Full-frontal: Lame ballads, pink-haired gossip queens, and peanut butter by the spoonful

Wikipedia, or more appropriate, the self-assured well-intentioned contributor who posted it, defines "guilty pleasure" as "something one considers pleasurable despite it being mainly received negatively or looked down on by a majority of society". You know something you do, or like, that you probably wouldn't confess except to your closest friends -those guys who already know you are a cool-less freak so no further harm is done to your character. Said contributor goes on to offer the example of a guy liking "Sex in the City". I'm going to infer that he meant "a straight" guy.

Our guilty pleasures make us giddy. They titillate the little school girls in us. They tickle the pooh bear buried in our bellies. They are what we watch and listen to when the doors are double-locked and no one has access to our hidden-in-plain-sight On-the-Go 4 iPod playlist.

Instinctively we should keep the gps on the qt. But, you see, I have a condition which requires me to share. It's a combination of attention-seeking and cries for acceptance. Work with me, here.

So in the spirit of full exposure, here are a few of mine. I'm curious if any of ya'll will pony up and admit your share them or add some of your own. Just, you know, porn doesn't count. Really.- These things should have little to no sense of cool (like you can't say "Princess Bride" or "Diff'nt Strokes" - they have that 80's retro cool thing going on). Guilty pleasures are things that probably don't add any prominence. No nice patina to your aging. They just highlight your geekiness. Your freak flag flying high.

My Top 5 Guilty Pleasures:
1) Train's "Drops of Jupiter" - Oh, c'mon and lie to me and tell me you don't crank that shit up when it comes on the radio and you're alone in the car. Try to convince me of that. When Pat hits his vocal-stride ( 3:00 on the vid below), how can you NOT pound the steering wheel and cry out with him, "Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?!" This IS always on my 'Most Recently Played" and "Top 25 Played". No hiding there.

2) PerezHilton.com - I soooo want to be better than the commoner I am. But damn it, Janet, I can't resist the gossip. I can't!!! And though he can be cruel, he can also be, well, sweet. I actually think he cares for Britney. He is right-on most of the time, too. Like Simon on "American Idol". Just instead of articulated musical critique, Perez likes to draw dribbles and penises. Who doesn't?

3) "Constantine" the movie- I put this here because, well, after living with a fan-boy comic-freak for 11yrs, you learn a thing or two. Though we broke up, I took away a deep understanding of these guys. And they are harsh f'n critics. Oh they love hard. And they will take you down with their replica-sabers if you mess with them. I still can't get the voices out of my head about how "they" [Hollywood] are sooo going to mess-up "The Watchmen". So trust me on this, those that matter, are rather 'eh' about this movie. Me? I can't get enough of it. I don't know what it is. I can't turn away when it's on HBO. It's like I'm Iggy Pop and it's a big o'dish of multi-colored good-time capsules. And it isn't Keanu. I promise. There is something in this movie that makes me watch. Every. Time.

4) Dance-movies in general - i.e. "Step up and Bring It to the Server" or whatever - I'm waaay too old to want to see these movies. I stash them in my Netflix queue. I offer to take my fourteen-year-old niece and cousin to see them. I check IMDB to make sure Channing Tatum is over 18 (he is - 28 to be exact, I mean, if you needed to know). I have issues. I know. And again, I'm not going to believe your lie that you haven't dropped it to the floor after hearing "Low". I'm calling you out, punk. Show 'em what you got. Go hard!

5) Peanut butter from the jar - See? I'm giving ya'll the whole truth. This is a disgusting habit, but I swear I don't double-dip. Give me a spoonful of natural Skippy (no stirring!!!) and I'm a happy-happy-happy girl. :) Work that with some apple, and dang. It's the simple things ya'll :)

Enjoy these clips!!

Mmm... the honesty gush of the blogger: Tastes like tofu and preening

A friend told me the other night that I had balls in my writings. He was drunk. And it was IM. So I'm gonna think he was being honest. Instant messaging is confessional. Alcohol just makes the typing more cardiac.

I often refer to my blogs as random up-chucks of consciousness. If you've read more than two, you've probably got me figured out. Pegged. Though I control what I put down, what goes up is as much me as anything else. Snaps, Jason, Koka, and Matt can attest to that. There's a certain life-bond created when you hold someone's hair while they're puking. When you make them laugh through tears over a miserable little boy, generally referred to as Satan - you know the one who broke-up with you in your dorm parking lot because he was "bad for you", but not before giving you a case of Zima (I like my drinks bubbly, sue me!) and stating "You'll probably be needing this". When the dirt gets aired, it is those people who will get the big payday.

So, really, what do I have left to hide? I'm a plebeian with uptown tastes and a smackering of education. I'm an attention starlet who name drops philosophers so you don't think she's small-town. I want you to look while I cover my eyes. Seriously, this is basic psychology kids. Don't stress yourself.

In all my efforts to not be what I am, I suppressed. I beat down and bruised my inclinations and my instincts. I recited, hand over heart, that being the good little cube-dweller would bring me the peace that they sold on SUV commercials. I could make a mix-CD of Led Zepplin's "Black Dog" and the Stooge's "Search and Destroy" and be cool while living my American dream.

As you probably have figured out, that didn't work for me. Maybe I'm missing a gene. A little burp during mitosis. I'm impatient. I gotta think my DNA is as well. Like when I hear a bad sound in my car and I just turn the radio up louder, I developed on, ignoring the grinding and whining timing belt.

And, so, here I am. Throwing up on you, but, you know, in a good way. The way that doesn't charge-up a cleaning bill or leave a bad smell. Well, usually not.

I write here not because I think I'm better than you or that my opinions matter. They don't. I do it 'cause I'm selfish. I do it because I like doing it. Like I've said, I'm Veruca. I'm a kitten. I want it now and I want it to be pleasing to the touch. -Scratchy scratchy. Break the skin. Itchy Itchy. Let it in. - My same drunk friend told me that his gf found me "alien" and that she just doesn't get me. Awesome. I need that. I like the thought of being alien. Enigmatic and armed to the teeth with pop banter and fan-boy wit. It makes me feel cool. Crank the New York Dolls. Let's get our glam on.

Oh, and post-script here darlings, I sincerely thank you for reading. For commenting and msging me. I don't want to be your Messiah. Just your idol. I'm done with saving souls and turning water into wine. I'm just after your stroke and your thoughts. Trust me, I want you much more than you want me. I think you're beautiful.

Feel the lovin'. Feel the cool. - Black Dog - 5:35

Happy Harry Hardon ruined me & all the good themes have been used up

It started out like this:
"Did you ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up? You know that feeling that the whole country is like one inch away from saying 'That's it, forget it'. You think about it. Everything is polluted. The environment, the government, the schools, you name it. "

I didn't see "Pump Up the Volume" when it came out in 1990. I had to wait for it to hit video. Then watch it in secret. Southern Baptist are like that. We like our sinning done in the dark so there are no witnesses. Maybe that's why I like "talk hard" so much. "A dirty thought in a clean mind".

I did, at one time, care about politics. Oh, I was a little Campus Republican (they had the best parties). I was a volunteer on the campaign trail. I could whip out the Reagan and bring you to your fucking liberal knees with my jedi-mindtricks of voo-doo economics and SDI/MAD diplomacy. - Then I met Ralph Reed, who creeped-me-the-fuck-out when I shook his hand. A week later I met Nadine Strossen of the ACLU on campus and I burned my contract with America and went out and hugged some trees. I even started thinking Bill Clinton was kinda sexxy hott. And that summer that Monica was interning, well, uh, that was the summer I was supposed to be interning too. Though I ditched that to spend the summer with my idiot boyfriend at the time. F'n boys. - Still though, part of me thinks Bill would have liked me. We'd have gotten along. As anyone who has funneled with me knows, as all good Southern girls do, I know how to drink and I always swallow. It would have been good times.

Somewhere though, I've lost it. I just don't care. Maybe it was Clinton proving he was a real-boy after-all with the faults that go along with that. Then Bush did not help. Maybe it was the year or so spent agonizing over the daily casualty reports from Iraq. Relieved that it wasn't my baby brother or my friend Adj. Then realizing that it was someone else's someone. Maybe not mine today, but someone's heart was ripped out so I would cry anyway for being selfish and for their pain.

I know Barack is inspirational. I've seen theater. I've seen religion. I've even bought tickets to both. And I know Hillary has experience and contacts and knows how to get things done. I also know that John McCain is a good guy. Really. I can't imagine the shit he went through over there. - Still though, I can't help but think that what was true in Harry's 1990 is still true now. How sad is that?

Don't get me wrong, here. I WANT to care. Really I do. I've been letting this play out gladiator-style and we are coming down to the final contestants. President of the United States. Yeah, I should care. But really, I'm not feeling the warm and fuzzies for any of them. No one is making me want them. No one has licked me right and set me off. And I want that. I WANT to be in love with one of them. I want to believe that my teenaged view of isolation and melancholy hasn't come full-circle. That there is hope. Problem is. I'm old enough to know that hope is air. That's it's something you believe in when you don't have anything else. It's all that keeps you going when you're drowning in the shit and flotsam of life. Maybe I'm not drowning just yet. Or maybe I'm already under and I just don't know it.

As Harry says, "All the great themes have been used up and turned into theme parks." And right now, I don't feel like dealing with the crowds just to toss my cookies on the 3rd loopty-loop.

But then again, maybe my political soul can still be saved. Go ahead. Give it a try. Seduce me. Show me what you got, little mama. Show me what you got, big baller. - - - Until then, I'm breaking out the Leonard Cohen and mellowing to "Everybody Knows". Talk to me hard, babies.

Here are a few "Pump" clips for your enjoyment (1st two: 27 and 33 secs). Including the yummy Cohen song, which is a bit longer at but very enjoyable :)

Douchebaggery: It's not just a New Jersey thing, we just do it best

With over 11million views, I'm sure you've seen the "My New Haircut" (thanks, Kaori!) or any of its many variations, by now. - This thing cracks me up. I view it more as a documentary-style clip than parody. After 11yrs in NJ, I can confirm these guys do exist and, yeah kiddies, they have absolutely no sense of irony.

For the record, douchebags are everywhere. New Jersey doesn't have an exclusive first-look deal with them, as the equally entertaining site "Hot Chicks with Douchebags" confirms (thanks, Matt!). - The state just gives them the perfect environment for their douchebaggery. It's God's little Garden State for asshole breeding. If only we could get pandas to screw like these guys.

Maybe it's the whole bridge-and-tunnel mentality where Manhattan is the cooler, older step-brother and we're just trying to get his attention. Apparently that is best gotten with barely-buttoned silk shirts, over-producted hair, and 'roiding attitude. In NJ they know every Bruuuuce song, is kin to a Bon Giovanni, and can get you a deal on a dozen, no less, leather jackets. The "Sopranos" wasn't just good TV. It was Sunday evening at the Globe. It was Shakespeare's pen and Maya Angelou's soul. They were telling the story of your uncle, your cousin, and all that you secretly wanted to be. In New Jersey, the last 3 governors have all ended up in the hospital in some sort of "accident". In New Jersey, strippers are dancers and dancers are always landing-stip waxed. You so want to bang that.

I think NJ is kinda proud of its douchebags. It's like, "Yeah, ok, we're douchebags, but at least we ain't fags. Whoa!" - I think that should be the new state motto. "At least we ain't fags". Nothing sums up the douchebag mentality better than that. - Though, of course, saying that, dressed as they are, might be the gayest thing ever. And trust me, I've seen some really gay shit. Can I get a "sweetie, darling Amen"?

So next time you're at a bar, the Port Authority at 1am, or karaoke night (they fucking love those places), take a look around. Find your state's douchebags. Don't get too close. Just watch. Marvel at how they wedge their off-the-truck Versace shades between spike#4 and 5 on their head. Be stunned at the ladies who line up and laugh at their jokes and witty lines that always end with, "so, you wanna check out the back of my cousin's Escalade?". - - We've got some pretty awesome, top-notch douchebags in the NJ. We're talking Olympic athletes. How good are yours?

Google, you ignorant slut, what do you mean no matching documents found?

Are you f'n kidding me? WTMF?! And what are you doing now? Asking me did I mean something else? - And what was that, Suzy Sunshine? Maybe I should try again, putting quotes around grouped words? Seriously? You're advising me on how to compose a query? Ok, yeah, uh, bitch, now's whens you best be stepping the fuck off. This isn't my first rodeo.

C'mon, I'm not being crazy, am I? If there is one grand truth to the world, one shining point of light of Athenian promises and Herculean strength that makes the daily drop-to-your-knees, lips rounded and parted, suck-off acceptable it is this: Someone, somewhere, has posted it.

That's the moist smack of the Internet, no? That all information is available, you just have to look. That for every freak, there are 1,000 more just like you,huddled and whacking off to, well, whatever it is you are whack off to. The Internet is the Bushiest of uniters-not-dividers. Spread wide and ready for the insert of your query, your manifesto, your fanfic, and your family reunion pictures of Uncle Tommy passed out in the lawn chair, Heiny in hand, covered in silly-string.

It isn't a particularly picky lover but there's an agreement. An understanding between the Internet and us, right? We feed it. We put our petty shit out there. We lube up and shove in our secrets and our lusts. We disrobe and prance and feel pretty behind our avatars and our clever nom de jeu and give up the layers we have until we are a raw nub, just right for the mutual rubbing.

All the Internet has to do is be there for us. To never let us down. To hold us and let us freak out and cry we aren't pretty enough. That our friends don't really like us. That we are disappointed in life, ourselves, and our parents. It should be there to tell us how to find Mulberry Street and what is the highest Zagat-rated Thai joint in Chelsea. It should alert us when sad things happen and when Britney makes her 3am Rite-Aid run.

And, mostly, it should always be there, and have handy, any bit of information we are wanting. Because really, we've come to expect that. We've come to deserve it. We've given it our souls, our social security numbers, and our credit history. So, honestly, no matching documents found? Fuck you Internet. I never loved you in the first place. I've been fucking the NY Times Print Edition anyway.

p.s. I still love you, Internet. I still love your Google, it's just that... well, I can't be with you right now. Give me some time. Yeah, I remember when you won me that netsuke on eBay. Yeah, we've had some great times. We'll always have this Winona clip. - Fuck, baby, you know I love you. Come here. I just put on a fresh coat of lip plumper. Let's see how that feels on you. Let's see if I can leave a mark.

Damn, Miss Jackson -Is it just a spoke in my cycle, or am I really such a populist?

Arggs! NKOTB. New Freddy K. movie. K T Tunstall goes all cover on "Walk Like an Egyptian" and now I can't get this damn song out of my head!!! What a week so far.

I like Radiohead. Really I do! And I can so go punk-a-punk with you. I've exchanged rent money for David Bowie Madison Square Garden tix. I've traversed hipster Brooklyn neighborhoods for Sarah Vowel readings, TMBG secret shows, Dave Cross improv, and avant-garde shit involving silence, a strobe light, and two guys dressed like Sendak creatures reciting "Jabberwocky" over slowed-down, barely recognizable N.E.R.D tracks from "Fly or Die".

All it takes is a nasty hook, pulses, and Underworld-style black-slick to undo all my assumed credentials. Maybe I should just embrace the contradictions and stop the analysis. *sigh* F'n existentialism and ethos.

Go ahead ... Enjoy .. No one is looking. Go ahead... Download. Your player won't tell.

My head just exploded ... NKOTB? Holy Freshman Year, Batman!

I know I shouldn't be this excited. And honestly, cubbies, I wish I wasn't. I wish the news glided over me with just a whimsy of nostalgia.

That being said ...

OMG!!!! Break out the banana-clips, girls, 'cause it looks like Jordan, Donnie, Joey, Jon, and Danny are going to be getting out on that floor and doing The New Kids Dance.

As described to some friends, I am dancing around like I just got a Butterscotch My Little Pony, still in the original packaging (prrreeettty). As Mark wisely observed, I'm so retarded and I'm unashamed.

And to think I normally do verbose blogs citing the influence of Rousseau in episodes of "Married With Children". Kristy is a complex-critter.

I'm upside-down, victory pose on the sticky stripper-pole that is pop-culture. Throw some dollar bills, ya'll. Make some noise! Are you tough enough??

Enjoy..............