This past Christmas season, I had the great pleasure of working in den of despair, otherwise known as a department store. I worked with a colorful assortment of delinquents: i.e. stories for days. I recently blogged on one of them: 'Paranormal Insanity'. Check it out if you missed it by clicking here.
Since my departure, I have veered far from this den of inequity, but I was recently called back to claim a past sales incentive and was reminded of this mall of mess. Today I tell the story of Carina, the Ice Princess of mid-grade leather goods.
Carina was a stoic creature, reaching almost 6 feet tall in height, very pretty, with a condescending grin tattooed on her face. Carina was the department manager for mid-grade handbags and leather goods meant to appear like a Chanel display. Carina was a no-nonsense bitch and I liked her. She didn't have the energy to manage her staff, but rather ran threw the marble floors with a nervous twitch, a speedy demeanor, and that condescending grin. I met Carina during my first day of training. She was running an orientation for 40-some-odd hires, instructing us on dress code and work required attire. I didn't understand why a group of 40 needed a lecture on how to dress, but then again, the boy sitting next to me was wearing a vintage "zoot suit", so perhaps the class was necessary. It drug on rather long, but I knew I liked Carina by the first hand raised. A timid little girl in the back corner of the room raised her hand to ask a question as Carina was speaking and the response that followed that hand was epic. "I'm sorry, I didn't open the floor for questions." There was a collective silence in the room. Miss Carina was "reading" this young new hire and throwing shade all in the same moment. Carina continued: "You can write that question down on a paper, and if I don't answer it in the rest of my presentation - which is highly unlikely, check back with me later. Mmkay??" And she threw that devilish smirk out to the shy girl. I was in awe of her brass balls. She was a catty little department manager and I liked her style. This was pure entertainment, which cleared up my schedule from the boring redundant orientation. I mean, how many ways can you say: "wear all black and dress modestly"?? Really...
I felt like I was watching two trains collide in front of me, surrounded by such stupidity. People had questions for everything and it was all meant to be explained. All day long in that orientation, we had various managers instructing us on the remedial. I felt like I was watching a conversation between Lindsay Lohan and Helen Keller. We were getting nowhere. But, here we had Carina, who was taking herself far too seriously and shooting shade at the unkept rejects joining me in this break room. After she schooled the girl in the corner, the shy timid girl proved her own inept nature when she continued: "...But I don't have a pen..." To which Carina walked forward, raised herself up on her toes, in six-inch stiletto boots and said: "Well... I guess you have a problem." And with that, no one raised their hands until the next manager entered the room. I kept looking around for the cameras, because she gave a grade A reality star performance. Maybe not Bravo-worthy, but definitely something for Oxygen or the Style Network...
As I worked in this department store for a few months, I got to see "a lot" of Carina. And by "a lot", I mean she was always briskly rushing through various departments as if she had presidential business to attend to. She would brush customers constantly, feeling entitled to her place ahead of them. Clearly, Carina was a class act.
One afternoon, while out to eat with a coworker on our lunch break, we may or may not have been drinking Bloody Marys. The details escape me. All of a sudden, we notice Carina seated at a table not too far away from ours. As we went to clear our drinks from visibility, Carina threw back her head and swallowed a shot of tequila. Suddenly I didn't find my Bloody Mary so inappropriate. I sipped my cocktail, feeling like I had Carina fully figured out...
Meanwhile, as this is all going on, the store was experiencing a generous amount of theft. Of course there were common thefts, but there was a serious internal situation. There was a major shrink problem going on and people were fired on a daily basis for their misdemeanors. There was a "loss prevention" team in place to patrol the store, but they were far more like the cast of 'Reno 911' or 'Paul Blart: Mall Cop'. I chatted them up often and they were far more concerned with the sexual politics within the store than theft. Due to this shrink problem, however, there were daily interviews conducted by the "loss prevention" team and people were tense. The environment wasn't great to begin with, so this only added to the mess. Throughout all of it, Carina stomped through the aisles of this department store with her nose in the air and that nasty grin, seemingly unaffected. I thought she was a fierce creature who didn't fit in within this environment, much like myself.
One day, after a slew of interrogations throughout departments, I was gossiping with a coworker, disillusioned with the establishment. Carina approached behind and interjected her way into the conversation. I had just given my notice a few days prior and was mostly checked out from work. Carina asked us our thoughts on an ongoing sale and I had a bit of verbal diarrhea. "It's a rather exciting sale. Just as exciting as the last sale, which ironically held all the same details as this sale. You'd almost think there really is no sale..." There was a snarky quality to my delivery and Carina's nose instantly shut up in the air. Whether it was due to a personal habit, plastic surgery, or extreme senses, Carina's nose found its way up in the air very easily. Carina then turned to me, authoritatively and strong: "You can lose the attitude Raanan. Some of us are VERY happy here. Take your energy elsewhere." I was somewhat surprised as I didn't expect that aggressive a response, but then again this was Carina. And in regards to being happy, you could have fooled me, but perhaps Tequila shots had something to do with Carina's happy.
The following week I left department store hell and didn't look back. Some time went on and I received a call from one of my ex-coworkers. It seems that everything was carrying on dreary as anything at work one day when all of a sudden 'Paul Blart' and his crew in the Loss Prevention department marched up to Carina, handcuffed her, and took her away. Carina had been running some sort of theft operation under the guise of her management approval. Lady was making out like a bandit for years. Carina was escorted out with her head held low. Somehow her nose got its first taste of the floor. That was Carina's goodbye.
Since I hadn't had a chance to give her a proper goodbye, I decided to send her a farewell text message. The message read: "Hey Carina, Hope all's well. Are you VERY happy now?? xoxo. Raanan."
Unfortunately, I never received a response.
Thoughts or opinions?
I'm sure you've read the title of this blog and thought: "Wow, he's really lost it. Amanda Bynes a genius?? Hell's to the no..." This is where I must explain how you've all gotten it wrong.
The all-knowing prestigious online encyclopedia Wikipedia is where I learn all of my facts. Let's take a read as to what Wikipedia.org has to say about her: "Amanda Laura Bynes (born April 3, 1986) is an American actress and fashion designer. Bynes appeared in several successful television series, such as All That and The Amanda Show, on Nickelodeon in the mid to late 1990s and early 2000s, and in 2002, she starred in the TV series What I Like About You. She transitioned to a film career, starring in several films aimed at teenage audiences, including Big Fat Liar (2002), What a Girl Wants (2003), Love Wrecked (2005), She's the Man (2006), Hairspray (2007), Sydney White (2007) and Easy A (2010). She was named one of Teen People's "25 Hottest Stars Under 25" in 2006."
Well, that explains Amanda's timeline up until 2010, but what happened prior to that?? How did this Nickelodeon star develop into the beautiful, elegant, and charming young lady she is today? The same young lady that has been tweeting up a storm begging R&B singer Drake to "murder her pussy" in getting flack from all of the haters. I don't get it. She's so charming...
I do remember thinking she may not be fully "with it" a few years back prior to her role in "Easy A". Amanda made a big public statement of retirement from acting prior to the film's release. "Being an actress isn't as fun as it may seem... If I don't love something anymore I stop doing it. I don't love acting anymore so I've stopped doing it...I know 24 is a young age to retire but you heard it here first," she tweeted. "I've #retired." Well, that sounds like the best PR adventure for a young star with a movie freshly about to be released. I remember thinking: "Bitch may have lost it." But then I saw "Easy A" and while I love the movie, I was thoroughly distracted by Amanda's poor acting skills. Maybe it was time to retire. You can check out the 2010 article by clicking here.
Then, after the movie, she seemed to vanish. Nobody was planning a Nickelodeon 'All That' Reunion any time soon, so it made sense for her to bow out.
Then, out of nowhere, we start to see a newly Lindsay-Lohan inspired Amanda Bynes appear as if climbing from underneath the rubble. Perhaps it was rubble created by a Lindsay hit-and-run by way of a stolen car. Who knows? Stolen jewels were probably in place as well... Amanda became a recluse, tweeting crazy things, piercing as much of her body as possible, and wearing a big flag on her forehead craving the attention. You'd be quicker to miss Kirstie Alley crossing the street in a yellow Scientology poncho than miss out on any of Amanda's recent indiscretions.
TMZ reported this past September that: "Gym sources tell us, Amanda was attending a 50-minute spin class at Equinox when she suddenly stopped participating in the class and aimlessly walked around looking to switch bikes. Once Amanda found a replacement -- closer to the room's giant mirror -- we're told Amanda started cycling again, but removed her top, revealing a "tiny black strapless push up bra ... not a sports bra." Roughly 25 minutes into the class, we're told Amanda stopped cycling again -- this time to pick up her Louis Vuitton purse ... and reapply her makeup." I don't know about you, but I always use my workout time as an excuse to check my makeup and take off my clothes. You can read the whole article at TMZ.com by clicking here.
Clearly this girl has gotten a bit scandalous, and I've found myself questioning her sanity. She continues to viciously tweet her interest in having R&B artist Drake "murder her pussy". Given that we're talking about Drake, I can understand the sentiment, but girl: Keep it in your pants. Judging by her time in Spin Class, that's easier said than done.
Many tabloids and news programs have mocked the ridiculous state of this girl in need of having her "pussy murdered". I wonder, has it occurred to anyone that perhaps she has an angry puss, in need of a slaying?? On the E! Network program 'The Soup', they even have a segment entitled: "Amanda VS Lindsay: Drag Race to the Death" which chronicles the sad, but laughable antics of these out of control former child stars. (Emphasis on being former stars...) But, given her noteworthy vagina, when I came across the following article, it started to make more sense...
Amanda's tweets have gone further into crazy, starting twitter feuds with people right and left, as well as her antics heightening. She was recently found with an alleged bong by the po-po and TMZ in New York. Luckily, Amanda knows the truth: TMZ photoshopped the picture. Because after having been photographed several times smoking a pipe over the last few months, a bong is unbelievable. Her sanity was placed on display when she announced that she would now be suing TMZ. Fight for your rights, girl!
Things really seem to have a taken a downward detour after a recent twitter feud with one Miss Courtney Love.
Burrrrnnnnnn...
I'm not saying that Amanda's not the highest upheld version of clarity and maturity, but once Courtney Love is telling you to calm down, maybe it's time to check yourself. In the eternal words of Bethany Frankel: "Check yourself, before you wreck yourself." Couldn't have said it better myself.
I will say, though, that all of this mess has led me to a new conclusion in the state of Amanda Bynes mess: Method Acting. Joaquin Phoenix grew out his hair and became a heroin addict allegedly for a role, Kate Gosselin pretended to give a shit about her kids and marriage for the TV, and here we have our newest method actor: Amanda Bynes. Girl is the thespian to top all thespians (despite craving Drake "top" her villainous pussy).
This may all just be an act for the cameras... Is Amanda really the great actress I never thought she was?? Is Nickelodeon bringing back 'the Amanda Show'?? Is her retirement over?? Let's all take a step back and marvel at her acting chops. Girl must be a genius...
Thoughts or opinions??
Truth be known, I'm a bit of a commitment-phobe. While the idea of a love and a relationship are, at times, mildly enticing to me, I really enjoy the freedom to eat a greasy cheeseburger and fall asleep when I choose without the responsibility of another. But, alas this is me. A Demi Lovato song is as much intimacy as I need on any given day.
My personal feelings aside, I have many friends enjoying the perks of love and mating, and I'm happy for their happiness. More often than not, that love is far more complicated than the surface level. Last night, I had the pleasure of peeking into my friend Jamie's heartbreak and story of love. Jamie is a friend of mine from the East Coast, who has recently moved his ass out to LaLaLand. Jamie, like me, is a Jewish gay, born from Southern Jersey roots, with overly-neurotic hormones and a palpable uneasiness. Our phone conversations reminisce the good ol' days of Coffee Talk with Linda Richman. Check it out here.
During our conversation last evening, I could hear the sadness in Jamie's voice as he had had a rough day courtesy of his ex of five years. Jamie's ex - Billy-Bob - was a recently divorced closeted gay man when they met five and a half years ago. Now, Billy-Bob is closeted and five plus years outside the divorce. As a side note, that's what we call EVOLUTION. What a changed individual... Billy-Bob met Jamie one fateful afternoon online in a sex chatroom about six years ago. Isn't that how all great romances begin?? Billy-Bob was living in Maryland, while Jamie was still in New Jersey. Billy-Bob began courting Jamie and one fateful evening they met up and sealed the deal - sexually, that is. Jamie fell for Billy-Bob instantly and felt the connection was love at first chat. Knowing no one in Maryland, Jamie made the leap and moved down to the area from Jersey on the hopes of a future. The second Jamie arrived, Billy-Bob informed him that he had begun dating someone else and was no longer interested in a relationship. Well, not a relationship with Jamie. Six months after that, Billy-Bob found himself without a boyfriend and struggling with no job. Here enters Jamie.
Jamie had acclimated himself to the Chesapeake Bay State. He had made friends and found work. Billy-Bob came crawling back with a few small gestures including and limited to flowers and chocolate. Well, needless to say, carnations and Hershey's kisses swept Jamie off his feet. Wouldn't that do it for you?? I know it would for me. Classic love story. So, Jamie took him back. Now Billy-Bob had no job, was in the process of an eviction, and lonely. Jamie began caring for their relationship and taking on a Paternal role in the relationship. The best part of this was that Billy-Bob was pushing forty, while Jamie was barely 21. Who doesn't dream of an older, wiser, more experienced freeloader to run your bank account dry??
All of these reasons always rubbed me the wrong way about their relationship. I offered to freeload off Jamie and ridicule him daily if that's what would make him happy. He never saw my perspective. At one point, money struggles had reached a record high and Jamie began running a massage parlor out of their one-bedroom apartment. This was a classy massage parlor with a fold away table from Home Depot, Ikea sheets, and a handy j, more commonly known as a "happy ending". Meanwhile, Billy-Bob didn't work, but voyeuristically stayed close in the next room throughout the "experience". This should paint a clear picture of their relationship. Hopefully...
Fast-forward to today, Jamie is living in LaLaLand and no longer with Billy-Bob. This is not to say he's not still under Billy-Bob's spell, missing the "love" they once had. In face, despite the 3000 mile distance, Jamie is constantly missing that relationship, wanting a "do-over". This month, however, the two had an agreement where Billy-Bob was going to pay Jamie a pre-discussed sum of money. Jamie still looks back on their relationship with lovestruck eyes, so it never seemed tangible that he may not receive the funds. Low and behold, yesterday morning, Jamie received a message courtesy of Facebook (how intimate) from Billy-Bob explaining that he would not be sending the money. Not a partial payment, not a dollar, but nothing.
Jamie was hurt beyond belief. He sat on the other end of the phone with me last night, hysterical and confused as to how the "love of his life" could have done this to him. I kept trying to make him see what a jerk Billy-Bob is. He always has been. Jamie couldn't see it.
I brought up the time when he was running his bordello of happy endings, while Billy-Bob stayed stagnant and unemployed. I thought this would be the winning argument, assuming we were in the courtroom and I had to argue my case. Jamie wasn't buying. That's when he felt the need to better explain the massage experience and Billy-Bob's noble role. "When I used to have guys come over, I never really knew who they were. It could be scary and I didn't have my parents to go to. Billy-Bob was my family." I still stood there on the receiving end of this call misunderstanding Billy-Bob's noble actions. I asked: "How does that not make him an asshole?? Wasn't his job as your partner to help look out for you?? Or am I just crazy??" Jamie quickly responded, explaining I hadn't let him finish the story: "When the stragglers from the internet entered my home, Billy-Bob stayed in the living room with a big fat Butcher's knife in hand. He left me a knife under the bed, in case the paying party tried any funny business. And Billy-Bob would stay by the door, listening to every moment. He loved me so much and he protected me!" All I could respond was a common response of mine: "You gotta be shittin me, woman?!"
"And he would stay by the door while you gave a happy ending? That's kid of creepy, Jamie." To which Jamie responded: "I never used my mouth. That was reserved for my love: Billy-Bob." Well, how frikin romantic... I have no idea how such a stand up guy could be flaking on his responsibilities now?? Strange... Fishy...
All I can say is that maybe I don't know what true love really is. Maybe it's a knife under the bed. I can tell you this, no one has ever carried a knife to protect me. Maybe I've been looking at love all wrong... Hmmm...
Thoughts or opinions?
I consider myself a bit of a sponge. Not in the sense of my hygiene, although I do fancy the occasional shower. And by occasional, we're not talking Colin Farrell level of showering: I am familiar with a bar of soap as opposed to poor movie-star grunge king, Colin. My spongelike abilities relate to my worldly understanding. I am constantly learning and have grown into an encyclopedia of useless information. This past Memorial Day weekend, I was educated on something so far outside my realm of worldly understanding that I felt the need to share my news with everyone out there reading.
I will preface that my new discovery may be deemed foul by just about anyone without a sexually criminal background, but I would like to share nonetheless...
Yesterday afternoon, we had a group of people over at our rooftop pool in West Hollywood. We were grilling meats, turkey, chicken, and raising the level of debauchery ever seen on that tattered deck. Prior to ascending up the elevator, I had a few friends show up. Amongst this crew was my dearest friend Jade, along with our friends Kenny and Stan. Kenny was eager to show me a proud purchase he had made earlier that morning. Kenny has recently begun dating a guy with an "underwear fetish". For those who don't know, an underwear fetish is rather self-explanatory. Some form of underwear, jockstrap, crotchless panties, or mesh knitting is generally involved throughout the sexual interlude. I'm a bit more vanilla and boring in my sexual appetite, but I implore others to try what works for them. Kenny, excited to show me his new prize reached into a bag and removed what appeared to be a mesh doily. They were his new pair of fetish pants. It was a mesh pair of briefs - completely see-through - with an entirely open backside for "easy entry". This defied the purpose of underwear to me, but I have a lot of my own strong opinions, so I ignored that. Kenny asked me what I thought and I awkwardly responded: "How cute..." I really didn't understand the full allure to this underwear-substitute, but again, I don't understand ball-gags and facial urination, so call me old fashioned. When my friends get into such things, I feel like the Dick Cheney of the group: conservative, small-minded, and rich. Well, not rich. I never feel rich, but the first two work. Plus, if I haven't been to the gym all too much that week, I may feel Dick Cheney bloated, so you get the idea.
I asked Kenny if this was a regular fetish for him and he insisted no. "The guy I'm seeing is really into it, so I'm getting into it." He then pointed to the underwear, focusing on the crotchless back side: "These aren't going to come off until I get off!" Ok. Sounds good to me. To each their own. I'm far more white bread, myself, preferring Latin and Middle Eastern men with strong personalities putting me in my place. How Judy Cleaver of me...
As Kenny retired to my bathroom to try on his new personal present, I got to chatting with Jade and Stan. They kept referring to Kenny as a "dancer" of sorts and I was lost. "Since when has Kenny been a dancer?? Where does he dance?" The conversation had still gone over my head. Stan and Jade began to giggle as I was brought up to date. "Kenny used to be a go-go-boy at Rage years ago." Now I was confused. Kenny's about 23 years old and looks like an infant. He would be carded grabbing a cup of coffee out of fear he may be a fetus; so how was he a dancer years ago?? I was really confused.
Kenny returned from the bathroom, changed back into his pool attire, shy to show his naked undies to us. We wanted a fashion show, but alas, we were dreadfully disappointed. What came to follow was equally a game changer for me, so I have no regrets.
As Kenny approached my first floor balcony, where the rest of us stood, I didn't waste a moment wondering: "So... were you a go-go-boy?? How did I not know this??" Kenny answered openly: "I used to dance at 'Rage' in West Hollywood, for a few months..." Now, amongst my circles of friends, we tend to avoid 'Rage'. No shade thrown there, but it is more an establishment where the likes of young boys are met with their future through the presence of awkwardly pedophile-esque men. I mention the future as these boys tend to meet their future in the back of an alley-way rather quickly after "last call". Kenny, having been a dancer at this establishment years ago had me overly eager with questions. "Tell me everything, EVERYTHING!" I insisted.
Kenny began to share as many details as one would want. It was mostly generic stripper gossip, until a true gem left Kenny's lips. I asked him what kind of attire they wore for a night's gig. Kenny explained tiny briefs were the standard, then continuing "that I had started 'tucking' rather quickly after I started, having learned from the other dancers. They were all doing it..." I stood there thinking: "You got to be shittin' me, woman." I didn't understand what I had just heard. For those of you who don't know, 'tucking' refers to the binding and undertuck of one's penis to hide it from visibility. Drag Queens do this while performing as well as Buffallo Bill's character from 'The Silence of the Lambs'. Here we had female illusionists and a sociopathic murderer as our 'tucking' examples. Since when did strippers tuck? Don't we want to see someone's manhood?? I was lost. It was clicking in yet. I felt like the kid in the back of the class, picking his nose, and daydreaming through a fire alarm. I was not understanding this conversation.
I quickly stopped Kenny upon the use of the word 'tucking'. "Ex-cuse-a-fuck-what?? Tucking?? Why??" I felt like an audience member after any episode of the ABC cryptic series 'LOST'. I was lost. Still.
Then it was all explained: "Since it's all old men paying the strippers' tips, we had to do what would make us the best tips..." I was still somewhat lost. It seems that the Rage-filled clientele included many old men seeking young babes. Part of that fantasy, "like a Ken-doll. They don't want anything more than a smooth body, a round little butt, and zero genitalia." Oh my Oprah, I began to understand. As I stood there seeking a fork to scratch out my eye-balls, I contemplated the dirty nature of this all. There are old men out there looking for pube-less, penis-less babes to spoil. Excuse me a moment while I throw up. And... there it is again. Mentally, I'm surrounded in puddles of vomit by this news. I asked: "Why not just wear diapers?" To which Kenny responded: "Some guys did. They made the best tips. Across the board." All I kept thinking was: "How did I never connect the dots before?? This is a mess, but not as surprising as it is vial."
Whatever happened to the days when premarital intercourse was a life ruining embarrassment? Now we have old men and kids with no genitalia and diapers... Hmmmm... For those friends out there who have drunkinly peed in public only to be met with "sexual offenders" status, take a deep breath in knowing that you are nowhere near the real sexual offender status.
All I can say is thank Oprah I have no intentions to have children, because I don't think I could ever look at a diaper the same way again.
There's your education lesson for your Memorial Weekend. Next time, please give your teacher an apple. I prefer Granny Smith.
Thoughts or opinions?
I had been looking forward to Saturday night all week. One of my closest friends, Jade, was having his 27th birthday celebration at a 1920's themed "Speak Easy". I was expecting the HBO series 'Boardwalk Empire'. There was a password at the door required for entry and I excitedly awaited the evening.
Last night was the event and I planned my evening accordingly. I invited a date and planned on being there early, so that Jade and I could have some special time together before all of the other attendees poured in. Early on in the day I called Jade and told him I couldn't come. I'm often a flake and Jade knows how easy I can turn down an evening and I just wanted to screw with him. His response wasn't comical, however, as he was now worried that many people would not show up. Several friends had cancelled that morning and Jade didn't want to spend a moment on his birthday alone. I agreed to be there promptly at the night's start, in order to avoid this.
My date and I showed up close to 9:30, just minutes after Jade arrived. We circled the block in confusion, seeing no visible signs for the night-club/speak-easy. The GPS told us we were there, but no speak-easy was in sight. We decided to look for parking and search for the door by foot. As we parked, we exited the car and began to search for the birthday spot. We walked right past the front door and its inconspicuous nature. Then we noticed there was a valet and an older gentleman that resembled Colonel Sanders in a suit presiding over what looked like a door list. We turned around and walked towards the podium. There were four guys ahead of us, there for another party. As they proceeded with the party information, they lacked the front door password. They were asked to step aside while attempting to retain the password by calling a lifeline. I stood there puzzled. While the "kitsch" nature of all of this was entertaining and fun, I couldn't help but think about the economy. In these economic times, your going to open a hidden bar where one must recite a password for entry. Really?? Why not forget the password altogether and let nobody in?? Let's see how far that takes you...
Anywho, we proceeded to the podium, gave the password: "my friend", and were escorted in. While the decor inside was rather cute in a mediocre been-there-done-that kind of way, I couldn't help but thinking this was nowhere like 'The Great Gatsby'. Baz Luhrman was not the director of this establishment. The 20's were known for style and tailored aesthetics. Instead, we had the restaurant's "uniform", meaning that all of the men wore over-sized un-tailored 20's inspired suits resembling something stolen from their fathers, while all of the females in the establishment had red flapper-inspired streamer fringe dresses ala Party City. Rather classy if you ask me. I've ordered the suit from the K-Mart 20's collection online in every color for myself. And no one inside dressed for the occasion. I had asked Jade about the dress code before attending and he told me to dress nicely. Inside, the attendees were a collection of mismatched jeans and t-shirts. It really helped bring the vibe up to generic.
As we sat down in Jade's reserved section, there was space for roughly 20 people. Upon our arrival, we had filled 3 spots. Unsure when people would arrive, we began to drink. I started out my night with a personal favorite of Jameson on the Rocks. We all drank respectively, chatting and enjoying one another's company. As time drug on and it approached 10, it became apparent that no one else was set to arrive. The waitress in her classy attire approached every ten minutes to ask where the rest of the party was. While the establishment was not filled, there were generous attendees in every section but ours. It was if a private VIP party was set to attend later in the evening and we were warming their seats. We continued to drink and threw shots into the mix. 10 quickly became 10:30, which shortly afterwards was 11. I was getting toasted, but Jade was outdoing us all in shots and he was approaching black-out period. It was not a fun drunk moment, however, as he was sad and disappointed by the pitiful turn-out. In addition to the waitress kindly pressuring our table every few minutes, management approached a number of times kindly asking us to leave, as the area was reserved for 15 plus. Jade was not open to negotiation. He was sad and drunk and very stubborn. I offered we go to another bar, where it's busy and we don't have the establishment asking us to leave every few minutes, but Jade would not let up.
Meanwhile, our friend Kenny was on his way up from Long Beach and had texted Jade that he would be there shortly. I offered we leave and Kenny meet us out at another bar where our tab doesn't require at least 15 drinkers. Jade would not budge. I began to text Kenny and realized he was not as close as it seemed. All the while, we're not even drinking happily. We're all 3 reclining on the couches texting other people, disillusioned by this speak-easy. Speaking was not easy after a few hours of saying everything we could say. No one was attending and no one was showing up. The entire night-club was waiting for us to leave. I pleaded with Jade, but he was set on Kenny seeing this speak-easy. He wanted Kenny to enjoy the ambiance. I kept thinking: "What ambiance??"
As the clock approached midnight, Kenny texted me that he had parked and could not find the bar. Had this occurred with the other 15 plus attendees?? Perhaps this was the most sought-after establishment on a Saturday night and here their lack of visibility and Colonel Sanders look-alike doormen, maybe people were getting lost. Again, the economy, people... If I hadn't promised Jade's my attendance, I would have given up before finding the door. I offered to come outside and escort Kenny in to the Party-City themed 1920's establishment.
I walked out the front door and ventured into the street for Kenny. We connected over the phone and I found him across the street in total confusion. As we connected and walked towards the speak-easy, Kenny turned to me and said: "Is this fucking place for real?? Why are we here??" We gave our names and the password to the Colonel Sander's stand in and he began to berate us for the lack of attendance. I had no response.
We were escorted inside to Jade and my date. As we sat down and Jade introduced his new guest to the birthday celebration, Kenny took a look around and the waitress approached him. "Can I get you a drink?" To which, Kenny responded: "No. I'm okay." At that point, we had more than outstayed our welcome. The waitress came back a moment later with an individual shot for Jade: "Sorry about your birthday..." At this point, our residence had warranted pity, no longer annoyance.
Kenny turned to us, collectively as a group, and said: "Let's get the fuck out of here." And with that, we said goodbye to our 1920's themed Party-City Speak-Easy. We left with our heads down and did not say goodbye to Colonel Sanders...
Thoughts or opinions?
Today, I came across a fantastic new website: The Gay Women Channel and stumbled upon the following clip, entitled 'Straight Girl at a Gay Bar (Honey Badger Parody)':
That was as factual as the story gets, but this clip reminded me of a fun story from my own past... Shortly after coming out, I made friends with a fellow gay named David. On one specific gay-pride filled weekend in Philadelphia, David and I ventured out accompanied by his older sister Grace. David and Grace were rather close, only a few years apart in age. Grace was a partier in her own rite, but had never been to a gay bar or a pride event, unaware of our daring alcohol abuse. Statistically speaking, a gay can generally consume double the alcohol of a heterosexual, with the exception of Europeans, especially Russians. David and I were only 18 and Grace was 21, but still, she wasn't ready for our party. We came to the outdoor celebration in the Philly "Gayborhood" with ample protection. And by protection, I'm referring to a bottle of Banker's Club Vodka. We were protecting our braincells from developing past that day. Anyone who has ever consumed Banker's Club anything knows exactly what I'm talking about.
We stood in the street, through the festivities, taking shots directly from the bottle of this dollar store rubbing alcohol. David and I kept going, handing off to Grace as we passed the bottle around. We finished the bottle within an hour standing in the bleeding sun, with that lovely smell of body odor that forms in a big group subjected to humidity. Thank Oprah I live in Los Angeles now, the land of no humidity. Humidity is not your friend. As we stood there, empty bottle in hand, we wondered what our next move would be. Clearly a bottle of Vodka in an hour wasn't enough for our growing livers. All of a sudden we heard our names: "Raanan! David!" It was our friends Lauren and Lisa, two lesbians that David and I worked with at 'the Olive Garden' back in New Jersey. For anyone who doesn't know, 'the Olive Garden' is only the finest establishment for Authentic Italian food prepared in the microwave by non-Italians. If you haven't been, you should really try it out. Buon Appetito.
Lauren and Lisa wanted to go to a bar. Despite claiming she was "game", Grace was not used to this level of debauchery. We were all holding our own, but you could tell a light had switched off in Grace's eyes. It was like that glared wink you receive from someone at "last call" in a seedy bar. Still, we ventured on. I had a friend who was a bartender at a gay-bar in the "gayborhood" and would happily serve us despite our legal dispute with our underage status. Off we ventured to a bar. As we sat down at the bar, everyone began to order cocktails. Grace had left us for the bathroom.
As we were enjoying our drinks, Grace emerged from the bathroom and proceeded to the bar. She ordered a 'Mike's Hard Lemonade', as one would expect. As our friend the bartender handed Grace her malt beverage, she went to seat herself on the barstool next to her brother David. As she went to sit, we all heard a BANG. We turned to look: Grace had fallen to the floor. Straight girl had clearly drank too much. We, collectively as a group, decided it was time to put Grace in a cab back to New Jersey. There was no reason to stop drinking, we just had to place the day's casualty in a cab and off to bed. As we left the bar, Grace was unable to stand. David and Lauren hoisted her up and took each arm of hers around their respective shoulders.
As we walked through this "gayborhood" alley-way, Grace seemed possessed. It was as if she had a new-found form of Racist Tourette Syndrome. We saw a couple of gay guys, one of which was black, and Grace screamed Racist profanity. It was shocking and quite embarrassing. Lauren threw her hand over Grace's mouth: "You will not say things like that, Grace. Do you hear me??" She then removed her hand. We encountered a lesbian couple and Grace screamed: "Dykes! Shame on you!" Lauren slapped her hand across Grace's mouth and told her, again, to shut up.
We thought that last slap had killed the demon possession inside of her. We continued to walk. All of a sudden, Grace began to cry. Lauren asked her what was wrong, to which she responded: "I can't live my life like this! I want to be free, but I can't because of my brother! He's gay and I want to be with a woman, but I can't be gay because he is." We all stood there in shock, David the most jarred. He immediately assured her it would be okay for her to be gay. As we approached the cab, Grace yelled out: "I want pussy!" Clearly, the Tourette Syndrome had survived.
It became clear to David and I that we would have to accompany Grace home in the cab as she was incapacitated. Grace slept the whole way back to David's house in New Jersey. As we pulled up to their house, Grace woke up, opened her taxi door and stumbled out of the cab, not before throwing up all over their driveway. As Grace returned to standing, she asked me what had transpired that day, remembering nothing. To which, I responded: "You spent a day with the gays."
Thoughts or opinions?
This past Christmas Season, I had the fine pleasure of working in a "luxury" department store, behind the fine jewelry counter. I use the term "luxury" rather loosely as I can tell you from experience that the only "luxury" in this department store was the overpriced nature of its sale items and your given day(s) off... Showering was another "luxury" as most of the staff throughout this mall of despair didn't take personal hygiene very seriously. I believe most of my fellow workers could have benefited from treating their hygienic needs like a terrorist attack. There were many "bombs" throughout the mega-store...
As I worked with a colorful crew of characters, my personal favorite was an older woman named Jeanette. And by older, we're talking 80 plus. By no means am I an agist, but Jeanette's relationship with senility was strong. No one was breaking up that loving romance. The first time I saw Jeanette, I was instantly intrigued. She had flaming-orange hair, cut into a bouncy bob like hairstyle - it had punch. She was wearing wild conflicting prints with orthopedic wedges. She was a punch. As I walked out from my first interview, all I could see for miles was Jeanette's flaming hair. I thought to myself: "Bitch is gonna be ca-rayyyyy-zeeeeeee. Bat-shit nuts, party of 1..." I was excited for the prospect of working with this lady.
When I showed up for my first day, Jeanette was the first to welcome me. "I'm Jeanette and I can connect with the other side." Well, that was a given. Now, it was only confirmed. I responded gleefully: "Fascinating. Tell me more." Jeanette began to explain to me that she is a medium and connects with dead people in her dreams. It was getting better... As the conversation carried on, Jeanette explained that she is as legit as they come. She was on a mission to make me a believer. The truth is that I'm not really sure of everything out there myself and I believe there are real mediums out there in my personal opinion. I wasn't closed off to the topic, but I had many questions: "What are you doing in retail, then??" To which Jeanette, or rather ESPN-Jeanette, responded: "I could never take money for it. I work for the soul." I stood there in confusion. All I kept thinking is: "You gotta be shittin' me, woman..." What I replied was: "What are you doing in retail, then??" I couldn't wrap my head around her answer. I continued: "If you're doing good, connecting people with their loved ones on the other side, why wouldn't you allow it to support you? If it could support you, then why not? It's a gift, right?" ESPN-Jeanette explained that she felt it would be dishonest. Funny she should say that, because I was finding her pretty dishonest. I'm sorry, but there's no way in hell that someone with a true gift like that would be working until 11 pm on a weekend at 80 years old for fifteen bucks and hour. Sorry, that's just crazy - bat-shit crazy.
I continued to probe ESPN-Jeanette with questions, confirming her instability further. Suddenly I became a licensed physician - a psychiatrist. I was diagnosing my new patient: an older woman who happened to be color-bling, with a wild imagine and a love for boxed hair-dye. Was she capable of performing at work?? I didn't know yet. (The later answer would be no, though.) Did she smell of wine from her lunch break?? It was as if a bottle had been poured over her flaming-orange head. She reeked. Maybe she was drinking Absinthe with her turkey sandwich on rye.
Then the conversation took an awfully special turn. "Remember 9/11??" ESPN-Jeanette asked me. Again, I was thinking: "You gotta be shittin' me, woman." Outwardly and slowly, I responded "yes..." Then it got great. "Well... I had a dream about it the night before it happened. I called the White House and told them and they ignored it. Then, 9/11 happened. The day after, I got in touch with the White House again. They now believed me. I'm now an informant for the U.S. Government and I warn them when I've had dreams... I'm on a special list..."
Yeah, I'm pretty sure your on a "special" list. You're definitely on a list.
And, finally, I was left with one more question for her: "What are you doing working in retail??"
Thoughts or opinions?
I've lived in LaLaLand for what's approaching five years, come January. Well, I guess that's not really five years just yet, but math is not my forte. Four and a half years later and nothing seems to phase me in this mess of a place I call a home...
Shortly after moving here, I met my girlfriend Dee. Dee's a hot mess in all of the best ways possible. She's a functioning alcoholic, smoking hot, and a lover to the gays. She's the first person to jump up on the pole. Needless to say, Dee is always a fun time. A few years ago, Dee was involved with this guy Kevin. The fun with Dee was that Kevin wasn't the only guy in her life. Outside her slew of gays, Dee was chatting with a number of guys she met out in Boystown. One guy was a go-go dancer, so was another, and then there was Kevin.
Kevin was a porn star by way of gay porn. They call that "gay-for-pay"... Many "straight" guys participate in gay porn and Kevin was one of them. It varies from studio to studio, but from what I can tell: when a man has unprotected sex with a stranger while talking dirty and spitting in their face - you're gay. You may not want to admit it. It may be a difficult reality for you, but despite your craving for unwashed penis, let's collectively as a group: "You're gay." Period.
Back to Kevin... He was straight. And he was "sleeping" with Dee. My girlfriend assured me he was an "entrepreneur" with a vision. My vision was Kevin's exposed anus on every laptop in America, but again I digress.
One night, Dee invited me out for a night of debauchery. Being the good friend that I am, I obliged. Shortly after arriving at our destination, Dee got a text that Kevin was on his way. I hadn't met him in person, yet. I was strictly a fan of his admirable "film acting". It was well-spread work. Was I going to get an autograph?? Would he sign my hand?? Excitement was on its way.
All of a sudden, I hear from down the street what can only be described as a parade. It was Kevin with some of his other "gay-for-pay" fellow thespians, followed by swarms of gays. Kevin walked right over to me, cocky and confident, and introduced himself: "I know, I know... I look familiar. You've probably seen me in film..." I stood there marveling at his introduction and decided to have a little fun with him: "Oh yeah? Films? Anything I may have seen recently in the theaters??" Kevin responded just as Dee kicked me underneath our bar table. "You've probably seen me in porn. Name's Jake Lighthouse." To which I responded, "How bright..."
Shortly after this, Dee and I became supporting characters to the evening as Mr. Lighthouse and his fellow "gay-for-pay" women-lovers attended to their gay fans, signing genitalia and acting very "straight". That's what straight guys do, right?? Don't all straight guys do gay porn and frequent gay bars fooling around with their fans??
As the scene overwhelmed, I left a short while after. The following morning, I called Dee to check in. She was hungover and lazy, still checked into bed. Kevin/Mr. Lighthouse was in the shower. "So, how was the rest of your night, Dee?? You and Kevin go crazy??" There was silence. You could hear Katherine Heigl crying in the distance, mourning the loss of her career. Noise had been overspent. After a few more moments of awkward silence, I repeated my question. To which Dee responded: "We just cuddled. Kevin shot two scenes yesterday and he was exhausted. Sometimes we just cuddle." To which I attempted to keep a straight face and responded: "very normal issue". "It's ok. Our relationship is so much more than sex..."
Yes, so were my relationships with women, but I'm also gay. Kevin, the "gay-for-pay" porn star is as straight as they come. Hugh Jackman, watch out.
And thus concludes another irreverent LaLaLand story.
Thoughts or opinions?
I've worked on and off in Beverly Hills for a number of years and had the fine pleasure of seeing major coin up-close. I have worked with many celebrities and wealthy folk from all walks of life. One inevitability has always been the straggling gay, desperate to gain my attention through name dropping, flashy attire, and black American Express cards.
While I very much enjoy money and fully implore you to support my life, I believe money is a fluid thing and your current possession of it will not make me drop to the knees. Hand me keys to a Bentley and a Rolex Presidential and we can talk...
While working in retail sales in Beverly Hills, I had a frequent visitor from up north. While I worked in sales, this never seemed the purpose for my visiting guest. His name was Julian and he was an Interior Decorator from the San Francisco area in his late 40's. Let me scratch what I said before about his profession - he was an Interior Designer. I once referred to him as the former and was forced victim to a 40 minute lecture on the difference between the two titles. I really just didn't know. My profession at the time was a whore to the service industry, so clearly this was just plain ignorance. Save me from another lecture. I'm just an ignorant whore. Let's leave it at that.
Julian would stop into my store and spend extended periods of time awkwardly attempting to flirt and catch stolen moments of brushes by the hand. I was always awfully uncomfortable, but being a whore to my commission and a full-time employee, I would pander to his creepy advances in hopes that he would leave or spend money. The latter never seemed to happen. Rather, he would spend time with me, shop in San Francisco, and show off his new acquirements to me in Beverly Hills. Hold while I contain my excitement...
It became somewhat obvious that he was merely coming in for my attention and in an effort to keep my position, I had to feign excitement when he entered the store. One Sunday, Julian arrived in the morning with two friends, visiting from up north. The other two, James and Keith, were less enticing than Julian, making him the pretty one in the group. As the three of them walked in, Julian introduced me as if I was an old friend. I paused a few moments to remember his name, as I only referred to him as "Creepy-SanFran" in my head.
Creepy-Julian, as I'll now call him, wanted to show me off as his friend and show his company what pieces he had been looking at. I had arrived at a point of frustration, believing he would waste my time, yet again. Nevertheless, I treated the 3-overgrown boys as if they were paying customers. They had just left an early brunch and had the stale breath of Vodka and Orange surrounding their bodies. I was cringing inside. After an hour spent, showing as much product as possible, Creepy-Julian seemed ready to leave. I had close to $6,000 worth of product sitting out, when all of a sudden Keith, Creepy-Julian's friend, pulled out a credit card and purchased the pieces as a gift for his friend. But was Creepy-Julian a friend of Keith's or more?? The part I didn't tell you was that during this hour of sales show that I was putting on, Keith was awfully touchy with Creepy-Julian. And as all of this was going on, Creepy-Julian was being awfully touchy with me. Keith was giving me the stink eye. Their friend James seemed to be content with the sippy cup he brought in, most probably because there appeared to be more vodka in it. And me?? I stood there with a big smile on my face, throwing up more bile on the inside than Lindsay Lohan has ingested. As Keith paid the tab, he kissed Creepy-Julian awkwardly on the face. As Creepy-Julian pulled away, he grabbed my hand an gave me a wink. Creeeeeppy...
As they packed up to leave the store, Creepy-Julian insisted I meet them out for drinks after I finish my shift. Knowing full well that they helped my slow sales day, and my whorish ways for my clientele responsibilities, I agreed. After work, I grabbed my girlfriend Cecil and headed out to Boystown. Cecil is a British girlfriend of mine with a love of alcohol, a witty and biting tongue, along with the ability to light any room. She was my buffer in case we ended up having drinks with the next 'Craigslist Killer'. As we approached our first stop of the afternoon, Cecil suggested we grab shots of tequila at the bar. Side note: for me, tequila is a game-changer. You throw a shot my way and all responsibility sprints out the window. I cannot be responsible for my actions when tequila is involved. This started the afternoon.
As Julian, Keith, and James approached us, I was giddy with post-work excitement and the addition of tequila. Creepy-Julian instantly embraced me and I was confused, but obliged his hug and turned my cheek to let him kiss me there. All the while, Keith was eerily creeping in the corner, giving me the side-eye. I didn't know his reasoning, but ignored the topic. Cecil was a huge hit with the group as I expected and offered another round of tequila shots. Being a respectful lady, I obliged her request. We threw back a second round of shots, this time along with our approaching-50 group, and all of a sudden we were all the same age. Tequila was working... all too well...
All of a sudden, Keith pulled me to the side and asked if I would like to go back to their hotel room with him and Creepy-Julian. Keith was creepy and this situation only seemed to get less settling. Keith was about 6'6", but not in a good way. He was a successful surgeon up in San Francisco, but here he resembled Lurch from 'The Addams Family'. He was lanky, awkward, and overly creepy.
Lurch, or rather Keith, placed his offer on the table and I responded with my knee jerk reaction: "I have mace at home." Not that mace would have been used or even that it was relevant, given its location at the time, but needless to say, that seemed like the best reaction at the time. I immediately turned to Creepy-Julian and asked him directly - yet drunk - if he and Lurch-Keith were "together". Between their behavior earlier and my weird proposition, I was really beginning to wonder. Creepy-Julian assured me there was nothing there, but that there was something there for 16 years, having ended a few weeks ago. Well, sure - 16 years and a week-long breakup, that's definitely not anything... Or is it... LOL.
I ignored the topic and relaxed at this bar with the group I committed to for the evening. As more drinks and more tequila flowed, the night got a bit blurry. I woke up from this blur, sucking face with Creepy-Julian in the middle of a dark nightclub, slightly unaware of myself. I remember being drunk enough to know what I was doing yet have no shame. Somehow, our lips met. Then, all of a sudden, Lurch-Keith grabbed my arm and began to suffocate my face with his. Drunk I may have been, completely blind?? Nope. I yanked my face away from his disturbing self and grabbed Cecil's hand. We ran out of that bar faster than Larry Craig's last handjob.
As we walked home, stumbling, and sobering at the same time, Cecil asked me: "What in bloody hell was all that about??" To which all I could respond was: "Welcome to Beverly Hills, my dear... Now, can we stop at CVS, I need bleach and mouthwash."
Thoughts or Opinions??
Aisha Tyler, standing around 8 feet tall, is one funny funny lady. Not just a lady, but a Black lady. Anyone that knows me well enough, knows that I am always in favor of anything outside the white dotted lines... By white dotted lines, I mean that which is the straight, white man. Being born both Jewish and Gay, I know well what it's like to be hated as a minority (2 extremely well-hated groups, I can add to that), so I'm always supporting a minority versus the white man. It's my form of Affirmative Action.
That being said, let's take a look at my top reasons for loving Aisha Tyler:
- We share a mutual appreciation for a life without children. It's a personal choice. Check her reasoning out below:
"It's not like there's a baby in the closet I'm sliding bologna slices to..."
Insanely funny and insanely on the same page as me...
- We share the same views on our friends having kids...
"It's 2-for-1 Brown baby night!"
I. Die.
- Her self-deprecating humor slays me...
- We have similar beliefs about Discipline...
"And by the way, for all of you young entrepreneurs out there: marrying white men is always the best option when looking to improve upon your credit."
- And, finally, my favorite clip - which is nowhere to be found on youtube - is from this most recent hosting gig she had at Logo's New Now Next Awards and relates to her feelings about marriage equality. Check out the clip here!
Not only did that get me choked up, but she slays me with her self-deprecating humor and honesty.
I love me some Aisha Tyler!
Thoughts or opinions?
This may be a week late for Mother's Day, but there is one mother out there riddled with unconditional love. When the brilliant minds of future days look back on today, it is clear to me that they will be in agreement on one thing. Courtney Stodden's trailblazing mother, Krista Stodden, will be regarded as the mother to top all mothers.
A little back story on my personal idol, Courtney Stodden, may be necessary. Courtney, at the bright ol' age of 16, entered into the world of sex trafficking, under the clever rouse of marriage. Courtney was introduced to her "husband" by her clearly overly-protective mother Krista. The man/trafficker at hand was 'Lost' alum Doug Hutchinson. Doug was fresh off a top-rated TV program, while Courtney was fresh out of puberty. Did I mention that Doug was 51, while Courtney 15, when they met??
Out here in LaLaLand, it is always rather customary for a relationship to span at least a decade in difference as so many women have dollar signs for eyes. That being said, this was a new standard. Strangely enough, most spectators found their pairing rancid, while I must stand by the mother of mothers - Krista Stodden. Lady signed her consent for their marriage at 16. My theory is Krista Stodden's "alleged" dyslexia. Clearly she saw Doug's 51 year old age and reversed numbers with her darling Courtney's 15 years of age. Easy mistake... Anyone could have made it...
Doug and Courtney appeared on this last season of VH1 network's 'Couples Therapy'. At the time of filming, Courtney was only 17, and due to California's CHILD labor laws, she was only able to participate for a few hours a day. Just another way that the system royally screws people. Can't the producers and the state see this amazing love story?? After less than one year of marriage, this 36-year age gapped marriage was on the rocks. Don't they deserve happiness too?? I was definitely rooting for their holy marriage. Just as Krista Stodden, who appeared on the show, was... Again, who could ask for such a mother??
This week, Radaronline.com is reporting that Courtney filmed a solo sex tape upon her 18th birthday. I'm still confused with the logistics of a solo film being classified as a "sex tape", but I'm clearly not the authority on said topic...
Krista's response to the news?? "A lot of people in their private lives have probably have done some sort of sex tape... The key is private." Well, thank you for ellaborating that as the key to sex tapes is to keep them private. See: Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, and now 'Teen Mom' role-model star Farrah Abraham. Who wouldn't want to be lumped in with that heroic bunch??
While on 'Couples Therapy', Krista spoke out: "I do not want to ever see her do pornography. I would be heartbroken and so upset..." Clearly she changed her mind. The key is "privacy" much in the vein of Kim Kardashian and Courtney's dowdy-Amish type daily attire. Check out the Radaronline.com article by clicking here.
All I can say from my perspective is Brava to Krista Stodden. There aren't enough mothers like you out there (Kris Jenner excluded)...
Thoughts or opinions?
So, the highlight of my Thursday evening, this week, was when I googled the results for the American Idol finale! While I still - strangely - enjoy the show, it's only watchable with a DVR. About an hour and a half of a scheduled two-hour episode is filled with over-indulgent marketing and with not a lick of singing. Then you have to factor in the commercial time and you're left with a measly 4-5 minutes of singing - roughly - per episode. While I can sit through hours of fast-forwarding on my DVR, the results shows are a whole-nother beast. 1-to-2 hours of editing, branding, celebrity endorsements and crap is how I look at that. Show me the weekly losers and shine a bright eye on the winner. 4-5 minutes of that show I could handle. Needless to say, with my West Coast delayed time, I can google the results before the show airs that evening. This is my easy way out of Randy Jackson calling every person in his view a 'dawg', as if he suffers from some sort of Tourette Syndrome. This is an easy way out of Ryan Seacrest's Lucifer-like glaze. Like you don't feel his gravitational pull on your soul when turned to his channel?? I don't believe it!
Anyway, last night, as I googled the results of Season 33 and 1/3rd, I was pleasantly satisfied to see one Miss Candice Glover appearing on screen as this season's winner.
Candice was a breakout star from the get-go, however - perhaps not. Girl tried out not once, but twice before this third audition. Clearly her talent couldn't match those of season's past like Sanjaya (One name, just like Madonna) who is most remembered for his long Indian hair. Girlfriends were calling in votes for him in hopes they could purchase his long locks. That's the only explanation for his far reaching place in the competition as far as I'm concerned.
Candice, after being seen inferior to past favorites, like Sanjaya, gave it a third try. The producers must have felt they ran out of talent and had to lower the bar. Once the live performance shows began, it was clear Candice was the frontrunner. Her voice slays. You can see her killer performance of 'Love Song' by clicking here.
Her victory, while well deserved, only further endorses and inspires the movement of perseverance. Here's a girl with a DIVA-level of vocal power; and the "producers" shut the door in her face - twice! (When I mention the "producers", I use that term loosely. If you've been watching the past few years, you can understand...) She picked her ass up and auditioned again aware of the talent that myself and all 203 viewers of the program realized right away. Perseverance breeds winners.
Now, perseverance can also breed losers. Let's talk 'American Idol' for a moment. The media speculates that the show is looking for new judges due to the foul ratings. Here's a tip: Your show died a long time ago. Let's say circa Carrie Underwood. For those who can't remember when that was, well, it was back when the show was still producing stars... Burn! Britney Spears's translator will be the first to tell you: Star power did not equal viewers on 'The X Factor'. This show sailed a long time ago. Let's end on a high note. You've finally selected a winner capable of sustaining the brand name.
The only other perseverant story that comes to mind is Courtney Love. Girl has persevered heroin, crack, alcoholism, and destroying many lives: and that's just in the last week... Courtney is the sheer definition of perseverance when it comes to the losers of the world; just as Candice Glover is a true champion for winners and their own perseverance.
Brava to both women for persevering.
Thoughts or opinions?
I have a somewhat unhealthy love affair with my pup - Scooby. I've never felt such a connection with another creature, Alexander Skarsgard excluded. There he is, MY Alexander. Who ever could he be looking at, you may wonder? Well, its not you. Let's start with that. Now that we have that out of the way, I can tell you who he's looking at. "Who???" You may still be wondering. Well, I'll tell you:He's looking right at me. Deep into my soul. So back off haters!
There he is, waving at me again...
Internally, I'm saying: "Baby... (what I call him) your smoldering good looks have me. You know that. Let me get back to blogging. You'll get a lil sumthin-sumthin after I'm done."
Back to my other favorite creature: Scooby. I recently wrote a blog post on how he came to be. You can check it out here.
Scooby is like no other dog. He's perfectly house trained, with a record spanning over 6 years of no accidents, or as I like to call them: 'times daddy doesn't love you'... I joke because its true. He's my everything - accompanied by the world's strongest bladder. Scooby's older than death. His birth records suggest that he approaches 14 years old this year. I gage his years in relation to Joan Rivers' face. If you were to count the rings from surgeons signing off work on her face, we could equate a nip and tuck to every years procedures. Joan's probably on her third Asian face of 2013, so essentially I'm just saying Scooby is old as fuck. He's also deaf. You can lift his little ears to experience a true wind tunnel simulation. He's blind in the left eye and in his old age, my Scooby veers in every which direction when going for a walk. His nose, however: can smell the remains of Cheetos in your pockets from weeks ago. (Why you wouldn't wash your pants is beyond me...) My dog is a whore for food. He smells it a mile away and will be anyone's friend for a potato chip.
Despite this friendliness for food, one thing that rings true with Scooby is his lack of interest in anything outside of me. My pup worships the ground I walk on and I wouldn't have things any other way. He will let me do just about anything to him, but baths are a taboo subject. I often have him shaved ever few months at the groomers, so as to escape the horror of giving Scooby a bath. Cavalier King Charles Spaniels are normally regarded for their long luxurious coats, but Scooby's a dust rag and the equivalent of an elderly person in an old age home. They don't need there hair styled perfectly anywhere more than they need naps and saltines. Needless to say, Scooby is not a fan and while not overly aggressive, he will look you dead in the eye and suggest: "when will the senselessness end?? Why must you abuse me this way??" I'm sure the groomers feel like Michael Vick upon the first drop of water that lands on his back. I know I do.
This all being said, it's been really difficult scheduling an appointment for him at the groomers as they're short staffed as of the moment. Scooby's had some traumatizing experiences in the past where he's been cut paw-down, had his belly sliced, and received an infection of the eye due to shitty practices. For that reason, I stay at the local spot, but it's expensive, I'm broke, and I can't get an appointment. The last time I went to pick Scooby up from the groomer, Gwen Stefani's insanely attractive nanny was there picking up their dogs, kids in tow. Now, when I can't get an appointment at the groomers, all that comes to mind is: "Fuck Gwen Stefani". Simply. "Why's that bitch always getting her dogs groomed??" Somehow, she is now the problem.
I started getting it in my head that Scooby could benefit from a cut at home. I asked friends, intending to use my beard trimmer for Scooby's portly lil body. I was told they would not be strong enough. It seems I needed industrial clippers. Well, I didn't have them this past Sunday evening and decided to get crafty. (Not to be confused with 'the Beastie Boys' song 'She's crafty'. Crafty-artsy and creative, not crafty-slutty. That's for another blog...) I reached for a pair of scissors and grabbed Scooby in hand for a clip and a rinse: or so I thought...
Firstly, he was not happy. I experienced two plus hours of a dog looking back at me like I've been murdering his puppies in front of him all while beating the life out of him. In reality, it was me and a pair of scissors - simply. I began to cut chunks and pieces of hair, convincing myself it'd look great. "Friends are going to ask you to groom their dogs' too. They'll be shocked you did this with scissors alone." I kept exciting myself internally, while externally I was making a mess. My entire bathroom was covered in hair, my dog was pissed, and he began to grow restless. Still, I hadn't even scratched the surface. Dogs have multiple coats of hair and Scooby has hair for days. Feeling discouraged by the lack of results, I decided to throw him in the tub and cut him wet. Side note: I didn't really throw him in, just a light toss. Think of softball...
Wet, dry, it didn't make a difference. This was going to take hours to make any headway. It wasn't working, but it was already done. The harm had been done. The proof was in the tub. As I set down my scissors, after two plus hours, Scooby was still wet and I couldn't tell how the cut worked out. I took him out for a walk and decided to let him air dry as it was over 80 degrees (Fahrenheit) outside. As he dried, I began to realize the horror that I had accomplished all by myself. My dog looked like a patchwork quilt. Together, we look like I should be living in a shopping cart on Santa Monica Blvd with Scooby in tow. He is a patchwork quilt, akin to something Britney Spears would have worn to an awards show in the 90's.
I'm sorry Scooby, you poor little bitch-boy.Your daddy's the worst... PETA's going to be calling me any minute now...
This picture does the cut no justice. In person, it looks like chunks and spots are missing of his hair. #epicfail
Thoughts or opinions?
