiny and silky and not static-y or split-endy nor stringy, just simply gorgeous. Just in time to go to bed. With myself.

Yet it doesn't last.

Because in the morning?

And I'm back to lather, rinse, repeat. My hair's going to look awesome tomorrow night.

Goodnight.

You Go Ahead, I'll Hold Your Coats and Bags

I hate rides. Not mustache rides, but your everyday, carnival, midway, amusement park rides. Now, I don't hate them because I want to hate them, I hate them because I actually physically hate them, have to hate them, forced to hate them because they hate me. My aversion to rides surprises most people, I guess it's incongruous with my free spirited personality, but I'm a ringer. Hate rides. Again, don't want to, have to. I've always been desperate to be one of those daredevils who gets on rides with reckless abandon, takes the bull by the horns (maybe runs with 'em), sky dives and jet skis all that exciting adventure crap. But I'm not. I'm the person who is not only scared shitless on any ride that goes like this (I'm now motioning left to right) or like this (I'm now motioning up and down) or this (I'm now motioning round and round) but even the baby roller coaster freaks me out and it goes in damn circle with one small "hill" which is more like a slope. Can't deal. Yet people don't want to hear it. They want me to like rides.

I blame it on an inner ear imbalance. I can't read in the car without feeling like I'm going to vomit, airplane turbulence gives me an anxiety attack, and people want me to get on a goddamned roller coaster? Please! People, I cannot. My mom says that even when I was a little kid and I begged to go on the Tilt-A-Whirl at Salem Willows, I'd end up burrowing my head into her abdomen the entire time. When the Junior High School class of 1983 went on the annual trip to that amusement park near Hampton Beach, NH and I was bullied into getting onto the roller coaster even though I knew I was waiting in a long line only to die, it was absolutely worse than I had prepared myself for. After when I was green and shaking did I squeak out an "I told you so..." and nobody gave a shit, they were onto the next ride. I believe I was also forced onto the Turkish Twist that day, the ride where it spins around so fast that the centrifugal force makes you stick to the sides and somebody pukes. And that rock n' roll ride where they blare the music really loud and you go forwards and backwards and round and round and round? Not a chance. But the cool kids? Always go on that ride, like bums on baloney, lovin' life, havin' the best time! And I'm holding the coats.

But I'll gladly hold the coats. Don't even get me started on that broken elevator Tower of Terror horseshit ride at Disney World. Once they drop you 250 feet a few times in the dark, they then have the balls to shoot you out of the thing 250 feet in the air and snap your picture, mid-ride. I knew we had to spend the $15 on the picture just so I'd have a keepsake of how terrified I looked. And also in the picture? A baby. On the ride. With a smile on it's face! A baby! My mother, father, sister? All fine. Me? I've got my eyes closed, mouth agape, pleading for my life, convinced it's my last ride. Not last ride for the day, but last ride like "read-about- it -in -the- paper- how- she- was- flung -to -her- death- into -the -parking- lot-and/or had-a-heart-attack" last ride.

All this ride hating doesn't mean I don't like amusement parks. I kick ass at Skee-Ball, and I'm fascinated with carneys. Fried dough? Love it. And I will go on some rides. Take the Haunted House for example. I'll go on that shit, I ain't a-scared of black light! I've also been on Coney Island's Wonder Wheel a few times (stationary car, of course). And although I think I'm totally lame for not loving rides, I do believe that extreme ride lovers must be missing out on something themselves. Their constant thrill seeking prevents them from being really in the moment. Instead of enjoying the last ride they took, they're already onto the next ride, skimming through life looking for adventure instead of looking at what's in front of them. That can't be good for you. Those people don't ponder life's terror and sorrow like I truly can, they're too busy smiling all the time. Do people who love rides love rainy days? No. Do they wonder what their fellow riders on the subway would look like without their skin and hair? Doubtful.

On Occasion, I'm a Hypocritical Bitch

It was a wet, drizzly morning in Manhattan, not really worthy of an umbrella, but to each tool his own. As I walked to work, I was subconsiously checking people out, as I do, and noticed this one broad's pantleg hems were too long, and she was dragging them in the street slime, and I thought to myself, "Tsk tsk, tacky."

I arrived at my building and once the elevator got to my floor, I made a dramatic exit by tripping on my way out. The obstruction revealed itself to be my left pantleg cuff which had come unstitched and dragged through 25 blocks of street slime.

I've since hemmed it with packing tape.

In summary, while I was checking out that dirty broad, someone else was checking me out and thinking "Tsk tsk, dirty broad." But I bet she had something else wrong with her, like price tag stickers on the bottom of her shoes or something.

As the saying goes, "Thou with slimy pantleg shall not make fun of slimy pantlegs."

A Word Which Highly Annoys Me

OOOPS, I'M SO EMBARRASSED YOU CAUGHT ME IN MY BLACK PANTIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8) panties

Last night on Grey's Anatomy (the show which bitch slapped me into sobbing last night) the Meredith character had sex with the hot one named Derek in an unused examination room whilst the prom was going on downstairs (if you didn't see it, don't ask), and afterwards as they hastily dressed themselves, she said "Where are my panties? I had black panties on. Do you see them?"

EEEEeeeeewww

--shiver--

A lady does not say the word panties.

Perverts say panties. Porn stars say panties. "Where are my black panties?" was written for the male viewers of Grey's Anatomy last night. Pull your head out of the pornos for one second, fellas, would you?

A lady says underwear. Strips the sexual connotation out of the cooter coveralls altogether.

Words Which Annoy Me

A short list:

1. snack
2. niblet
3. nipple
4. crispy
5. crunchy
6. chunks
7. veggie (vegetable is fine)

Officially Bawling My Eyes Out

I finally see one episode of the t.v. show Grey's Anatomy, the one that rivals Lost in the "Nobody Can Shut Their Pie Holes About It" Department, it happens to be the season finale, I don't know any of the characters, and I'm bawling my fucking eyes out.

Good grief!

Even Doodle cat was concerned and sat closer to me on the sofa. Not facing me, of course, because that's gay. Just close enough to show me that she cares. I thought I saw her shed a little tear herself when they put the dog to sleep, but she's balls to the wall denying it. Typical.

I Just Want To Be Happy, Goddammit!

And what would make me happy right now is a little Crystal Light drink mix powder.

It turns tap water into wine.

But alas, the cupboards are bare. And I'm not going out to buy some, because I'm already in for the evening. Meaning, I'm wearing my Big Papi t-shirt, red fuzzy slippers, and no pants. Nobody's traveling anywhere for anything at this point.

Not even for Crystal Light.

Damn, if I only had the energy for pants!

It's Raining

It's been pouring rain in New England for a week straight. I just spoke with my mother--yep, still raining like a mofo. Of course, I'm concerned for the safety and well being of my family, but what prompted the call was : How is the rain going to affect the Red Sox schedule? Fenway must be swimming with trout at this point. The forecast calls for a lull in the rain on Wednesday, only to be followed by more storms on the weekend. My folks are handling it with cocktails.

Mrs. Freshley v. Mrs. Staley

Mrs. Freshley's carrot cake is in the vending machine.

Mrs. Staley teaches second grade at Hardin Elementary School.

Both are good looking, but one of them could use a better undergarment.

Ding Dong, Avon Calling!

And it ain't pretty...

Doodle in Vermont, 12/05

This Song is Sad

You can't make someone love you if they don't. And even if you know deep down that they do, it still might not be enough, because you need to hear it, you need to see it, you need to feel it. So you break up. And sometimes you forget that you're not in love anymore, and it's hard to move on. Because then you remember that your ovaries are exploding with dust, you're two years from menopause, you have $250 to retire on so you can't retire, and you'll be a senior citizen working the checkout counter in a truckstop, living in a trailer in the parking lot, and the truckers will have to take up a collection for your funeral. But the good news is that singles die younger than couples, so with luck you'll check out before the whole checkout counter thing.

Sigh.

Every once in awhile, a ride in a taxi cab can be cathartic. Sure, generally they're highly nauseating experiences, but on Saturday night a great song came on Lite FM, and I had the driver blast it as we sped down Fifth Avenue. It was a long ride, so I got to hear the whole song, and I was lovin' every minute of it. That Michael McDonald is a funny looking fellow, but he's got a great voice and he's one hell of a lyricist.

I Keep Forgetting (Every Time You Are Near) by Michael McDonald

I keep forgettin we're not in love anymore
I keep forgettin things will never be the same again
I keep forgettin how you made that so clear
I keep forgettin every time that you are near
Every time I see your smile
Give you a hello, can you stay a while
Heaven knows it time for you to say the things
We both know are true
But darling I keep forgettin
We're not in love anymore
I keep forgettin things will never be the same again
I keep forgettin how you made that so clear
I keep forgettin every time I hear
How you never want to live a lie
How we're supposed to follow
You don't have to tell me why
Why you going
And why the game is through
If this is not true
If this is not true
Tell me how I keep forgettin
I'm in love with you
Hey babe
Things will never be the same, again
I keep forgettin how you made that so real
Yeah yeah baby
Don't say that
Don't say that
Don't say that
I know you're not mine, anymore
Any way
Any time
Tell me how we're not in love anymore
How come I keep forgettin
Things will never be the same
I keep forgettin how you made that so clear
I keep forgettin every time you are near
We're not in love anymore
Every time you're near me
Things will never be the same
Oh baby, how you made that so clear
Every time you are near

That's Entertainment, and This is Sheer Torture

you are hypnotized into watching my piece of crap show because of my powerful bug eyes

I watched a lot of fantastic entertainment this weekend. Starting from tonight and moving backwards, I saw HBO's Big Love, preceeded by The Sopranos. Both great. Next week looks even better. Outstanding examples of quality cable television*.

Last night I had the pleasure of watching the amazing Honi Harlow's burlesque show Alice in Fuderland for ten beans, complete with attitude and magic tricks by Scotty the Blue Bunny, singer Jenn Wehrung who sang Janis Joplin so well she was accused of lip synching, and most importantly, tastefully showcased tits and ass of all sizes, pasties a flyin'. A outstanding example of quality theater.

Friday night, Conan O'Brien did his show--his last of the week in Chicago--at the Chicago Theater. Guests were Illinois Senator Barack Obama and Wilco, Andy Richter made a cameo to take the desk out for a ride with Conan, and George Wendt made an appearance and gave Chewbacca a sexual massage. An outstanding example of quality network television.

Following Conan, in comes Last Call with Carson Daly.

WHAT AN OUTSTANDING PIECE OF SHIT!!!!!!


It is so terrible, that I feel words fail me when I attempt to describe it. It is so utterly horrible, that when I try to share the horrors of his monologue, his show bits, his claim to have taste in music, his hair, his toolish yellow rubber bracelet, and finally his eyeballs, which are constantly popped out of his vacuous mailbox sized head--I, I, I cannot.

It reminds me of a very bad thing Doodle cat did one morning a few years ago. She was semi-entitled to her transgression, as I had been working 75 hour weeks, and she was hoppin' mad about the lack of attention. One morning, I heard her scratching at the carpet in the middle of the bedroom. She had been trying to wake me up since 5:30, but I kept shooing her out and turning over. She was relentless. More relentless than an alarm clock and you can't hit it or throw it across the room.

And then there was the digging. "What are you doing?!?" I finally shout, standing up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes to see what the hell Doodle was fussing with. At first I thought it was a pile of her toys, and then after a closer look, I realized that was only a little bit true.

"What the fuck?"

It was a huge pile of shit. At least five or six craps, reaching for the sky. She was "burying" them with fuzz from the carpet she that was "digging" up, and to finish off the poop sundae was a the multi colored feather tail of a white toy mouse, like the cherry on the tippy top. Fresh and lying in wait for my bare foot. A shit trap.

Just like Last Call with Carson Daly.

Do you know that he has a segment called "Garbage Time" where he goes over odd /strange news or web stories (like MTV's webjunk) and makes fun of "stupid" people, yet his own fucking show isn't on there? What a smug idiot. He had some schmutz on the arm of his suit, when he came out for his monologue, and his director was trying to tell him, "Hey, you have something on your lapel..." and Carson kept rubbing it and talking about the neat invention of the lint roller and being all snitty with him like, "What? It's gone, right? What are you talking about? Take it easy" trying to make him look like an asshole, nervous and eager to rush through his shiiiiiittty monologue...But it wasn't lint, the director was right, and it was distracting, because it looked like cum. Which it probably was.

The End

*Same for Real Time with Bill Maher, his last show of the season was Friday, and it was funny as hell. He said that the President's approval ratings are so low they're even getting to artists like Toby Keith, who previously was a supporter but has now recently put out an album, "What the Fuck Was I Thinking?" and he went through the song titles including "Like a Rhinestone Asshole" --I laughed out loud at that one.

You Can Say That Again

"Fighting for peace is like fucking for chastity." -Fran Liebowitz


"He is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him." -Oscar Wilde


"As the prostitute once said, 'It's not the work. It's the stairs.'" -Elaine Stritch

One Hell of an Underrated Flick

Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, directed by Martin Scorcese, 1974. This movie was on Channel 13 last night; I had Netflixed it before, but it took another look to confirm that it is one of my all tme favorites. It stars Ellen Burstyn, Kris Kristofersson, Harvey Keitel, Diane Ladd, Jodie Foster and more--including Mel of Mel's Diner fame--it's the movie that inspired the sitcom Alice.

Burstyn is outstanding, and so is her kid, Tommy, played by Alfred Lutter (The Bad News Bears). Their dialogue is pants-pissing funny. He's about 10, her husband just died, and they're driving cross country in search of a new start:

Ellen: Let's you and me get gussied up tonight and paint the town red, like my grandma used to say.
Tommy: What?
Ellen: I said, let's get you cleaned up and we'll go out amongst 'em.
Tommy: What?
Ellen: What, are you Helen Keller? I said, let's go out and have a nice dinner tonight. Geez.

If you haven't seen it. See it! You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll fuckin' love it.

Wow, What a Bad Job!

The year was 1992, and my future was so bright--that's right--shades, bitch! I had just graduated from Hamilton College and banged out an A++ on my 70 page History thesis even though I handed it in wearing my cap and gown.

Kids, you don't get A plus plusses on your papers if you smoke grass in college--so just say no. Until senior week, that is. Then, feel free to go crazy.

Over the summer, I went to Katharine Gibbs Secretarial School (the finest in the land, I might add), at my mother's suggestion, because I didn't know how to type. It'd be easier to find a job once I got to the Big Apple, and all. My mother had gone there in the day when hats and gloves were required. The dress code had relaxed a bit since then, but I still had to go dressed corporately, in a suit, with the pantyhose and the heels and all that horribleness. Classes were from about 9-5, 5 days a week. I learned how to type, how to write business letters, how to take shorthand, how to DOS my ass off. I hated it. But I quickly realized Katharine Gibbs' main purpose--giving you the heads up on the rest of your life.

"Hey, if you hate this shit, you're really going to hate your job! Welcome to your future, sucker!"

I got my first job through a friend of a friend of a friend's mother, who was good friends with the manager of a post-production video house that did all most of the editing for MTV. Shows like Yo, MTV Raps and the first Real World. I was to the receptionist, for a salary something like $19,000 a year. The place was kind of a dump, but it was a job.

It was a bad job.

I found my job description going through some old paperwork. Typed by Robin, that manager friend of a friend of a friend. It was typed in all caps on a word processor--remember those pieces of shit? This was back before the internet, back before cell phones--say what grandma? --back before I thought I deserved any dignity in the work place. I will type it for you, exactly as it reads.

And thank your bloody stars this isn't your job. Enjoy!

--------------------

INTEROFFICE MEMO

DATE: 10/27/92

TO: ANNE

FROM: ROBIN

SUBJECT: RESPONSIBILITIES

THE FOLLOWING OUTLINES YOUR DAILY ROUTINE. IF THERE IS EVER A PROBLEM COMPLETING ANY OF THESE TASKS, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

ANSWER THE PHONES AND TAKE APPRORPIATE MESSAGES. THIS INCLUDES MESSAGES FOR THE OTHER OFFICE. IT IS YOUR JOB TO MAKE SURE THAT THESE MESSAGES GET TO THE OTHER OFFICE. MARC HAS HIS OWN MESSAGE PAD. NEVER THROW THESE AWAY.

COFFEE AND MORNING BREAKFAST. PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT THERE IS ALWAYS FRESH COFFEE. THE FOOD AREA MUST BE KEPT CLEAN. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE INVENTORY FOR COFFEE, WATER, SODA, FILTERS, SUGAR, SWEET AND LOW, PAPER PLATES, TEA, SOUP, PAPER TOWELS, STIRRERS, UTENSILS AND HOT CHOCOLATE. BEFORE YOU LEAVE AT NIGHT AND IF THERE ARE NO LATE NIGHT EDITS, THE COFFEE BURNERS MUST BE TURNED OFF AND THE COFFEE POTS EMPTIED. IF THERE IS BREAKFAST FOOD LEFT PAST 2:00 PM, PLEASE THROW IT AWAY.

LUNCH ORDERS. PLEASE PUT THE MENU BOOKS IN THE ROOMS BY 11:30 AM. YOU WILL TAKE DOWN THE ORDERS FROM THE CLIETNS, ORDER THE FOOD FROM THE VENDORS, POST THE ORDERS ON THE BULLETIN BOARD, BRING THE LUNCHES INTO THE CLIENTS, OFFER THEM SODA AND GET IT*, AND MAKE SURE THE TRAYS ARE CLEANED OUT OF THE ROOMS WITHIN AN HOUR OF RECEIVING THE ORDER. ALL LUNCH RECIEPTS SHOULD BE STAMPED AND INCLUDE THE DAY, DATE, JOB NUMBER, NAME OF THE CLIETNS AND AMOUNT WITH TIP INCLUDED. A COPY OF THE RECIEPPT MUST BE INCLUDED IN THE CLIENT'S JOB JACKET. THE ORIGINAL MUST GO TO GEORGIANNA AT THE OTHER OFFICE.

WHEN SENDING ANYTHING INTEROFFICE, PLEASE USE USED ENVELOPES. GET A SUPPLY FROM KATHY. MARYANNE ORDERS ALL OFFICE SUPPLIES. IF WE ARE LOW, PLEASE LET HER KNOW.

ON ALL HOUSE LUNCH RECIEPTS, PLEASE LIST THE PEOPLE WHO ATE.

THE SCHEDULE. PLEASE TYPE THE SCHEDULE EVERY NIGHT. IT SHOULD BE DISTRIBUTED TO GEORGE, KATHY, ROBIN, DUB ROOM AND A COPY GOES IN THE BOX TO THE OTHER OFFICE. JOB CARDS AND JOB CARD FOLDERS MUST BE DONE AT NIGHT. ALL JOB CARD FOLDERS MUST BE PUT IN THE APPROPRIATE ROOMS PRIOR TO THE EDIT.

PLEASE CHECK EVERY DAY THAT YOU HAVE RECEIVED FILLED OUT JOB CARDS FROM THE DAY BEFORE. I SHOULD RECEIVE COMPLETE JOB CARDS WITHOIN 8 HOURS OF COMPLETION OF THE JOB. PLEASE COORDINATE WITH KATHY TO SEE THAT YOU HAVE ALL OF THE PPAER WORK. THE END OF THE MONTH IS AN ESPECIALLY CRITICAL TIME FOR BILLING.

PLEASE MAKE SURE THT THE CRECEPTION ARE IS KEPT CLEAN. THIS INCLUDES THROING AWAY OLD MAGAZINES ON A REGULAR BASIS.

OUTSIDE MESSENGERS DON'T USE OUR PHONES.

YOU WILL HAVE TO PLACE LONG DISTANCE CALLS FOR CLIENTS AND KEEP A RECORDS. ASK KATHY TO SHOW YOU THE RECORD SHEET. IF SOMEONE MAKES A LOT OF LONG DISTANCE ALLS, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

YOU MAY BE ASKED TO ASSIST WITH TYPING LABELS, LOGGING TAPES FOR SHIPPING, AND LIBRARY WORK.

PLEASE SET THE ANSWERING MACHINE AND THE NIGHT LINE BEFORE YOU LEAVE AT NIGHT. PLEASE CHECK THE ANSWERING MACHINE EVERY MORNING.

WE THOUGHT TIHS WOULD HELP YOU GET STARTED. IF YOU HAVE NY QUESTIONS, PLEASE ASK. WE WISH YOU THE BEST OF LUCK AND WELCOME TO VIDEO PLANNING.

---------------------------------------

Robin was a crazy bitch, Marc was an asshole, and I was fired for dating their senior editor, a great guy who remained my boyfriend for 3 years. It was also at this job that the phenom producer Rob Fox gave me my nickname, The Happy Bitter Girl, and I realized my future didn't require those sunglasses anymore. Sigh.

*My favorite part of the whole memo. Hitting it home for me, just in case there was any confusion for me on this one, in case I might think that I'd offer the soda, and then not get it, thinking that the getting it part was someone else's job. My assistant's, perhaps.

Your Momma

Call her. It's Mother's Day. It's the least you can do. She carried your fat ass around for 9 months and then had to shoot you out of her cooter while your Dad was somewhere picking his nose. Show her some respect, ayite?

The Golden Lobes

The Red Sox won the series against the Yanks in Yankee territory last week, thankfully.

Unfortunately, Bosox killer Hideki Matsui fell on his wrist, forcing it to bend in a way that wrists aren't supposed to bend in nature--eeeeww--and the poor guy is undergoing surgery and most definitely is out for the season. I'm not disappointed that he's done for this year and perhaps beyond--because he is dangerous indeed--but I am sad because he's one of the few Yankees I really respect and never wished him ill will.

Why didn't he break his fall on one of his trampoline sized ear lobes? Carve that thing in 3 diagonals, pierce it with cloves and pineapple, and you're easily feeding six for Easter with leftovers.

The Best Laid Plans

I actually tidied up the place for the cable guy. Not that we were going to get it on or anything, but I figured it'd be nice to make a good first impression. Plus, who knows how much rootin' around he'd have to do behind televisions and stuff, and how much dust can a person ingest before it's considered impolite? I was so excited for the visit, I planned it weeks ago and had been thinking about it for years.

Turns out it was all for not. I was blown off. He was supposed to arrive between 2-6 p.m. I placed a few bets with friends on when he'd arrive, they said 4:15, I said 3:00. We were both wrong. Jerk called around 4 to say he was on his way. Then at around 5:30 called again to say "I was on my way, and then I had to do another job, so when I'm done with that job, I'll be right over." I said, "Ok."

What was I supposed to say? I was held hostage, desperate for my Triple Play Package. Visions of a high-speed connection and a remote control which has the little channel info thingie to tell you what the movie is about so you don't have to look it up old timey timey style in your Lenny Maltin guide. Well, at 6:30, and the douche wasn't here, I was getting antsy, angry, and fed up. At 6:45, I was on the phone with Time Warner Cable, telling him to tell that dude just to forget about it, and what free shit are you going to give me in compensation for me wasting a day waiting for him to arrive? Three months of Showtime. Showtime? Blow me.

"He said he'll be there in a half hour."

"That's what he said an hour ago!" I said. Now he wouldn't get here until 7 something. And I thought I had a date at 8, so I didn't want to be late for that possibility. Turns out I was stood up for that too, though at this point I blame myself, because if I had confirmed earlier, then I would have known for sure, instead of a maybe. But I tried, calling, emailing, and now it looks like I could have had cable guy come after all, and right now I'd be enjoying my high-speed blogging abilities, on the sofa with Doodle, watching my free Showtime and eating popcorn. Showtime?

Now I'm in a bad mood.

So, I'm going to go see some titties tonight at a burlesque show. Not that titties do anything for me, but why not. My gal Jenn Wehrung is doing a show as Bella Da Balls with Honi Harlow at the Vital Theater tonite at 11pm. Tell 'em Honi with an "i" sent you and you get five beans off the cover charge. Can't beat that with a beating machine.

And it's better than staying home to watch your Showtime consolation prize.

My cable guy has been rescheduled for May 20. No word on the other guy.

So You Say You're From Western New York State

This is a typical Altman family photo. Our family is a regular family, just like yours. But is your family from Western New York? If so, you'll recognize the hidden signs crammed into this one shot.

If not, you're going to have to work a little harder. Think of it as a game on the back of your Froot Loops or a Denny's place mat. Put on your Western New York State Thinkin' Cap and get goin'! How many clues can you spot? Good luck!

QVC

Look at these gorgeous gauchos! I learned all about them on QVC last night. To my chagrin, really. I couldn't find the remote, and I was simply too fatigued to find it. So, as the pretty ladies shook, touched, and fondled the gorgeous gauchos, they described the "detail elements" of the fabric, the "illusion element" of the waistband, the "illusion effect" of the lettuce edging, and the "element effect" of gauchos in general.

"Oooooh, yes, Barbara--that's another illusion effect right there, and if you're just joining us, we're on item number 3700GC, in brown, and black, and wow, we're already sold out of the blue..."

Nevermind that the models modeling the gauchos are size 2, and they don't even sell size 2. Nevermind also that gauchos should never find themselves on anyone size 1x, 2x, 3x+, and "We're sold out of the 1x, 3x, and there's a waitlist for the 2x..." Scratch that. Gauchos should not find themselves on anyone any size. Just goes to show you what brilliant salesladies these broads are, making up phrases left and right and selling the shit out of the gauchos anyway.

Today is a big day for me. Today is the day that the cable man comes to install the illusion effect of high-speed internet access, the detail elements of digital phone, and the element effect of the modern cable box. I can't wait to enjoy the illusion elements of the triple play package from Time Warner Cable!

Welcome to the nineties, Anne!

The National Lead Achievement Award

Hells yeah the Hal Niles Orchestra played at the National Lead Retirement Picnic! Who'd you think they were gonna get? They were so hot they almost burned the lead paint I mean wood paneling off the wall!

National Lead is indeed dead. It closed 25 years ago and now their 400 acre site is contaminated to holy hell. We didn't know back then that it was bad. We thought it was a wonder metal. We put it in everything. I remember reading some article where these early explorers all died en route to the place they were exploring. For hundreds of years people thought they were murdered or what not, it was an unsolved mystery. Until, that is, they did modern day tests on the remains and realized it was from the canned goods--cans made of lead.

How about lead toys? Those are fun! Here's an old National Lead advertisement. "Lead whistles back and forth in every play on the baseball diamond. It is at the bottom of every football scrimmage. It leaps back and forth across the tennis net. Lead influences every stroke a golfer takes, and is the fisherman's helper..." In the nursery "the little boy's eyes shine with excitement as he takes his new lead soldiers out" and "his sister peacefully plays with her new dolls with lead-weighted eyes and her miniature furniture and other toys often made of lead." [Note: lead poisoning can cause dullness of eyes and mind.] (December 1923)

And that's it for The National Lead series. Check back for another series of random photographs of random shit I bought for some random reason and we'll explore them further with the help of Le Superhighway de Information! Or not.

I Worked at National Lead for 50 Years

And all I got was this lousy watch?



PISSED! ENRAGED!

No, you're not seeing things!

Of course that's a monkey on a horse with a sword!

Great News!

Bush's approval rating has dropped 4 points to a new low of 29. Awesome! How does he do it?

I'm so excited about his new tax cut proposal! I'm so going to save a fortune! A fortune, I say!

RV

I realize that for many of you, I am your number one source for news, so I should update you on some current events. Here goes. In entertainment news, Robin Williams is in a movie that is terrible. Mind you, I haven't seen it, and I won't see it, because it's Robin Williams and he's annoying and hairy, and should have stopped at Mork, but I can assure you it's bad. It's called RV. From the commercials, it seems as if the producers have made an attempt to cash in on that Vacation success by ripping it off completely, as they do. Cheryl Hines plays his wife, which is sort of disappointing because I like her, but who wouldn't want to sell out for some quick cash? Please, I'd be all over that flick like bums on baloney but wouldn't see it. Ok, that's it for the news.

The RV idea is another rip off, incidentally. This time, they borrowed from the book of Altman: The Infamous Altman Family Winnebago Trip of 1980. I was a brat; my sister was in a stroller. The legend goes that she was better behaved. That is true. I vaguely remember beating my fists on the floor of the RV because I couldn't take another Civil War battlefield, and my father was bribing me with an offer of Busch Gardens. Of course my sister was better behaved She didn't know what the hell was going on. Longest. Trip. Of. My. Life.

Here is a shot of me and my Dad with my sister on his shoulders, traipsing through Johnsonburg, PA, ol' homestead of the Altman Clan 100 years ago. I'm pouting and dragging ass. Look at my long legs! It's clear that I stopped growing at 11. Upwards, anyway. Check out the white short shorts with the piping.









You'll notice here, my Dad's caterpillar mustache that he was supposed to leave behind in the seventies where it belonged, but kept it a few more years because they were good friends, and then when he shaved it off my sister cried because she didn't recognize him without it and watching him eat grossed her out.

You can get a better shot of my shorts in this photo (blue piping), and of course, I'm rockin' Dr. Scholl's, but most importantly, I am wearing the yellow I'm With Stupid t-shirt.


There's a whole album of this kind of fun, and even though most of it is pictures of road signs and places and people you don't know, I willing to bet it's better than that piece of crap movie RV. You know, cause it's the real thing.

How Does One Lampoon a Buffoon?

This photo is on the cover of The New York Times today. I noticed it on the floor in front of my neighbor's apartment as I was waiting for the elevator, the first in triple-take. This is unusual, because most of the time if I do happen to get a glimpse of this turd's face, I recoil in horror. The elevator came, I got in, and from the elevator I looked at his face again, staring at me upside down from the floor--and I just had to look at it up close. So I got out of the elevator, and picked up the paper to see if what I was looking at was as compelling as it seemed from a distance.

It was!

Look at him! He has morphed into a characture of himself! How do you do a characture of a characture? A characture artist would be at a complete loss.

"I can't work with this," he'd say. "It's already finished. What do you want me to do? Add roller skates and a surf board, and a tennis racket, and have him juggling? And then throw in a painting of George Washington? "

Even if you trekked into the deep, dark, recesses of the tropical rainforest (what's left of it, anyway) and showed this photo to an indiginous person (what's left of them, anyway) who has never seen a newspaper, let alone a white man, he'd point to it and say in his indiginous language:

"Retard!"

Cheers, Big Ears!

National Lead Retirement Picnic ~ Sayreville, NJ ~ 1958

Thanks for the Watch

National Lead Retirement Dinner ~ Sayreville, New Jersey ~ 1958

Why Are People A-Holes?

First thing in the morning? Like for example, when you're trying to get on the elevator in your apartment building and some twat who thinks she's so great is standing right in the way of the door when it opens, so she can be the first one off the elevator when it gets to the lobby, even though it's only you and she, so that you have to smush by her with all your stuff like your garment bag and other crap you need for a event tonight, and she doesn't even make eye contact or move because she thinks she's better than you are, even though you've been living in the building longer and are as cute, if not cuter than this broad who thinks she's so great and doesn't have any fucking manners?

Deep breath.

Bitch!