Photo by David Giral

Celebrating my pal’s imminent departure from singledom, we invaded the fine city of Montreal for a bachelor party extravaganza. I did feel sort of like we were exporting trash from the States, as though we were sparing our fellow Americans the poor behavior and antics that normally ensue when you get the dudes together and attempt to drink like you were 18 and spend like you’re 50.

The city itself looked lots like the US cities I know; office buildings, cars, people. But it was in the local flair where things got interesting. And things got interesting when I realized according to the bill, I should have been dead. I was held responsible for drinking $78 worth of Jameson… at dinner. (more…)

I disagree with the notion that home is where the heart is. As I mentally prepare to move across the country to a city that I know little about and that knows little about me, I’ve been especially thinking about the concept of what “home” is. To me, home is simply where you feel most comfortable (and it can be more than one place), a hypothesis that isn’t necessarily at odds with this notion of heart/home, but which certainly isn’t on the same page. Heart implies love, and I don’t believe that loving a location (and/or having people there you love) and it feeling like home are one in the same.

I’ve been lucky enough to call two cities home, West Hollywood and Paris, and while I would definitely drop the L-bomb on each of these locations, why they ultimately make me feel at home is separate from love. I love plenty of cities, but they certainly don’t feel like home and I certainly wouldn’t want to make them such either. Home, instead, has to do with a sense of comfort, which features these key symptoms (and much, much more):

• I am never lost, even when I am.
• I wake up, have no foreseen plans for the day and still feel at ease.
• I know the best, least pothole-riddled lane to be in when I exit the freeway.
• I can decode the details, i.e. where you come from and how cool you are based on zip/area codes or license plate numbers (this is exclusive to France). (more…)

Jeff, Thinking

YOU have lost. Your reach has extended your grasp, and now you are all alone. It didn’t work out, they didn’t say yes, the big bad went and killed your last man.

And it is okay.

You have finally thrown in the towel and dumped them. Or even worse, they’ve dumped you.

It is okay.

You tried to help, they didn’t take your advice, and now things are even worse.

But it is okay. (more…)

A recent article in the NY Times talked about the mysterious disappearance of the nation’s bees. Nobody knows why but the bees are vanishing by the millions apparently after becoming disoriented and failing to return home. The story is enough to almost make you love those stinging little fuckers. My scientific explanation? Like everything else weird and mystifying, it’s caused by global warming. Scientists talk about a mild rise in sea levels as being the biggest effect of global warming. Know what else there’s gonna be a rise in? Weird, freakish, seemingly unexplainable stuff like the bees disappearing.

Boy, have we got it coming to us, first the bees disappear, which then triggers the Great Honey Drought of 2009 which of course then triggers the worldwide collapse of the Honey Nut Cheerios market. Not long after that, for some reason, nobody will be able to manufacture underpants. It’s gonna get weird round here.

It’s a weird magic watching two friends who are so close, and have known each other for so long, that they appear to be conversing in twin speak, referencing things and events, finishing each others’ sentences, thinking along the same lines. While you instantly feel excluded, you are also entranced by the ability of two people who are not related to be so in sync. Taking photos of Natasha & Barbara, I marveled at the level of comfort between them, and the level of acceptance that such comfort implied. Weggies, one night stands, copping the occasional feel, everything is allowed, nothing is forbidden. Can’t help but smile, watching them interact. It’s like watching puppies fight, so kinetic, so gal-dern adorable.

Stepho, Letting it Out

YOU are wound too tight. You think too much. You’ve got too much on your plate. okay, brothers and sisters, that is just fine. You are strong, you are a laser beam, focused, powerful. You will weather any storm.

But don’t forget to let off some steam every once in awhile. Let the monster out. Let go, let loose, let it all hang out. Unfold your freak flag from its jewel encrusted case, iron out all its wrinkles, take it out into the crisp clear day and hang it high.

Go out today and show people why YOU, my brothers and sisters, why YOU are glad to be alive. Soak up some life and squeeze it right back out.

In between now and the next crisis, the next thousand things to be handled, shine like the sun.

Scream.

Shake. Jump. Shove. Sing. Let it out, all of it, everything that is crawling around in your brain, behind your eyes, under your fingertips. If for only a minute. Give yourself a reason to put that shit-eating grin on your face.

The world pushes hard. Let’s all of us do a spot check, make sure we still got the cheek to push back.

Let us pray.

Nicknames have always been an important fixture in my life. From an early age on my father often referred me to as “Scooter” (though I never rode a one, so I’m not sure how that originated). Back then, my sister preferred “Brat,” but that’s water under the bridge.

In high school, I was “Foxy Bra.” That’s because my best friends and I had formed our own gang called the Hoodrats (hello, I grew up in the Valley in Southern California), and hence needed to have gangsta names to fit the bill. My friend Marcy took Lil’ Mock; Ginny: Ginnuwine; Tara: Tararella, and so forth and so on. Everyone knew us as the Hoodrats and we even had “Hoodrat Racing” decals made that we proudly affixed to our car windshields. (Editor’s note: My strong sense of irony was already active, even then, and the joke was that we did not, in fact, sleep around. We left the skanking to the females a year younger than us who were known as the “Cookie Jar Girls,” not by their own choosing I might add.)

When I entered my “college years,” I earned a new nickname””Tuffie, and so far it’s stuck. The originator of the nickname claims it’s because, quite simply, I’m tough. My sister says it’s because I’m the “little big sister.” Others have told me it’s because I’m “feisty,” “don’t take shit from other people” and “don’t apologize for who I am.” I have yet to decide if any of these characteristics are a good thing. (more…)

I will drink beer, I will order expensive but very delicous Chinese food. I will watch the Red Sox play the Yankees. I will drink more beer. I’ll ride my bike, in SHORT sleeves. I will sleep late and go to the zoo. Yes, the zoo. And I’ll have a bagel with lox. Avagoodone.

There once was I time when I cared what music sounded like. But in my mellowing age, I’ve decided that’s gonna get in the way of enjoying some of those tasty sweet garbage jams that I should just let worm their way into my heart. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for you to follow me to the dark side of garbage hip hop and embrace…Rich Boy, Throw Some D’s.

This is a song about the American dream, Mobile, Alabama style. Rich Boy is a confident young dude, rapping about hair cuts, cars and girls and for some reason it’s not annoying. Maybe it’s because he calls himself a “new money motherf*cker” or because he describes the color of his car as “cherry lollipop.” His chin is way up, rhyming hard about awesome shit; the song is about loving life. You would too if you “just bought a Cadalick.” He reminds us by repeating this 40 times. And…he shows a time-lapse video of his Cadilick getting worked on. My pal Kath put it best:

“Best line of the song: ‘gonna show you how to ball, middle finger to the law’. He knows the elements: cars, ladies, chains and a fresh haircut. He is 21, I bet he had a GREAT 21st birthday.”

Dude has a car parade in his video, in his own honor. I like Rich Boy, how could you not? I wish he’d come by the Tabernacle. The song, worth your dollar. The video worth your 3 mintues.

I am always nice to people who wait on me. From the guy taking my Taco Bell order, to the waiter dealing with a several course meal, I am the very picture of a good customer.

Jen, of the Belmont
Because I know that waiting tables is a shitty job. And because I also understand that working such a shitty job makes you very sensitive to the temperament of your customers. Sensitive in a way that will make you spit in their food if they are assholes. I figure their day’s rough enough, I don’t need to add to it. Or get my food spit in.

Jonathan, of Barney Greengrass
I’ve also found that you usually get better service when you’re nice. Which is really just a general rule when dealing with anyone, but the results tend to be more obvious and immediate with a restaurant situation. Bit of extra syrup, and extra piece of chicken strip, a burger that didn’t fall on the floor. One extra reason I’m achingly nice to wait staff: I feel compelled, many times, to take their picture. And having been nice the entire time I’m there, helps lull them into a false sense of security, bettering my chances of them agreeing to a little shoot shoot.

Allyson, of Swingers
Usually surprised, often confused, I tend to get great expressions from folks who have no idea what is going on.

We’re so glad the folks at Oh Word have been able to get their hands on this little beauty and share with us. Kangols off to you!

What do people like us do when they travel? Buy shit! We eat well and party; that’s the sum of the city visit. And for that reason, Time Out came up with The Other Side DVD series for various visit-worthy cities. The angle is that they’ll show you the not-so-obvious places to stay, shop, and party and provide a host who’s qualified to do that. For the LA edition, that host is the simultaneously awkward and cool Peanut Butter Wolf. Most of the video is spent following him into various cool sneaker and record shops chatting up the owners and patrons. Not a bad day right? The effect is kinda like watching the Food Network when you’re hungry; great sneakers, records, and food just out of reach. Luckily they wrap up each segment with the helpful information about the spots, addresses, websites, etc. (One of which this writer visited and promptly ordered three pairs of sneakers.) (more…)

It’s Sunday folks, if you aren’t out worshipping something or someone, have a gander at the photography of a one Mr. James Perry Walker. I present to you, The Reverend.

My third molar from the back on my upper jaw, left-hand side, is known as “the secret tooth.” That’s because I am so notorious for getting food stuck in my teeth in general, that my friends decided to name this specific tooth, which is most regularly the recipient of said green, brown, you-name-it particles that get lodged within its dark, deep crevices. Being that I get shit stuck in my teeth all the damn time, I long ago came to terms with this state of existence and have absolutely no shame when it comes to opening my mouth wide, saying ahhh, and asking my friends to check me out.

Tuffie takes a reciprocal approach to notifying friends when their teeth may be saving something to snack on later and immediately gives them the FYI. It usually takes the form of a sharp head nod and eyebrow raise, followed by miming indicating which tooth needs to be cleared for proper conversing departure.

But Tuffie finds it hard to be this candid with that category of friend who falls between the crack of more than acquaintance, but not yet fully at ease. It oft times seems as if the pen-on-the-cheek, fly-left-unzipped individual would be more embarrassed/uncomfortable if you were to point out the faux pas then to just let it go. And knowing that it happens to the best of us, it’s really only a small social courtesy to pretend it’s not even there (meanwhile saying a silent prayer that thank god it’s not you, or wait, maybe it is. You better go look in the mirror). (more…)

photo by Bryan Cowe

He was in his eighties, hated the way the world had turned out, and achieved more in his life than I most likely will in mine, yet when I heard (by which I mean, read on the internet, because that is where news is born, a fact Vonnegut himself chewed on like glass in your cereal) that Kurt Vonnegut had died, I got sad. Or, as the Irish say (somewhere, somewhen), I got a sadness upon me. Gone is another original, singular voice from a time better than ours. Gone is another old guy who was able to criticize Bush and the government with the authority of his years and accolades. Is it any kind of coincidence that the old writers who have died lately have done so with hate of George Bush on their lips?

Read his books. If this is any sort of praise, read them all, read any of them. He was that good.