Just minutes ago, my friend Kristopher alerted me to the fact that, on the T-Mobile website, they claim to have trademarked the. color. Magenta.

To which I say, WHAT IN THE WIDE WIDE WORLD OF SPORTS?????

Since when can anyone trademark a naturally occuring pigment? When did T-Mobile acquire the ability to own portions of the light spectrum? And why hasn’t this come to light sooner?

What does this even mean? What’s an “unregistered trademark”? Is this some kind of elaborate joke, or is T-Mobile well on its way to trademarking both time AND space?

Now, I’m well aware of the insidious nature of copyrights and trademarks, Disney keeping everything locked up in their vault for a million years, companies buying the natural water resources of South American towns, but a color? Fuck is next, emotions? Poses? “Pop locking is now the trademark of Bad Boy Entertainment.”

Think I better get back to building that spaceship. Time to saddle up, get the deuce of this crazy rollercoaster.

Saw my first non-funeral dead body today. Granted, it was under a bloody sheet, but still. Pretty sure it was a dead person. I can’t say it didn’t flip me out. Almost nobody noticed on my side of the street, except me and a construction worker. “Somethin’ happened,” he said. “Yeah right by that dumpster right?” We kept looking while the police in the taped off area just kinda awkwardly stood there. Whatever it was, they were too late to do much but jot down notes. Then the construction worker wrapped it up, “I don’t want to believe it, but there it is.”

I’ve reached stage four.

Everybody seems to have an idea about what it’s going to be like when I move to New York—except me that is. “Oh, you’re just going to love it! You’ll fit right in,” I often hear. From a few people who are only vaguely familiar with me, I’ve gotten this puzzling, yet seemingly deep thought: “I’ve always seen you in New York.” What the fuck does that mean (nose flare)? And how is it that they’ve seen me there, but I haven’t (nose flare again)?

Likewise, I’ve also received the exact opposite commentary. One friend told me, “You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.” Her reasoning: “Well, your tattoos, for starters. No one in New York has tattoos.”

From my boss, I got, “You’re going to move to New York and change,” to which my BFF co-worker responded, “No she’s not, she’s already angry.” (more…)

Another in a continuing series of photo field trips, last weekend myself and my crew drove four hours east of LA to The Salton Sea. Back in the 50s & 60s it was home to a thriving resort town, but due to heavy irrigation and pollution, the sea, by the 80s, was so salinated it led to algae booms, which in turn caused a horrific smell to come off the sea, as well as repeatedly causing fish die-offs. Which meant that everybody split, leaving abandoned hotels, restaurants and beaches.

Which makes it perfect for a photo shoot!!! We drove around, stopping at every abandoned building, walking inside crudely made holes in the walls, photographing the ruins and each other, while at the same time trying not to throw up from the air filled with algae stink and the building’s floors, which were covered, no, replaced by, bird shit.

And did I mention that since it’s out in the desert, it was 100 degrees by noon? Cuz it was. It was as if we were in a city-sized sweat lodge. But without the vision quest that’s supposed to go along with all that.

Unless the malaria I caught from the dead fish and bird poo counts as a vision quest.

Watching the news before work stresses me out. I hear traffic reports on roads I don’t take and stock reports on stocks I don’t own. I watch stories about bad stuff happening to nice people and stuff exploding. And it bugs me out.

Now CHiPs re-runs, that was more my speed, before it went of the air. This Old House doesn’t play before work anymore, so now I’m forced to watch some garbage low-budget Civil War crap on the History Channel. What’s weird is, almost without thinking, I started cultivating bushy sideburns which grow into a mustache. I only wear wool jackets with brass buttons and the cops at West 4th street took my saber away. Fuck those guys, DON’T TREAD ON ME!

Anywho, I used to drink Irish whiskey, that is until I discovered some stuff they refer to as “Frontier Gold”. It’s real name is Bulleit, they call it whiskey on the bottle but it’s bourbon. What the shit is the difference? One is made below the Mason Dixon by shotgun-toting hillbillies, the other is made by wooly Irishman. And there’s some rules about what kind of barrels are used to age it and some other boring technical distinctions which will mean nothing to you after your third glass. Got it?

Bulleit looks like something you’d buy at a trading post in the 1850s with a little orange label askew on a clear old-timey clear glass bottle. I sort of half expected to see a snake preserved inside. (more…)

Why not just give the awards to the shows with the highest Neilsen rating? Because this whole “we give the awards to the best shows” scam you all got running? I am not even close to buying it anymore. Some examples of…well, let me put it this way. I’ve got a trainee at work, and I’ve taught him that there are two big rules to our job. Number one: People are stupid. The second rule is awesome, but with rule number one in place, who needs any other rules? So when I see Two and a Half Men nominated for an Emmy, when I see Boston Legal nominated as a drama, Debra Messing nominated for anything, when I see that there is an award for “Outstanding Main Title Design”, when I look at the nominations list and am actually happy, happy that they separate “Reality Programs” from “Reality-Competition Programs”, when neither The Wire (arguably the greatest show EVER) nor Friday Night Lights has been nominated for anything, I can but think back to Rule Number One, grit my teeth, and remind myself I haven’t really truly cared about an awards show since Denzel lost to Al Pacino for SCENT OF A FUCKING WOMAN.

So fuck the Emmys. Go pat yourselves on the back without me.

The topics I find appropriate to discuss, and the means by which I discuss them, would absolutely earn me an NC-17 rating. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the MPA would need to create a new rating just for me, the Tuffie-No Holds Barred. I’d get a special button to wear so parents could perform proper “ear muffs” on their children whenever I was within audible range.

But really, it’s not just minors who need protection. Anyone with a sensitive stomach and/or sensibility should stay far away from any conversation I’m carrying on. Why? Precisely because, more often than not, the topic of poop and the act thereof regularly enters into the discussion. Quite literally, I suffer from verbal diarrhea and find it nearly impossible to refrain from talking about the matter. (more…)

Everyone knows New York is a banged up, unpredictable urban mess. It’s what makes us famous. Dogs get electrocuted on manhole covers, people somehow survive being thrown in front of subway cars, and walls collapse on people just walking down the street. I have to say though, this latest steam pipe explosion kinda pissed me off. Not that it exploded, that’d be a pretty typical New York thing. What pissed me off was the parallel people drew to 9/11. Sure, on the TV it looked 9/11-esque; people running from a big white cloud, etc. But it was steam! It wasn’t two gigantic towers falling down that had planes flown into them! It was fucking steam.

Yes, people bugged out. Yes one lady died of a heart attack. It was nothing pleasant. But it wasn’t 9/11. I was bummed that both people here and elsewhere reported on it like it was the next big catastrophe to befall this city. I’ve already been told this is gonna be the “Summer of Terror”. Time to chill the fuck down, everything is going to be alright. Okay?

In the same news cycle this morning I read about a Senator who slept with a hooker, a billionaire who had a sex cave designed in his house, and a NFL star who was involved in illegal dog fights.

Allegedly, of course.

And I just have to blame the money. Me, I have no money, and thus cannot afford a sex cave, or a hooker, or a dog. Well, an extra dog. I cannot afford to involve my dog in illegal fights, because I cannot afford another dog. Is this what happens when you’ve enough money to afford more than one dog? “Man, I could totally buy another dog if this one died in a pit fight. Shit, I’m in!” When you become wealthy, does it become silly not to build a sex cave for hookers in your mansion? Somebody tell me, because perhaps money can buy you happiness. And if it can’t, I do believe it can buy you a sex cave that you can put right next to happiness.

I never liked the guy, don’t get me wrong. But I never liked the guy a lot more once he started yes-manning everything the Prez said, in a shameful-yet-screwball attempt to get the slot for Republican nominee.

Poor old guy, don’t you realize that deep down, you’re not evil? Evil people can smell evil, and they know your ass don’t have the right scent. They’ll never vote for you. Non-evil people? They might’ve voted for you, back when you sounded like a real live human being. But not now, silly. If you hadn’t noticed, the people who liked you eight years ago, they don’t like the war.

Which means, people who used to like you? Don’t like you.
People who’ll never like you? Don’t like you.

Enjoy medicare and sitting on the veranda, wondering what went wrong.

If you ever did time living in an urban college ghetto, it was probably Allston, a particularly fetid zip code of Boston. The neighborhood has always had a very open and tolerant view of just about everything. Puking on your neighbor’s stairs: a-okay. Extremely loud and obnoxious parties open to the public: encouraged. Disposing of empty kegs and moldy couches via your balcony: sanctioned. Smashing your old TV over a fire hydrant: creative! Every day is trash day in Allston.

It is a dirty and mystical place fit to have a very mystical person to lead its people. His name was Mr. Butch. He liked his booze and he liked his reefer and wasn’t afraid to tell you so. He stalked the streets of Allston for years spreading crooked advice, freestyle lyrics and general mirth. He was the human embodiment of a neighborhood of trash and beauty. Sadly, he recently passed away after a scooter accident. He’ll be sorely missed.

Our good pal Jason captured his endorsement of our old website Fort Drastic, feel free to peep below: (more…)

Whitney and the Sparkler Test:2 by Drew Baker

Constant explosions from outside my window, fireworks big and small. Unpatriotic as I am, all I can think about is how annoying they are, because they scare the shit out of my dog. They also make me wonder, is this what war sounds like, explosions going off, no clear source or direction?

On a lighter note, and as a perfect cap stone to this “holiday”: while talking to my dad today, and offering him medical advice for his cold, I wished him a good 4th, to which he replied, “what’s niggers got to celebrate? Was another hundred some odd years before we were freed.”