the phantom of the hoff-era

The Hoff has been rushed to the hospital! At first I thought maybe his creepy daughter attacked him or a disgruntled Sharpei nipped him in the balls, but then I read CNN's report further:

The 53-year-old actor... was shaving at a gym in the Sanderson Hotel on Thursday when he hit his head on a chandelier, showering his arm with broken glass...

WTF? Who has a run-in with a chandelier while shaving? Where was he shaving?! On the top rung of a ladder? WTF, The Hoff?

Here's my theory: The Hoff sang "The Music of the Night" to some chippy he's had his eye on. She rebuffed his advances (aka plugged her ears) and took up with a chap named, oh I don't know... Raoul. Upon seeing this, The Hoff flew into a jealous rage and tried to lower the chandelier on Raoul's head. Instead, he bonked his own noggin on it, sending shards of glass raining down upon himself.

Serves you right, The Hoff.

strep show

Dude. I have strep throat. I haven't had strep since I was in, like, third grade or whatever. I remember getting it and my sisters were all mad at me because they all had to take antibiotics at the same time to prevent them from catching it. Yeah, because taking preventative medication is SO much worse than the funk growing on my throat? Selfish!

Um, clearly I have some unresolved issues with my sisters...

Anyhoo, The Lovely Jess also recently battled a juvenile illness herself (an ear infection). We discussed our respective bouts with funky kiddie illnesses and both fully expect to develop the following before long: chicken pox, diaper rash, mumps, pink eye, foot and mouth disease and head lice.

Ah, youth.

i've got chills, they're multiplyin'

No seriously, I do. Yesterday a faint throb in my throat surfaced. Convinced it was just a case of parched throat, I drank plenty of fluids -- okay, beer -- to quench the small flames starting to lick at my tonsils. As the day progressed, my throat felt like I had eaten the bottle my Sam Adams Light was housed in.

I shuffled home and crumpled on my couch, in an achy, shivering heap. I reached for the afghan my mother crocheted me when I was nine and still trembled beneath its soft, cozy thickness. I dragged my sorry ass into bed only to be kept awake by my fluctuating body temperature and an overall dull pain marching around the perimeter of my body. One thought entered my mind: "Oh God, please don't let me puke."

I am the biggest baby when it comes to the vomiting. I whimper and feel all sorry for myself. Occasionally, I cry. Call me a baby but yo, having the entire contents of my stomach violently and quickly forced back out my mouth? I no likey. Fortunately, the puking never came. But I barely slept a wink last night and today I'm a clammy, feverish, nauseous mess.

I would like to say that this bout of the funk came courtesy of a wild Pride weekend. Alas, I had to miss the parade yesterday to attend a 40th birthday party for my brother-in-law. Saturday was a bust because my delicate, lazy ass couldn't abide the rain thereby preventing me from attending the Dyke March and its various after parties. Sadly, my Pride activities were rather limited this year. Although, there was a rather raucous game of Spin the Bottle played at a fabulous pre-Pride party I went to on Friday night. Wanna know how gay the party was? A Julia Sugarbaker (of Designing Women) monologue was performed. Flawlessly and with major 'tude. Need I say more?

But back to Spin the Bottle -- I was smooching people left and right. Seriously, I found myself in a rather lucky position favored by the bottle courtesy of a sloping wood floor. Good times. Good times. My lips were, how you say, chapped by night's end. Give it up for lip balm. And communicable diseases, apparently.

I hope all you gays had a fun, event-filled and funk-free Pride weekend. I wish I could say that same. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have some toast and ginger ale and watch some garbage TV.

my way gay tale of even gayer gayness

I survived my first-ever WYSIWYG Talent Show! I stressed out majorly before going on but I really had a great time up on that stage. I think my story went over well. Um, I also think that there's a whole new crop of people out there who think I'm a complete bitch based on my scathing critique of dates gone bad, but hey, them's the breaks. People are bound to find out sooner or later that I'm a real asswipe, no?

A big thank you to Chris, Andy and Dan for allowing me to get my WYSIWYG on. It was an honor and a pleasure to share the spotlight with Rod Townsend, The Spinster, Greg Walloch, dj:ayden, Joe.My.God and Joel Derfner. What illustrious company I keep!!! Thank you so much for the opportunity. You were all amazing!

For those of you who couldn't make it, here's the piece I read last night:

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sometime last year, my fellow WYSIWYGer tonight, Joe.My.God, sent an email to a bunch of us homo bloggers and posed the question: What is the gayest thing you've ever done?

I thought it would be easy enough to answer. After all, I'm one of The Homosexuals and therefore can easily rattle off a list of things that make me a big ol' lez.

For one, there's the whole aversion to cock thing. Secondly... actually, wait... I guess that right there makes it an open and shut case, no? I don't like dick. Simple.

But believe you me, there are a litany of ways in which I earn my Sapphic stripes so I felt like I was more than up to Joe.My.God's challenge... until I started trying to write about it. As I sifted through my memories trying to find something that demonstrated my over-the-top dykedom, I couldn't find shit. I had not a single, salacious story to share so I just ended up slapping together some lame nonsense about the overly-schmoopie things my ex-girlfriend and I used to do for each other.

For example, she wrote me tons of free-verse poetry and gave me lots of dolphin brick-a-brack and in exchange, I adopted us a whale and made her dozens of mix tapes which, in retrospect, were quite heavy on the 10,000 Maniacs. Now, that might seem like an odd and incongruous musical choice but it was a two-pronged approach really. I felt like I could not only woo this girl with some of Natalie Merchant's more syrupy lyrics, but I could also raise her level of awareness of things like child abuse, illiteracy, corporate greed, the Great Depression, teenage pregnancy, freedom of choice and oil spills.

But, as I fully expected, my less-than-tawdry tale barely ranked as queer next to some of the others in Joe's compilation. And I'm not sure how my account tonight will stack up on the Way Gay meter so, instead of trying to outgay anyone, I'm opting instead to stick with what I know best -- making fun of people.

So, without further ado...

I went out with a woman last year and how do I put this delicately? I banged her on the second date. A day or two later, after said banging, I received an email from her that went a little something like this:

Curly,
I just wanted to thank you for the other night. It was wonderful spending time with you... and making love with you. You are a gifted and amazing lover.

OH.MY.GOD. I wasn't even that freaked out by the level of intimacy she had assumed about us. No. No. I was more concerned that I had just fucked someone who actually used the term "making love" in all seriousness. As well as the word "lover." Without irony. Or a funny accent.

Now lest you think I'm an ingrate, I must say that I appreciate a nice thank you note as much as the next person but well, in this case it's a bit unnecessary. The screaming orgasms -- note the plural -- and the scratch marks down my back were all the thanks I needed, really.

About two years ago, while perusing the online personals, I came across an intriguing profile. I was immediately taken with her cool name. It was the same name as a rather crunchy city in Arizona, which I just assumed was where she was born or conceived or something. Actually, I had envisioned quite the back story for this woman based solely on this name. I theorized that her parents were hippy-dippy academics and she was their free-spirited daughter who favored peasant blouses, flowing skirts and bare feet and probably always had a good stash of weed on hand.

We hit it off over email and agreed to a date. I was really looking forward to meeting her. I arrived first and nervously waited for the beautiful hippie of my imagination to appear. I was all atwitter over the possibilities.

A few minutes later, in bounds a woman with stringy brown hair, pale, dull skin and the same build and carriage as Jar Jar Binks.

When she thrust out a bony hand and introduced herself to me, my heart which was so puffed up with hope and expectation deflated and shot around the room like an unsealed balloon.

Instead of the envisioned bare feet and a flowing skirt, she was wearing lug-soled shoes that were far too large and clunky for the tapered-ankle high-waisted Mom jeans she was wearing. And in place of the delicate peasant blouse was a thick black Champion sweatshirt. Actually, I could tell it used to be black but by now, it was more of a charcoal gray because of age and repeated exposure to detergent.

And there was no killer weed to be found on this girl. The only type of drug paraphernalia on her was an EpiPen. Turns out, this chick was allergic to her own snot. And her allergies were so bad, she couldn't risk eating or drinking anything that she didn't prepare herself so she brought a small cooler bag containing quite the nut-free, gluten-free, dairy-free assortment. Oh, and some orange shit in a Poland Spring bottle that I didn't even want to know about. And then she offered me some of her hypoallergenic stash with the same ease and expectation as if she was offering me an Altoid.

The outlook was not good but I held out hope for some stimulating conversation. I don't know what I was thinking. There was a better chance of monkeys flying out both our butts. Actually, that's probably not the best choice of expression because knowing her allergies, monkeys flying out the butt was probably a side effect she suffered as a result of eating, I don't know... soy or something.

So, needless to say that stimulating conversation never quite materialized. Instead, she spent most of the time talking about her various reactions in gruesome and excruciating detail as well as the life-saving benefits and properties of epinephrine. Um, in case you were wondering, talking about anaphylaxis on a first date? Soooooooooo NOT hot.

But her name still interested me so once I got her to stop yapping about her freakish swelling and violent vomiting spells, I inquired about its origin. It turns out that after one visit to, uh... for the sake of protecting her identity, we'll call it... uh, I don't know, Flagstaff... she decided that she liked the "energy fields" and the "unique aura." So much so that she needed to rechristen herself... Flagstaff.

Now, I don't know about the rest of you but when I really like a place I visit, I just buy myself a nice magnet or a coffee cup or something. Granted, I realize I don't have much sway in arguing against renaming oneself as I stand before you as Curly McDimple (not my real name) but then again, I'm not demanding that family, friends, coworkers and random people I meet on Nerve address me as such. Uh, just you guys here.

And the thing is, Flagstaff's real name was, like, Elizabeth or whatever. And well, the whole thing is just silly especially when you consider that there's a perfectly good city bearing her Christian name right across the Hudson over here. I mean, one could argue that Elizabeth, New Jersey also possesses "energy fields" and a "unique aura." Sure, the "energy fields" will most likely give you inoperable cancer and that "unique aura" possesses a smell that's akin to a dirty diaper hitting you in the face shit-side up, but still, Elizabeth's not without its charms.

I didn't always rely on online dating. When I first came out, I tried to meet people the old-fashioned way. I enlisted the help of my dear friend from high school, Filomena. Unfortunately, I think she took the whole "old-fashioned" thing a little too literally. In one of my first ventures out into the scene, she took me to a dance... sponsored by SAGE.

For you breeders in the audience, that acronym stands for Senior Action in a Gay Environment. In other words, it's for old people. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but massive amounts of gratitude and respect for our elder statesmen. I just don't necessarily want to slow dance to "Always and Forever" with them.

And while I really appreciated Filomena's efforts, it was just a bit much for my first time out. Seriously, we were there not five minutes before a woman closely resembling Leather Tuscadero hit on me. And then right after that, Donna Summer's English-version remake of that Andrea Bocelli song blared from the sound system much to the delight of the aging throngs and it suddenly turned into motherfucking Soul Train in there. I saw one old lady using her walking stick as a go-go pole of sorts and a bunch of old biddies engaged in some hard-core bumping and grinding and I got all overwhelmed and started to cry right there in the middle of the dance floor. So we left.

But Filomena was trying to be supportive and didn't want the night to be a total wash so she suggested that we go to Rubyfruit but then she couldn't remember where it was and I had never been there so I was of no use, so after wandering around the West Village aimlessly for a bit, we just went home. In retrospect, it was a good thing because I've since been to Rubyfruit and the clientele is not that much younger than at a SAGE dance. In fact, there's a lot of demographic overlap.

I finally braved Rubyfruit about a year or two ago and it looked like a fucking softball clinic in there. One woman gestured to me and I wasn't clear if she wanted me to dance with her or lay down a nice bunt. Had we gone there that night after the dance, I would have been permanently scarred. Primarily because a lot of the women in there looked like Ms. Neuschwander, our scary freshman-year gym teacher who favored polo shirts tucked into pleated, khaki shorts and was prone to slapping young girls on the ass as they got on and off the pommel horse.

So, after all my name-calling and ridiculing is said and done, it should perhaps come as no surprise to you that yes, I'm still single. Yup, I'm available and ripe for the picking, ladies. Not sure that's an enticing proposition because by now you might be thinking I'm judgmental, a bit immature, a tad obnoxious, slightly shallow perhaps, emotionally stunted even. And to that I say... uh, well, nothing, because you're right.

But hey, I'm not without merit entirely. My time is up so I can't go into my finer points at length. But allow me to leave you all with these four words: GIFTED AND AMAZING LOVER.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Thanks to everyone who came out to support me. Last night was a whirlwind so if I didn't get to properly thank you face-to-face, I promise I will do so. Extra special thanks to The Lovely Jess who served as therapist, cheerleader, wardrobe consultant, personal manager and so much more. You're the best. Thank you.

bruce willis throws like a boy

According to CNN, Bruce Willis is suing a photographer for $1 million. Something about defamation of character or some shit like that. While I have no issue with the former Moonlighting star being so litigious, I have to wonder why the leading man of tough-guy movies like Die Hard didn't sue the pants off the shutterbug who took this photo...

For further discussion of Bruce's piss-poor throwing skills, please click here.


Photo: New York Daily News

realizations and a recap

A quickie guide to my weekend...

1. Despite my Scottish heritage and the fact that I'm, like, a lesbian and stuff, I have NO aptitude for the game of golf whatsoever. For Father's Day, my sister gave my Dad this thing so that he can practice chipping the ball in the backyard. I'm athletic and can usually pick up a sport quite easily so I grabbed the chipper (is that what it's called?) and took a few swings. Let's see... I knocked one clear over the fence, sent a bunch of balls skidding past the target into a patch of Impatiens and launched the rest over near the compost bin in the far corner of the yard. I did not enjoy retrieving those. So, yes, it's safe to say that I suck at golf. Yet another stereotype smashed.

2. Christian Bale has a fucked-up grill.

3. My 10-month-old nephew (Wee Man) is babbling up a storm these days. After a few minutes of trying to place the voice, I realized that his clucks, gurgles, giggles and chirps make him sound just like Baby Smurf. It's uncanny, really.

4. Babies think sneezing is riotously funny. Parents, don't waste money on expensive toys and gadgets for your wee one. Just get a pepper mill and feather and let the fun begin. Seriously, allergies are a real knee-slapper amongst the diapered set.

5. My 6-year-old niece now knows the term "naked Twister" primarily because her dopey aunt couldn't change the radio station in the car fast enough. When asked about its meaning, I feigned ignorance and tried to change the subject. But the niece displayed uncharacteristic patience and focus and managed to figure out the definition on her own. Fortunately, she showed no interest in playing naked Twister. For now.

6. The niece banged on the bathroom door yesterday morning while I was in there getting ready. I pretended not to hear her hollering about "[having] to pooh" or whatever 'cause that's gross and I don't need to deal with that before my first cup of coffee. So I told her to wait her turn in the way that only a self-centered, childless, city-dwelling aunt can. The niece countered with the following statement: "Aunt Curly, you KNOW that I'm impastries."

Impatient, impastries... close enough. Oh and she's taken to calling certain articles of clothing "hideous." I welled up, I did.

wysiwyg reminder!

Hooo lawdy! It's only a few days until I perform at The WYSIWYG Talent Show. Let the trembling and panic attacks begin!

If you'd like to see me wage battle against my nerves, please stop by the Bowery Poetry Club on June 20 and cheer me on along with these fabulous bloggers whose company I am honored to keep:

:: Greg Walloch ::
:: Spinster ::
:: Joe.My.God ::
:: Rod Townsend ::
:: Joel Derfner ::
:: dj:ayden ::

UPDATE! The Bowery Poetry Club doesn't sell tickets in advance. Doors open at 7:30 so please arrive early to secure your spot. This show will sell out. Fear not about the early arrival time -- there's a well-stocked bar to keep you entertained until showtime.

Please visit the WYSIWYG site for more info. Hope to see you there!

who's the pussy now?!

As many of you already know, I kinda hate cats. Well, except for The Lovely Jess's two kitties. They're okay in my book. Oh, and this wee feline...

Click image to enlarge.

Caption: Jack, a feisty and territorial cat in West Milford, NJ, treed more than a canary. That's a black bear he cornered -- twice. It came down after 15 minutes, only to be immediately chased by Jack up another tree. Bear finally fled after owner took Jack inside.

Dude, this cat treed a bear. TWICE! Look at him just sitting at the foot of the tree in wait. What a bad ass!

Source: New York Daily News; 06.10.2006

duh, baryshnikov

This is what happens when Mejack and I try to discuss the Cold War...

Mejack: Did you see the movie White Nights?

Yours Truly: I did... IN THE MOVIE THEATER!

Mejack: SO DID I... TWICE.

YT: It was just once in the theater for me but there have been repeated viewings on cable on Saturday afternoons or whatever.

Mejack: Oh, I watch it whenever I find it. It's a gem.

Mejack: "WE ARE LANDING IN RUSSIA!"

Mejack: I love how Baryshnikov tries to flush his passport down an AIRPLANE TOILET!

YT: Yeah, really. What's that about? How big can a septic tank possibly be on a jumbo jet? All the KGB would need to find it is a skimmer, some gloves and a mask maybe.

Mejack: "VELKIM HOME, NIKOLAI."

YT: Just eat it, dude. Share it with your fellow passengers. Ask everyone to take a page and chow down.

Mejack: I know. Eating it would have been a much better idea.

YT: And then hide the vinyl cover in a vomit bag. Simple.

:: thoughtful silence ::

YT: You know, it's reassuring to know that I'm prepared to protect myself the next time I'm forced to make an emergency landing in a communist country.

Mejack: Especially if you are an illegally defected renowned ballet dancer.

YT: Because I am, you know.

Mejack: I'm not surprised.

debunking the myth about marcie's sexuality

More than one person has found his/her way to Ham & Cheese on Wry by questioning the nature of the relationship between one miss Peppermint Patty and her bespectacled buddy, Marcie.

Because I'm one of the gays and, you know, we all know each other, I can say without equivocation that no, Marcie is not a sister. It chagrins me to do so since, clearly, the recruitment efforts of another lesbian (hello, Peppermint Patty) were less-than-successful. But fear not, fellow dykes, at last check, Patty had surrendered her decoder ring and the secret handshake was changed so that she is no longer in-the-know. We can't have that kind of piss-poor lesbian in our midst at the monthly meetings, you see.

But back to Marcie... Total breeder. A breeder with jungle fever, no less. Girlfriend's totally got it bad for Franklin. And didn't she and Pierre partake in a little sumpin' sumpin' on that trip to France? Or am I mistaken? That Marcie gets around, yo. Not too shabby for a girl with Coke-bottle glasses and stringy hair.

Perhaps Marcie had a drunken one-time fling with Patty, but that's about it. If I had to guess, I'd say that dalliance occurred during the river rafting trip. Lesbian camping skills are a complete turn-on, after all.

If you want to discuss raging dykes within the Peanuts set, I'd say to look no further than The Little Red-Haired Girl. She's completely dismissive of Charlie Brown's advances. Downright hostile, you could say. I mean, I realize Charlie Brown could send Ann Coulter running into the loving arms of Condoleezza, but that's neither here or there. Besides, Condi's probably already hit that. Awwwwwwwwwww snap! Take down! Two points!

Ahem. The Little Red-Haired Girl is a complete closet case, if you ask me. But she'll soon discover her true self. It won't be long before she's the one calling Peppermint Patty "Sir," if you catch my meaning.

Psst, it means that Peppermint Patty is a stone butch. A total top, if you will.

Ew, you do NOT want to know what I just visualized. :: shudder ::

Photo: Peanuts

kevin aviance

I am lesbian who isn't too keen on public displays of affection. My British/Irish upbringing partly informs that behavior but the fear, however cowardly on my part, of being harassed is the overriding reason. But please know that I'm ashamed of myself for feeling like this. It's something about myself I actively try to change. I'm inspired by and grateful to the members of my community who give the big ol' F.U. to society and walk down the street hand-in-hand with nary a care about what the rest of the world thinks. I strive towards that. I really do.

I have publicly held hands with and kissed women in the past but what happened afterwards made me reluctant to do so again. We were catcalled, applauded and encouraged to give a free show by mindless male eyewitnesses. Not cool. But as off-putting as that brand of harassment is, it's nothing compared to what happened to Kevin Aviance. He was savagely beaten in the East Village this weekend. Words cannot adequately describe my sadness and disgust. I don't even know where to start.

Joe.My.God has information, reaction and an address where you can send cards and well wishes to Mr. Aviance.

full fathom five and seven-eighths

I cannot stop playing on this site. Here's some of my handiwork:

Clearly, my crack at Abstract Expressionism will not be a cause for concern for the Jackson Pollock estate...

grossest of the gross commercial poll results

Thank you all for voting in the grossest TV commercial poll. I know you've all been on pins and needles awaiting the results. Oh, shut up, you were too.

So, without further ado, the award for grossest TV commercial currently on the air goes to... (drumroll, please)...

The yellow blob of fungus thingy that wants to live under your nails!

A hearty congratulations to Digger the Dermatophyte for taking home top honors with a whopping 40 percent of the vote. Um, let's just hope that "home" is not my nail bed. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Kelly Ripa snagged 17 percent of the vote firmly landing her in second place. In other words, Regis Philbin's perky cohost ranks higher than explosive diarrhea, anal leakage, eight-hour erections, Q-tips poking around in the hole in a cancer patient's neck, crusty mayonnaise jars, garbage sniffing and cigar-smoking phlegm on the grossness scale. Uh, congrats, Kelly?!

Call your agent, Reege.

Click here to see the rest of the results.

Photos: Lamisil; ABC

soap from a dope

My sickness concerning The Hoff was of my own making. I initially sought out images and links to revolt and disgust myself and of course, you, my readership. But now the sickness sustains itself. Word has spread that I am THE point person for all things Hasselhoff. As a result, my in-box is often flooded with The Hoff's latest garish doings... and I couldn't be prouder.

Today's eyesore comes courtesy of Laura. Thanks for sending, my dear!

I'm at a loss for a truly good caption for this photo. I will say that hand-washing will probably reach an all-time low if this soap dispenser catches on. Not sure I really want to lather up with Michael Knight's spunk, you know? Anyhoo, feel free to write your own captions in the comments.

Want some mo' Hoff?

:: Boobwatch, Indeed
:: Irish Cheddar... and a Little Something for the Germans
:: The Hoff Super Fantastic Activity Fun Book
:: May The Hoff Rise up to Meet You
:: Season's Greetings from Curly and The Hoff
:: Wax On, Wax Hoff
:: A Wee Bit o' Schmaltz

a hidden health benefit for asthmatics

My asthma has been acting up a lot lately. In other words, I have been hungrily feasting on the Albuterol teat like it's my job, yo. But I've think I've discovered an upside to this much-maligned lung ailment.

While waiting for the meds to kick in and my lungs to stop seizing, I'm often riddled with hearty coughing fits that I feel from the tips of my storied toes to the split, slightly-damaged ends of my otherwise-enviable curly mane (I'm working on it).

Now I'm sure that seems positively horrific to those of you with a healthy set o' lungs, but fear not! There is a silver lining to my spastic respiratory system! Violent coughing fit = my abs getting quite the rigorous workout.

Fuck Pilates! Who the hell needs Abs of Steel? I just need to lay off the rescue inhaler and I'll have a six-pack in no time. It is bathing suit season, after all.

what's grosser than gross?

In Saturday's post, I went off on a wee tangent (surprise, surprise!) concerning disgusting commercials. Several of you posted your nominees in the comments. The rest of you provided detailed information on tracheotomies, stomas and the correct medical term for the cancer kazoo. Um, thank you... I think.

Since posting this the other day, I remembered several other ads that really make me want to shit twice and die. Naturally, I've rounded them up so that I can disgust, er, I mean, share them with you. And to make this a bit more interactive and time-wasting, I put them in poll format so you can cast your vote on the most offensive of the lot. Write-in candidates are welcome in the comments. So, without further ado...

Which TV commercial is the most foul?
	The anti-smoking ad with the cancer kazoo guy
	The Hellmann's Squeezable White Slime ad which sends Yours Truly into convulsions
	The garbage-sniffing White Castle guy (per Sheila)
	The hospital with robotic surgery capabilities depicting scary robot hands rummaging around the insides of patients (per Lubes)
	The green blob of snot thingy that wants to live in your lungs
	The yellow blob of fungus thingy that wants to live under your nails
	Any prescription drug that mentions explosive diarrhea as a side effect
	Any prescription drug that mentions anal leakage as a side effect
	Any prescription drug that mentions an 8-hour erection as a side effect
	Any ad with Kelly Ripa in it
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Update: The results are in!

quick-moving clouds

Mother Nature was just a wee bit bipolar today...

05:21:53 PM
(click image to enlarge)


05:22:20 PM
(click image to enlarge)

Taken at Empire-Fulton Ferry State Park, Brooklyn. More photos here.

on new math and creepy-ass commercials

Because of the inclement weather, today's plans to scorch my skin alongside The Lovely Jess at Brighton Beach had to be scrapped.

So, did I take advantage of the indoor time to clean my apartment, shred some junk mail or tackle the towering pile of laundry bursting out of my hamper? Fuck no. I'm in the midst of full-blown lazy Saturday.

It's almost 6:30pm and I'm still in my Curious George capri-length pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. I am the picture of sloth. I've been lounging on my couch watching TV all day with no regrets whatsoever. In fact, I just watched Ice Princess. And I'm not the least bit ashamed. Well, I am a little bit. However, I adhere to the following formula:

Bad weather + weekend afternoon ÷ cheesy movie X 1 movie on IFC/Sundance² = Freedom from guilt

(In this equation, let Secrets & Lies represent the shame-saving variable.)

The only downside of prolonged TV viewing? I keep seeing that fucking commercial with the guy who has throat cancer and has a hole in his windpipe and talks through one of those... uh... what's the technical name for it? I only know the awful slang term for it: cancer kazoo. Terrible, I know. What's the right word for it? Please enlighten my sorry ass.

Anyways, the airwaves have been absolutely saturated with this ad. I can't even look at it. Gone are the days of "The Cigarette Mash," I guess.

But the campaign is totally working because I'll be damned if I ever touch another cigarette. Not that I'm much of a smoker anyway but what that man has to do with a Q-tip has scared me straight, yo.

I feel like I'm under assault lately with the gross ads. There's this one for squeezable mayonnaise that is just horrendous, what with all that jar-scraping and white slime squeezing. At the first sign of this advert, I peform the following in this order: 1) clasp my hand over my eyes; 2) blindly change the channel; 3) crawl into a fetal position; and 4) gag uncontrollably.

ACK! I'm so going to hurl right now. Say, I wonder if I have a strong enough case to sue Hellmann's for mental anguish?

Update: Which commercial do you think is really gnarly? Cast your vote!

save me a seat at bungalow 8

Dude. I made Gawker. My server doesn't know what hit it. I've never had this many eyeballs on my site before, yo.

Welcome, newbies! Here are few posts to help you navigate the murky Ham & Cheese on Wry waters:

:: The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project
:: Boobwatch, Indeed
:: Flirtation
:: From the Home Office in Provincetown, Massachusetts
:: I'll Have the Big Gulp, Thank You
:: I'm a [Last Name] Girl
:: I'm Here, I'm Queer, Get Used to Me
:: A Letter to My Menstrual Cycle
:: My Left Foot
:: An Ode to My Itty Bitty Titties
:: Olfactory Onomatopoeia
:: On Thanksgiving and Why I Think Peppermint Patty Is a Big Ol' Bitch
:: Re: The Muppets
:: The Tesh Experiment
:: Things I'm Not Ashamed to Admit... But Probably Should Be
:: The Trunk

Yes, I'm a traffic whore. Enjoy your stay!