halloween rehash

It's busy times in the life of Curly McDimple. I have a high school reunion to attend this weekend and despite my low levels of school spirit and disinterest in anything other than, you know, myself, I somehow ended up on the reunion committee. That means lots of prep work in anticipation of the big 15th blowout... and lots of bitching on my part. Oh and yes, 15 years is an off-kilter anniversary but we were too disinterested and lazy to get our acts together five years ago. Deal.

My point, and I do have one, is that I have little time to blog these days. However, I do have time to rehash shit from my archives. Lucky you! Here's an excerpt from the Halloween story I posted two years ago. Now with artwork!

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

Most people think I'm nuts because I don't really like dressing up. I get the same response when I tell them I don't like those crunchy things in between layers of ice-cream cake. I don't know why they react in such a way. I give them first crack before I touch my cake (remember, no dairy share). They totally benefit.

But if I do dress up, it's rather begrudgingly. I also assemble costumes that easily blend into normal clothes so that I can travel on the subway without comment. One year I put on army green pants, high-laced Doc Marten black boots and a white t-shirt (couldn't find a green one) and showed up to a party as Private Benjamin. I look nothing like Goldie Hawn so I made a "Hello, My Name is PRIVATE BENJAMIN" sticker. I rolled up my pants, slapped on the sticker, removed my coat right before entering and voila, instant transformation. It went over well.

My dislike of costumes must stem from an incident I had at an early age. When I was about seven-years-old, my mother got the idea from one of her coworkers to dress me as a crayon. I was asked to pick out my favorite color (at the time it was yellow) and we went to the store to buy big sheets of stiff yellow poster board (oak tag, if you're from Jersey). My father cut one of the pieces and formed it into a cone for the hat. I was given a black marker and told to write Crayola on the side and draw the squiggly lines, etc. When the big day came, the pointy cap was secured on my head with an elastic thingy and I was stapled into the yellow cylinder. I wore yellow pajamas underneath to avoid any yellow-peach confusion.

Remember when we were younger and the word on the street was that bees are attracted to the color yellow? I don't know about the rest of the country but we have a shit load of bees in Jersey in September and October. And they're all pissed off trying to get in their last stings before they die off (or go into a hive or whatever the hell they do in the winter). I got as a far as around the block before a bee started buzzing around me. I swatted at it a few times but it persisted. Finally, I decided to run from it. Um, not a smart idea considering my legs were mostly covered by a narrow tube. I can still remember the ripping sound. It wasn't even a clean break that could be fixed with Scotch tape. I ripped that muthafucka asunder.

I sadly walked back home and rang the bell. My mother came to the door thinking I was a trick-or-treater but instead of getting candy, I got a high-pitched "What on earth happened?!?!" She muttered and told me I was daft as she rummaged through her drawers to find a suitable replacement. She finally found a pair of pirate pants one of my older sisters wore a year or two before. Truth be told, I was a half-assed looking pirate because she couldn't find the hat, eyepatch or knife. In the end, all I was wearing was shredded jeans and a white shirt. I looked more like a castaway or someone victimized by a pirate.

But I still got lots of candy and did my yearly tradition of trading all of my Mary Janes in for the better candy in my Mom's bowl. The trade-in was the best part. I ditched all my bad candy and pennies for the good stuff. My rate of exchange benefited me rather generously, I might add. One penny = two boxes of candy corn or three Dum-Dum lollipops (cherry, preferably). My Mom made us remove Sugar Daddies, Now & Laters and Laffy Taffy from our bags because of their superior teeth-ruining properties. So we'd put those in the bowl in an uneven exchange for the Mom-approved (and much better) candy. Funny how she didn't seem to mind rotting some other kid's teeth.

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

Happy Halloween!

mark this down...

Today I am not ashamed to say that I originally hail from the Garden State.

Fear not, my Jersey-related inferiority and persecution complexes will return in full-swing tomorrow.

Further Reading
:: N.J. Court Rejects Gay Marriage (365Gay.com)
:: N.J. Supreme Court Has It Both Ways on the Gays (Gawker)
:: New Jersey Says Same-Sex Unions Are Legal (Worth Repeating)
:: New Jersey (Andrew Sullivan)
:: NJ Homos Improve Bus Seating, Slightly (Joe.My.God.)
:: Gay Couples Must Get the Same Rights and Benefits as Hetero Couples BUT... (Daily Dose of Queer)
:: Technorati Search

'cause we care and crap

In lieu of birthday drinks this year, I decided to shed some of the self-absorption and selfishness I acquired in the last year by inviting friends and family to join me in volunteering on New York Cares Day.

On Saturday, The Lovely Jess, A Lover and a Fighter, Azee, The Younger Sister, Steph and Amy, she of the chipmunk banging down, joined me in sprucing up a high school on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

We scrubbed graffiti and the odd bit of spunk off walls and desks, cleaned classrooms and painted doorways, trim and radiator covers, among other things. We scarfed down Munchkins (which I picked up along with the thirst-quenching coffee for the questionably-dressed panhandler), BS'd like there was no tomorrow and had an all-around awesome time in the process.

Cleaning ourselves up afterwards was a bit of a bitch, as you can see by Jess's nails. We tackled the stubborn paint with a one-two combo of slimy gunk supplied by the custodian and a big ol' jug of paint thinner. Many manicures were scheduled on Saturday, I assure you.

By 3:00, we were good and high on paint fumes and quite giddy as a result. While cleaning up in the slop sink, I was quite taken with the noisy faucet. Its whiny, whistling shriek seemed familiar to me. And then I had my turpentine-fueled epiphany: "Hey, that sounds like Rudolph's nose."

Everyone agreed. And we laughed like it was the.funniest.thing.in.the.world. At least I did. Forget bong hits, if you want a real high, spend some quality time with oil-based paint and little-to-no ventilation.

New York Cares is a great organization. For you locals in need of something meaningful to do with your free time, I highly recommend giving this group a whirl.

I want to thank everyone who came with me on Saturday and all of you who sponsored my time with a nice donation. I really appreciate it. See you next year.

fuck the cup. pour it in my hand for a dime.

The scene: Outside of Dunkin' Donuts on Saturday at 8:30am. I am approached by a surprisingly well-dressed panhandler.

"Excuse me, miss! Would you mind buying me a cup of coffee? I am soooooooooo thirsty."

I momentarily pondered her snazzy leather jacket and her odd choice of thirst-quencher but figured a) scam or no, the two bucks won't kill me and b) whatever wets her whistle is really not my concern. So I agreed.

"Sure, how do you want it?" I asked.

"Uh, you know, in a container."

Kinda makes you wonder how she's received her coffee in the past, don't it?

on this day in history...

1781: Cornwallis surrenders at Yorktown

1796: Editorial accuses Jefferson of affair with slave

1812: Napoleon retreats from Moscow

1864: Battle of Cedar Creek

1931: John le Carre is born

1939: Mr. Smith Goes to Washington debuts

1965: Communists attack Plei Me Special Forces camp

1973: A certain foul-mouthed lesbo with curly hair graces the world with her presence

1987: The Dow takes a dive. The aforementioned lesbo really resents her special day being dubbed "Black Monday."

1993: Nothing out of the ordinary

2003: Our heroine is saddled with a nasty case of bronchitis. Her 30th birthday party is postponed but is well worth the wait. The owner of the pub lets her go behind the bar and teaches her how to pull the perfect pint of Guinness.

2005: Eats some lasagna

2006: Giddily anticipates the arrival of the birthday present she's giving herself

(Source: The History Channel)

on altruism and inadvertent anti-piracy measures

Picture it: The corner of Sixth Avenue and 23rd Street on a Friday evening. I had just surfaced from a short hop on the F train from Rockefeller Center and was waiting to cross the avenue teeming with rush hour traffic.

Over my shoulder, a soft voice asked a question: "Miss, when the light changes, can you help me get across?"

I turned around to see a blind elderly man facing in my direction with an expectant expression on his face.

I responded with a cheerful, "Certainly!"

"Thank you, miss. Would you mind if I held on to your arm?"

"No, not at all," I assured him as I offered my bent left appendage.

"Oh, thank you so much, miss."

"No problem. Ready? Here we go."

As we crossed the busy boulevard, people parted like the Red Sea and made way for the blind man with his cane bobbing from side to side and little ol' me cautiously leading him across.

Some people nodded at us. Others just did their best to not be that person, the one who bumps into the blind man.

I smiled as I once again found myself once again embroiled in a quintessential New York moment. Living in a walking city exposes you to insanity, offensive smells, piles of garbage and other unsightly things, not to mention the occasional bout of foot suckage, but it also gives you the opportunity to connect, however briefly, with someone outside your usual social set. For some, that's a turn-off. For me, I throw my arms around the opportunity and hug it to death. Um, except where my feet and unwanted advances toward them are concerned.

Despite my seemingly selfless act, there was a certain cockiness to my stride. I knew people were observing this display of man helping fellow man and just eating that shit up. And I won't lie to you... I really thought I was hot shit. I joined the ranks of those admiring my good deed and strutted across Sixth Avenue with a shocking amount of hubris. I rocked my halo with equal parts pride and "Gawd, I'm sweet!" arrogance.

However, my moments of grandeur and self-importance never last long. Not by choice, mind you. Instant karma does indeed get me. Right quick, in fact.

No sooner had I said, "Okay, we're coming up to the curb. Watch your step!" than the man barreled right into a display of bootlegged DVDs inconveniently situated on the busy corner of 23rd and Sixth. He then proceeded to stumble and stagger sending copies of Little Miss Sunshine and Open Season skidding across the pavement. He plowed through that pile of pirated movies like he was Jesus driving the money changers out of the temple.

I tried to regain control but he continued to stomp and smash everything in his path while saying, "Sorry! My fault! Pardon me! Oops! Sorry!" I was horrified by the bedlam that I helped cause. I echoed his rushed, sheepish apologies and then finally got a good grip on his arm and steered him away from the carnage. I offered him an embarrassed, "Sorry about that!" and then pointed him in his desired direction before hauling ass down 23rd Street. Awwwwwwwwwkward!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a generous donation to Guide Dogs for the Blind as a means of doing penance for my "good deed"...

i'm a fan of chucking puppies myself...

Um, I know I shouldn't find this the least bit funny but dammit, I cannot stop giggling...

Twenty-seven-year-old Chytoria Graham of Erie, Pennsylvania was pissed at her boyfriend. Instead of whacking him with a cast iron frying pan or his golf clubs or something reasonable like that, however, she picked up her four-week-old baby boy by the legs and swung the infant through the air, hitting the boyfriend with the baby's head. (via BloggingBaby)

I'm sick and wrong, I know. However, if you picture that scene in claymation? Well, it's a hoot.

Update: Mejack and I discuss the physics of baby tossing...

Yours Truly: I'm picturing the baby being held by the feet and thrown like a hammer in track & field.

Mejack: See, I'm picturing holding the baby by its feet and doing like an airplane and swinging it around.

YT: I think you might get more distance if you toss with the feet. The head will provide some weight and carry it. And also, lofting it upwards by the feet will give you more air and better velocity.

YT: You know, so I've heard...

Fear not, we're both off to say a good Act of Contrition right now.

starjonescanbiteme@curlymcdimple.com

The Lovely Jess sent me a link to the wedding website of Star Jones and Al Reynolds this morning. I know the wedding took place two years ago but clicking around on that website today made me realize that my ire concerning this ridiculous ceremony has not waned in the least.

The website does NOT disappoint if you're looking for outrage. It is chock full of evidence of waste, decadence and greed. Naturally, I was all over that shit.

In order to access this grotesque travesty, you'll have to insert an email address on the main page. At first, I thought it was a security measure to discourage snarky bitches such as myself from clicking around and making fun of that fat bitch. However! My coworker and I discovered that you need not insert an actual address! A phony one will do just fine, as it turns out.

While we didn't register under these email addresses, here are a few we came up with, you know, just because:

:: starjonesisaheinousbeast@msn.com
:: starneedstoeatshitanddie@yahoo.com
:: staryourhusbandisaflaminghomosexual@hotmail.com
:: starwatchespbsbutdoesntdonateduringpledgedrives@aol.com
:: starisnotkindanddoesntrewind@comcast.net
:: stardoesntmindthegap@pipex.com
:: sitononeofyourpaylessheelsandspintoots@gmail.com

As always, feel free to add your own in the comments.

favorite faces

I got this idea from Sheila. I present to you some famous mugs I, Curly McDimple, adore...

Sheila's got two great batches of photos. Check them out here and here.

Photo Credits:
Harrison Ford: Lucasfilm Ltd.; Bernadette Peters: Judy Katz Public Relations; Fred Flintstone: Hanna-Barbera Productions; Robert Smith: thecure.com; Jack Kerouac: AP; Molly Ringwald: Universal Pictures; Lou Gehrig: ALS Foundation; Stevie Nicks: answers.com; George Harrison: beatlesagain.com; Donna Reed: Unknown; Shannyn Sossamon: chaba.boom.ge; Paul Newman: Leo Fuchs

reliable sources

Overheard on the smoking deck of Cattyshack...

Whitney: There's a large Czech population in Houston.

Yours Truly: Really? I did not know that.

Whitney: Oh yeah. A large Vietnamese population as well.

YT: Isn't there a large Indian population there too?

Whitney: Native American Indians?

YT: No, Asian Indians.

Whitney: Hmmm... could be but I'm not sure.

YT: Eh, what do I know? I'm basing this assumption entirely on one episode of My Super Sweet 16...

Such an intellect, aren't I?

toreador, don't spit on the floor

Last night I went to see my very first opera. Actually, no, that's not true. I saw a production of The Mikado at Hofstra University several years ago. It was rather forgettable. Not because it was an amateur production. No, no. I assure you that this particular mounting of Gilbert & Sullivan was quite competent. However, the cultural significance was diminished slightly in my mind what with all the jokes about Mineola and traffic on the Meadowbrook wedged into the beloved book.

Nassau County humor, in case you didn't know, has limited reach. Last night's experience, however, is one that will forever remain in my memory bank.

The Hot Russian and I, looking quite spiffy in our suitable opera attire*, attended the New York City Opera's presentation of Carmen at Lincoln Center.

You know, I always found it amazing that there was on opera based on the theme music from The Bad News Bears...

If any of you took the previous sentence seriously, kindly form an orderly line so that I can kick you in the teeth and then ridicule you in an efficient manner. Thank you.

But seriously folks, the opera was way cool. The acoustics, on the other hand, well... they sucked. I was eagerly anticipating ringing ears and blown-back hair when the mezzosopranos unleashed. However, the architecture of the theater all but prohibits soaring vocals from seeping past the proscenium arch. The layout of the stage just sort of swallows up the voices. 'Tis a pity indeed since the company was so talented.

Shitty sound aside, I was totally in my element. I am extremely grateful to The Hot Russian for hatching last night's plan and executing it. Thanks to her, I've already got a ballet under my belt this past season ("Manon" performed by the American Ballet Theater) and we have plans to see Madama Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera, in addition to a few other artsy-fartsy events. Being a culture vulture suits me, I must say.

After the opera, we crossed Broadway for some red wine and dessert at Cafe Fiorello. I'm not sure which was more delicious -- the chocolate mousse or the cell phone conversation conducted at the next table. A bawdy blonde on her seventh martini (give or take a dozen) said, and I quote: "My girlfriend just got kicked out of the motherfucking symphony. She was escorted out by the police and everything."

Unfortunately, she gave no reason as to why. Maybe she's just reeeeallly fussy about her Wagner and vocalized her disapproval. Wanna know my best guess? I think she blazed up a doobie and got busted. Those Philharmonic fans are often more baked than the most ardent Dead Head or Phish fan. It's true.

____________________________________________

* Unfortunately, not everyone was so mindful of the dress code. If I may, I'd like to play Mr. Blackwell for a second... Dude, flip flops? At the opera? Seriously? And you, young lady, in the low-rider jeans, thanks for showing off the thong-shaped tan lines. Do us all a favor and save those unfortunate wardrobe choices for when you go to see Mamma Mia.