The Sass Wagon

My Uterus Is a Bank...No, Really, It Is

2011-03-03T16:30:00.000-05:00

This past Saturday, our very own New York Senator Chuck Schumer told the crowd at the Planned Parenthood Rally that the bill to cut federal funding for Family Planning (which passed in the House) would die in the Senate. That bill was fiercely debated in the Senate today, and with any luck, will die an agonizing death. In a nutshell, this bill would obliterate the federal funding of Pap Tests, STD screening and treatment, and breast exams provided by places like Planned Parenthood. So go get 'em, Chuck! But even as Dems in the Senate fight with everything they have to kill this bill on their floor, it's still more than a little mind blowing that funding to provide healthcare for the less fortunate, young, or scared woman is even being questioned in the way it is in the first place. How did we get here, where we even question the importance of funding for such care? Perhaps it wouldn't be so questioned if it were clearer just how important it is.

So. What if we could show the ways in which our reproductive systems are important by speaking in language that is clear to our government--would that help our warriors in the Senate? Would that prompt our leaders to throw us a life preserver and put piles of cash at the business end of a leaf blower and turn the switch to "on"? It might not be enough to merely shout, Hey, this is our health you're tampering with! So maybe it would help if we could speak their jive and stress how vital this funding is by comparing it to an institution or cause they already value.

It's worth a shot.

The Three Most Basic Ways In Which My Reproductive System Is A Bank

1) Deposits and Withdrawals - Banks operate at their best when they are able to conduct both incoming and outgoing business--when they can accept deposits and dispense cash on withdrawals. My reproductive system is eerily similar in that it is at its healthiest and happiest when it is able to both receive outside business like pelvic exams or regular sexual activity, and discard reserves that have built up over time, such as that pesky monthly uterine lining.

2) Regulation - The banks certainly could regulate themselves--but they don't. Instead, banks are regulated by an outside influence, namely government agencies such as the FDIC or the OCC. Like a bank, my cycle certainly has the ability to regulate itself. But on occasion I'll depend on an outside, hormone infused "agency" to oversee the regulation of my internal reproductive workings--you know, that little regulation agency known as "The Pill."

3) Rewards - You get out of it what you put into it. Ain't that the truth? The more business you give a bank, the more involved you are in your personal finances, the more the bank rewards you with everything from interest to frequent flyer miles and vacations. Well, guess what! The same goes for our lady bits. The more attention we can pay to the goings on down there, the more medical care we can lavish on it, the more attempts we make to practice good feminine hygiene, the bigger and better and more priceless the rewards--such as low cancer risks, blister-free body parts, and even the continuation of our whole damn species in the form of safe, smooth-sailing reproduction.

So what do you say, boys, important enough for you? Can we keep our funding now?

The Cover of Elle

2010-09-13T08:48:00.002-04:00

This month's Elle has four different versions. The covers complement the issue's big feature, which focuses on 25 year old actresses in Hollywood, and what they think and feel about being 25 in a time where 25 is considered to be an explosive age and a no-man's land at the same time, ultimately causing these women to ponder both serious and lighthearted questions about their futures in love, sex, money, career, and that hooded figure we all know as...

Sorry, I fell asleep describing that.

Anyway, the issue will have four versions, and will feature one highlighted 25 year old per cover--Amanda Seyfried, Lauren Conrad, Megan Fox, and Gabourey Sidibe.

Click through to see the four covers.

Ok. Now forget for a moment that we are all supposed to believe that Elle magazine actually celebrates all body types by putting someone morbidly obese on the cover--this isn't every body type, this is morbidly obese, and not at all representative of the scores of women who fall in between this and extreme thinness. In addition, it's beyond obvious that while the other girls appear in the center of the magazine with space around them, she is photographed as though she takes up the whole thing--only calling even more attention to the fact that she is not your typical cover girl. And by doing that, Elle magazine is not doing anything revolutionary. When any company calls attention to the fact that they are putting someone "different" on their product (remember Dove's bullshit "Campaign for REAL Beauty"?), they are highlighting that difference and therefore excusing it or apologizing for it--putting it in a separate category from what we all know is the beauty standard in film, TV and advertising, whether we like/can attain that standard or not.

Oh oh oh...one more thing. Just because a woman is over 300 pounds and "happy with it" does NOT mean it's okay. That is a coronary waiting to happen. If we are going to think it's a reason to pop the champagne when someone over 300 pounds proclaims he or she is "okay with it", then I can't help but think that's pretty similar to high fiving Lindsay Lohan for being "okay" with the fact that she's probably reached the "I smell homeless" point in her drinking habit. I'm sure she's okay with it--that doesn't mean we should all be clapping.

Ugh, but you know what else isn't healthy? Giving any more thought to a magazine that gives such weight to what people in their twenties think about being in their twenties. I'd imagine they think what I thought--it's, like, fun and stuff. No big deal. And so, I officially mark the end of my consideration for any of this. Time to go back to thinking about my hair. Finally.

From Bobby Darin to Beyonce...wow, really???

2010-08-24T15:03:00.003-04:00

My Aunt and Uncle will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary on September 5th. This kind of reverence for the institution of union is insane, considering we live on a planet where, for the right price, you can hire Erik Estrada to marry you and your "soulmate" in front of your local Target, then hire Erik again the next day to notarize your annulment. (I have no idea if Mr. Estrada can be bought like this--I just assume that since we have sandwiches like the KFC Double Down available, then this is possible too.)

So, to be married from 1960 (a world that precedes The Beatles, Kennedy's assassination, and M*A*S*H) to 2010 (a world that barely even uses fax machines anymore) is as good a reason to throw down as any, and what better way to throw down than with--five playlists that contain the Grammy Winners for Record (or Song) of the Year for each year from 1960-2010. Which is my gift to them. And in case you were wondering--below is a listing of what that playlist will look like. I have to say, if I were just compiling a 50 song playlist out of thin air, many of these songs would not appear. But this is a fine collection of pop if I do say so myself, and the next time I have to put together a playlist for people whose musical taste I am unsure or even wary of--I'm turning to the Grammys again. You just can't go wrong...especially when it means that I get to justifiably put "Rehab" on a playlist for people who very likely voted for Nixon.

I smile.

1960 Mack the Knife – Bobby Darin
1961 Theme from “A Summer Place” – Percy Faith
1962 Moon River – Henry Mancini
1963 I Left My Heart in San Francisco – Tony Bennett
1964 Days of Wine and Roses – Henry Mancini
1965 The Girl from Ipanema – Stan Getz and Joao Gilberto
1966 A Taste of Honey – Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass
1967 Strangers in the Night – Frank Sinatra
1968 Up, Up and Away – The 5th Dimension
1969 Mrs. Robinson – Simon and Garfunkel

1970 Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In – The 5th Dimension
1971 Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon and Garfunkel
1972 It’s Too Late – Carole King
1973 The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face – Roberta Flack
1974 Killing Me Softly With His Song – Roberta Flack
1975 I Honestly Love You – Olivia Newton John
1976 Love Will Keep Us Together – Captain and Tennille
1977 This Masquerade – George Benson
1978 Hotel California – The Eagles
1979 Just the Way You Are – Billy Joel

1980 What a Fool Believes – The Doobie Brothers
1981 Sailing – Christopher Cross
1982 Bette Davis Eyes – Kim Carnes
1983 Rosanna – Toto
1984 Beat It – Michael Jackson
1985 What’s Love Got to Do With It – Tina Turner
1986 We Are the World – USA for Africa
1987 Higher Love – Steve Winwood
1988 Graceland – Paul Simon
1989 Don’t Worry, Be Happy – Bobby McFerrin

1990 Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler
1991 Another Day in Paradise – Phil Collins
1992 Unforgettable – Natalie and Nat King Cole
1993 Tears in Heaven – Eric Clapton
1994 I Will Always Love You – Whitney Houston
1995 All I Wanna Do – Sheryl Crow
1996 Kiss from a Rose – Seal
1997 Change the World – Eric Clapton
1998 Sunny Came Home – Shawn Colvin
1999 My Heart Will Go On – Celine Dion

2000 Smooth – Santana featuring Rob Thomas
2001 Beautiful Day – U2
2002 Walk On – U2
2003 Don’t Know Why – Norah Jones
2004 Clocks – Coldplay
2005 Here We Go Again – Ray Charles and Norah Jones
2006 Boulevard of Broken Dreams – Green Day
2007 Not Ready to Make Nice – Dixie Chicks
2008 Rehab – Amy Winehouse
2009 Viva La Vida – Coldplay
2010 Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It) - Beyonce

Excuse me, "Female Humanoid", you dropped this...

2010-08-10T13:31:00.004-04:00

Would you rather "bitch", "slit", "whore", "slut", or maybe, "cunt"?

Ma'am. It's the shortening of "madam", and according to dictionary.com, its origins are in the 1660s/1670s. It is a polite way to address a person of the female persuasion when you are unaware of their proper name. And that's all it is. A way of politely addressing the vaginaed ones that you don't know personally.

So let's dispel the complete nonsense that is "my day was ruined because someone called me ma'am." It is not another way of saying "old lady", so let's get our collective heads out of our collective asses. Right now. Age has nothing to do with how a stranger addresses you, unless he or she calls you "Your Oldness". How's this. I am 32. As recently as yesterday, a man at my neighborhood deli called me "miss." And on the flipside, in 1997 during a taping of The Late Show on national television, David Letterman called a 19-year-old me "ma'am." So ladies, let's stop worrying about such trivial crap. As illustrated in my opening question, we could be called a lot worse.

Even I have to hop off the wagon sometimes...

2010-06-30T14:28:00.003-04:00

http://www.soundtrackseries.com/

Just wanted to take a breather from my usual sass workout to the link above--the link to the Soundtrack Series website. For anyone who doesn't know, the Soundtrack Series is a monthly reading/storytelling series based on music that I produce along with the ORIGINAL original gangster, Sean Williams. In a nutshell, each month seven writers (different ones each time with the exception of, well, me) pick a song, any song, then tell the story (or rant) that comes to mind every time they hear it. We are going into our six-month-iversary, and that being the case, we decided to add blog and podcast features to the site, because, frankly, it's not 1993 anymore--as much as I would like it to be. So check out the blog for writer interviews, and the podcast for live recordings of our events.

It's not porn. We promise.

Fame is a job like your job, but with less filing...

2010-06-21T15:14:00.004-04:00

So there I was, minding my own business on the lat pull machine at the gym, when I looked up at the magic story box and saw the ladies on the Today show yippity yappiting about...something. I don't know what, the sound was off. But I could see the pictures, which were of Lady Gaga in a Yankee shirt and no pants, and the caption, which indicated that some kind of incident happened at a ballgame involving a pantless Lady Gaga. Okay.

But then I got home and saw the story on CNN. She went to a ballgame, was unhappy with having her picture snapped by press every three seconds, so she flipped the bird. And then, even after she moved to seats that weren't so near the press, she continued to give everyone the finger whenever she was looked at. And everyone is losing their shit and labeling this her latest "controversy".

Oooooh. The finger. Are we all in third fucking grade?

But here's the thing. One big advantage that Lady Gaga has created for herself is that because she changes looks so often, and is usually so heavily costumed and made up, it would be pretty hard to spot her were she to go somewhere sans makeup and dressed in everyday clothes. Her costumes, for as outrageous and attention getting as they are, actually can serve to protect the real person from unwanted round the clock attention.

So that being said, if she really wanted to just go to a ballgame and have a beer with friends without being hounded, then why go wearing no pants? Why go as "Lady Gaga" and not as "Stefani Germanotta"? Because any kind of attention at all is what keeps a person famous--the perpetuation of some kind of story, no matter how seemingly pointless. Fame is a business, and giving the finger at a baseball game was all in a day's work.

So let's move on now.

A Friday Night at Home...

2010-06-04T23:24:00.003-04:00

Just thought I'd share.

Tonight I hopped on Google to ask the oracle how much a passport costs. I typed "how much does", and in addition to "a passport cost" these are some other possible questions the oracle thought I might be asking instead:

How much does...

the President make
Kevin Smith weigh
an abortion cost
Invisalign cost
liposuction cost
Miley Cyrus weigh
Plan B cost

Well this is fun. So I typed "is it easy to", and:

Is it easy to...

get pregnant
get pregnant on your period
get pregnant after having a baby
get pregnant after having a miscarriage
steal from Wal Mart

Finally (because I could do this all night), I typed "Justin Bieber is", and got:

Justin Bieber is...

a fag
a virgin
dead
a girl
bi
bi Oprah

America. Fuck yeah.

Well, maybe we are "dumb fucks"

2010-06-02T12:57:00.004-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, Mark Zuckerberg and his whole Facebook Rodeo Jamboree were facing scrutiny over privacy settings. People were pissing razors about the content of their pages being made more public than they wanted it to be. And an early IM exchange came to light between Zuckerberg and another college student shortly after Facebook originally launched that put him into even hotter water. It went something like this:

Zuck: Yeah so if you ever need info about anyone at Harvard

Zuck: Just ask.

Zuck: I have over 4,000 emails, pictures, addresses, SNS

[Redacted Friend's Name]: What? How'd you manage that one?

Zuck: People just submitted it.

Zuck: I don't know why.

Zuck: They "trust me"

Zuck: Dumb fucks.

(IM exchange courtesy of http://www.businessinsider.com/well-these-new-zuckerberg-ims-wont-help-facebooks-privacy-problems-2010-5#ixzz0piS3ePGH)

So Zuckerberg called people "dumb fucks", and everyone has been up in arms, wondering if this is where Facebook's cavalier attitude toward privacy really began. But you know what?

He's absolutely right.

Facebook is not really private, never was. People--it's on the Internet. Frankly, we really should take personal responsibility and proceed with more caution when it comes to dealing with it. But we don't. Generally speaking, we are too trusting and as a result, we are completely shocked when a site that's clearly public starts sharing our information. It's not up to Facebook to keep our information private, it's up to us. We have to use discretion when it comes to assessing the situations we're entering--and if we're paying enough attention, those situations are usually very solid indicators. Look at it this way. The people getting upset over Facebook privacy are like the girl who goes on a cheese platter like The Bachelor and is totally stunned when the guy she's been clawing for winds up being a complete douche. Well, where did you meet him? On The Bachelor.

The prosecution rests.

Probably only fun for me, but...

2010-05-27T16:09:00.004-04:00

Ok, let's play a fun game.

Let's take the group so obsessed that it adopts this as their reality:

And merge it with the group so obsessed they adopt this as their reality:

And what do you get? My guess is dudes in D&D groups across the globe who are, like, so STEAMED because no one will recognize them as the "Carrie" of the party, which they totally are. "How DARE that pissy little First Level Mage insist I'm the "Miranda"?"

Yes. How dare he. Or anyone, for that matter.

Soundtrack Series - 5/20

2010-05-23T22:40:00.002-04:00

For anyone who didn't make it out to our most recent Soundtrack Series, this is what I read. It's a comment on "Smell Your Dick" by Riskay. The majority of this piece was originally posted on my other, now kind of dormant blog Party in the Back in 2008. So it's two years old. But the way I see it, a rant on a song about dick sniffing is NEVER dated commentary. Thanks for reading...

A couple of years ago, I started a blog called Party In the Back which basically illustrated how much current events mirror the plots, characters, themes, or lessons in movies from the 80s. I haven’t posted on it very much lately, and have considered either taking it down, or merging it with the blog I do maintain on a regular basis. Regardless, there are two instances that I consider “highlights” in the life of that blog. The first is that during the 2008 presidential campaign, I compared Obama’s “pig in lipstick” comment to the movie Heathers. A friend of mine—who will be telling a story of his own tonight—happened to read it, and also happened to know Michael Lehmann, the director of Heathers, on a personal basis. So he emailed that post to Michael, and Michael wrote back, calling the post “amusing.” I amused the guy who directed Heathers. Corn nuts!

The second highlight is the following post, which I have to admit is probably my favorite, even if it’s only because it deals with this very bizarre yet completely bullshitless song. Yeah, the song is about dick sniffing. And yeah, it’s a ballad, and considering the subject matter, that in and of itself is bat shit insane. But to me, the most fascinating aspect of this little ditty is that it lends itself to a solid comparison with one of the great American plays of the modern era (which was also made into a movie in the 80s, hence it made the cut for that blog). So with that…

Go to YouTube and search for “R-i-s-k-a-y.” Don’t yet click on the video of the shirtless dude in the cowboy hat doing shoulder dips and providing a very unenthusiastic op-ed on his failure to grip the merit of this song. No, that should be savored as the sweet aperitif to what you really need to see. Instead, click the video that displays the photo of the woman down on all fours in pink lingerie licking a lollipop. Seriously, you won’t be disappointed. This is Riskay.

Riskay is a lady of waning patience. Her gentleman friend is giving her good reason to think that he may be looking elsewhere to satisfy his heterosexual urges. She confronts him. He think she crazy. She is sure she isn't. So sure, in fact, that after she has pieced together that he's coming home at suspicious hours and sending/receiving questionable text messages, it must come to this. It must arrive at what she is about to ask, nay, demand of her wanderer.

It's time, my good man, to smell your dick.

It's like this. Riskay knows something's up, so in order to prove it she needs to smell her man's dick. Her exact words are "why you coming home, five in the morn, something's goin' on can I smell yo' dick?" He protests. Now, forget for a minute that this probably isn’t the most airtight deception detector, as this man may have had the wherewithal to shower or at the very least give his dick a good thwack with a Handi-wipe before coming home. What I want to know is—what becomes of a relationship where the woman goes to such drastic and disgusting measures in order to prove the man has (or has not) been with another woman? How do you recover from that? I'd imagine that if it has to come to one person smelling another person's jumblies for forensic purposes then the relationship was over a long time ago. But I can't be sure as I have never been in such a tricky pickle. So let's turn to one of the great American plays (which became a movie in 1985) to see what becomes of a relationship after the party of the first part has demanded to smell the party of the second part in order to detect the scent of a party of the third part.

Sam Shepard's 1983 play Fool for Love was made into a movie in 1985 starring Shepard and Kim Bassinger as Eddie and May, lovers/half siblings who can not live together nor apart. It is a constant push-me-pull-you that's kicked off by Eddie's return to May after being M.I.A., and May's instant accusation that Eddie's fingers smell like yatch. May kicks off their little exchange:

May: You smell
Eddie: I smell.
May: Your fingers smell.
Eddie: Horses.
May: Pussy.

So what follows the scent? Well, Eddie and May fumble through a constant battle of wills--May throwing Eddie out, Eddie complying, May not wanting him to go, Eddie threatening to leave, May saying "good fine go", Eddie lingering, May wanting him to stay...see where this goes? Nowhere good, especially when we find out that the arguing lovers actually share the same father, a man who managed to abandon both of them and had eventually caused Eddie's mother to off herself. Forget smelling yatch, the insinuation reeks of vicious cycle and familial pattern repetition. Because in the end, for all their arguing, for all their tenderness, and for all their participation in a passionate tug-of-war kicked off by May accusing Eddie of smelly fingers, Eddie leaves anyway, knowing that he can be gone for as long as he wants and that May will always wait. And May rests assured that he will always return, only to leave again. It'll go on and on and on.

So if Sam Shepard can be counted on to explain modern R&B (and he always can), then Riskay's man is sure to develop wanderlust again, he'll leave and she'll wait a thousand times over, and most importantly, regardless of the assumption that the arrival at the junk sniffing checkpoint signals the end of a relationship, it’s far from the truth, and this is not the only time she'll smell her man's rod this year, next year, and for generations to come.

Count on it.

I Can Has Mental Breakdown?

2010-05-18T17:38:00.004-04:00

Apparently, there's this.

Which is authored by the person responsible for this.

...a New York Times Bestseller. And I think that pretty much answers all outstanding questions about our culture's collective intelligence.

Gotta hand it to the Amish...

2010-05-17T15:47:00.004-04:00

One of the most irritating phrases in our culture is "the customer is always right." And this is yet another reason why the Amish a) rock, and b) see the value in staying on the fringe of our "culture" if they can at all help it.

Today at the Amish market in Tribeca, a friend witnessed a man at the register attempt to return a carton of milk. Yes he had a receipt. But...

The milk was bought one week ago.

And was half gone.

Now, the guy trying to return the milk was claiming he was doing it at his boss' request. Ugh. I don't know about you, but I just threw up in my mouth a little as kind of a sense memory gesture of empathy toward that shitty work situation. But at the end of the day, I just have to say bravo, Jebediah Stoltzfuss, or whoever you are, for taking a stand by saying, "No. We will not give you a refund for week old, half consumed milk. The cow wouldn't care that you have a receipt, and neither do we."

It makes me smile.

Maybe it's just bad...

2010-05-14T12:41:00.003-04:00

The cover of NYC's Metro newspaper today featured an article on how the Internet is supposedly killing the SNL star--well the one over 35. In a nutshell, they claim that SNL now courts younger, more inexperienced hosts because the Internet is where this show thrives (once sketches go viral) and younger people use the Internet, therefore, they match the ages of the hosts to the ages of their believed audience. Bottom line--gone are the days when really big name stars vie to host the show, because they don't fit into the demographic anymore. Plus, according to this article, mega stars (think Tom Hanks) are skittish about doing sketches that will go viral, because they are so used to having 20 takes to make things perfect.

Ok. But I have a theory, too.

Maybe big stars are skittish about hosting Saturday Night Live because it's a big steaming pile of moose puckey. Gone are the days of smart comedy when Jim Downey was at the helm, when Robert Smigel or Al Franken were writing wild, irreverent, slightly holier-than-thou, smart comedy, rather than complete inane bullshit two three-year-olds could write while smacking each other in the sandbox. And stars know that the Internet is the land of permanence, and perhaps they'd sooner be immortalized in the pages of Star for having cottage cheese cellulite on their ass cheeks than accept the damning fate of being immortalized for being painfully unfunny on a show that is "supposed" to be "funny."

Yeah, that's all I got.

What is a "Stuffparty?"

2010-05-13T13:13:00.003-04:00

In the spirit of my last post, which featured one of the worst (and somehow at the same time, best) album covers of all time, I share this link with you:

http://www.coverbrowser.com/covers/worst-album-covers

But I must say, my new thing is going to be a complete comb of every flea market I come across to find this gem.

Millie Jackson

2010-05-12T23:06:00.005-04:00

I'll tell you when I'll get fully on board with Lady Gaga. When she does something like this. It's one thing to do a video that takes place in jail or wear a dress made of dead Kermit the Frogs and have everyone go "she's such an individual". But it's another thing altogether to be a female recording artist and record an album where the cover is the singer herself sitting on the toilet, and one of the tracks is a spoken word rant on making farts quieter. Not nearly as sexy or as fashionable as Lady Gaga's acceptable individuality. To have such complete and utter disregard for what is acceptable when it comes to being a woman in music that it makes you almost completely obscure is something I can only applaud. And with that, I give you--from her 1989 album Back to the Shit--The One, The Only, The Unjustly Unknown, Millie Jackson.

REAL Women Have...

2010-05-11T19:08:00.006-04:00

There is nothing more dangerous than a truly destructive mantra wearing an empowerment costume.

I will not now, nor will I ever subscribe to the belief that "real women have curves." Nothing could be further from the "you go, girl." I understand that this idea intends to support women who are forgotten or ridiculed by the mainstream because their bodies don't live up to very rigid and often unattainable ideals, yet this actually excludes more than it includes. It divides rather than unites. And that's a danger to our progress both as women and as people.

In fact, on the most basic level, the only things women need in order to be technically categorized as women are "two X chromosomes and/or a vagina." In extremely rare cases, females can be born without vaginas, believe it or not. But they count. And transgendered women started out as men, and therefore have the XY combo. But chances are they went under the knife and came out with a shiny new vagina. Which means they also count. Drag queens? You bet. Even though they have neither the double X nor the lady downstairs, they can walk in 23 inch heels. So they count. And finally, Robert Pattinson. He counts. He knows why.

The point is we ALL count as real freaking people. So enough of this "real women have curves" bullshit. Because seriously--it's not helping. Not one iota.

If You're Happy and You Know It--Update

2010-05-07T09:13:00.004-04:00

And while I'm on a nonsensical Facebook tear this week, there's this article on CNN.com this morning about how status updates can measure national happiness.

But there's just one problem. They can't. At least not accurately.

I know people (and by "know" I mean I see them in person and speak to them in a manner that doesn't require typing) who are not actually happy, yet update their statuses to reflect they are, simply because they're trying to prove to the world that their lives are ever blossoming flowers of opportunity and bliss. In fact, these people often go to the complete opposite extreme, posting overly exuberant updates about how successful they are, how much they exercise, how perfect/adorable their spouse/child is, how exotic their vacation in utopia was, or how their evening plans are more exciting and enviable than anyone else's could aspire to be. When in reality, in places that aren't the Internet, these things couldn't be farther from the truth. But when that nagging desire takes over--the painfully human one that orders us to prove to our friends that life couldn't be more perfect--then this method is in no way an accurate measure of national happiness.

It is, however, dismal proof that life from now on is sure to be one long torturous never-ending high school reunion.

Which is precisely what I'd hoped Facebook would eliminate the need for.

Facebook Groups, or, It's Late and I Can't Sleep

2010-05-06T01:38:00.002-04:00

So there's a Facebook group called "10 most irritating things men do during sex", and when you go to the page (which is mostly nonsense), one girl has repeatedly posted the derogatory terms for black people and gay people over and over. Look it up. Now, it's not entirely clear whether this girl is doing this because she's an ignorant bigot or because she's an ignorant "artist", but either way, let's agree she's ignorant. And let's ALSO agree that the almost 700,000 people who "like" this page are just making this group an even larger waste of space.

But my question here is this. Is Facebook a fascinating and essential "freedom of speech museum", or a harshly lit mirror constantly showing us how ugly we are? Could be both.

With so many groups all over the network that exist only to be mean, or worse, call for the death of our own president, Facebook is becoming a constant, full spectrum reminder of what freedom of speech really is. We have heard over our lifetimes that everyone has the right to think and say what they want, but maybe up until recent years we've only had a vague understanding of everything that really encompasses. Yet Facebook is now showing us what that means to every extreme, and is keeping that in our line of vision 24/7. And by doing so, it's not only showing us the beauty of free speech and assembly, it's holding a mirror up to our faces to show us that hate, bigotry, downright viciousness, and a tolerance for all the above is as alive and well as it was at the beginning of last century. We've been told that we've made great strides as a culture, but Facebook and even the Internet in general (seriously--ever read the comment threads on the simplest of articles? Scary.) are proving it may not be so. We're just better at hiding it when we face each other in person. And that's not an improvement, it's just the same sport on a different channel.

No wonder I can't sleep.

And not one joke about a "lost boy"...promise...

2010-05-05T09:20:00.005-04:00

Last night, CNN.com reported that Corey Haim's death was due to "natural causes". Here, have a look.

http://tinyurl.com/2btalmh

So the coroner said pneumonia, and not drug abuse, was the cause of Haim's death. Even though he had gone through "decades" (their word) of drug abuse, and they found low levels of a list of drugs in his system. (A list. List. I have to say that for me, when it gets to the point I need to make a "list", I'm doing so because the items are many--but that's me.) So he has a history of drug addiction (remember...decades), and they found low levels of a ton of different shit in his blood, but it was good old fashioned pneumonia that killed this guy. At 38. Pneumonia at 38 is considered a "natural cause."

Oh freaking please.

Mustache

2010-04-27T13:51:00.002-04:00

This is the story I read at the most recent Soundtrack Series--about some hairy times in the early 90s. The song I used was "The Power" by Snap. Thanks for reading.

***

I’ll always remember this period as being the one where my musical focus was the most unfocused. But I didn’t really have much choice. This is among the most unoriginal, bland, depressing periods in 20th century music, where music wasn’t sure where it was headed and therefore every song sounded like one long song with varying “movements”. Snap, the KLF, Technotronic, Crystal Waters, Tom Cochran, C&C Music Factory, Black Box—no one was selling pure cocaine, so we settled for mountains of musical crack.

At this time I was thirteen and in the suburbs, so I didn’t really know how to seek out underground music. It was “listen to what they played on the radio or at the school dances”, “buy the tapes of the artists they played on the radio or at school dances”, “wait for ‘my jam’ to be played on the top ten songs of the day on the radio and tape it with my tape recorder”—or nothing. I didn’t like this place. It wasn’t enough for me to have a decent Chili Peppers song about heroin, an awesome LL Cool J track about how awesome he was, a moving U2 ballad, or a socially conscious Janet Jackson album, I needed more. During this music drought, I was the desperate owner of 3rd Bass, Bel Biv Devoe, Extreme II, and Tony Toni Tone cassingles. I pretended EMF was the greatest thing since New Order. I pretended I didn’t constantly confuse them with Jesus Jones. I once spent a whole week that I will never get back trying and failing to tape Natural Selection’s “Do Anything” off the radio, only to repeatedly be foiled by the DJ’s premature outro or my mother calling me to get on the phone and say hi to Aunt Margaret. I sang along to Amy Grant.

But this whole time, I was never in love with any of this crap, but tried like hell to be. Everyone around me was SUPER into Color Me Badd, so I…tried. But it rarely worked. I was so sick of the things everyone was “too sexy” for. I needed something else—I needed some kind of dirty, unpolished, musical Messiah to swoop in, save me, and make it desirable to be gross and pissed rather than some “In Living Color Fly Girl” who was totally ready to JAM! I didn’t know at the time that it was about to happen, that our generation was about to be granted the definition we were waiting for. So until then, I would be a set of inflatable wings in a swim class full of bubble belts. Waiting on the outside, looking in at everyone else as they busted the Running Man to Gerardo.

I was in seventh grade during this time. No one I know was perfect in seventh grade, but I was a lab experiment gone horribly wrong. I had braces complete with rubber bands and a nighttime headgear, and was fat the way sidekicks in after-school specials are. My outfits were uniform (in other words—flower patterned shirt, flower patterned elastic waist Hammer pants), and made whoever owned Sears very wealthy. I could not do the aforementioned Running Man. Or the Roger Rabbit.

And on top of all that, I had a mustache.

Okay, so mustache is probably an exaggeration. I was never mistaken for Burt Reynolds and it’s not like I could comb it. It looked more like I had the kind of dirt ‘stache a teenage Guido trying to grow a mustache has. But this didn’t make it any more flattering, and as I entered my early teens, I wasn’t the only one who noticed it.

“Mustache!”

Every day for almost five months, this heat seeking word sliced through the din of the lunchroom as I went up to empty my tray. There were two instigators of this verbal taunt, Nate and Jim, and in retrospect, they probably weren’t the best candidates to be slinging the insults. Jim was painfully ordinary by every definition, and Nate’s look captured every unflattering aspect of what a penis in a t-shirt might look like. But that didn’t stop them. Sometimes their whole table joined in, sometimes they just flew solo, but every day, same thing.

“Mustache!”

Kill me.

I tried several ways to order my own cease and desist. First, I tried convincing my friends to come up to the trashcan with me, but they only claimed to not hear anything. I stopped eating, so I wouldn’t have a tray to empty, but this didn’t work as they would just find where I was sitting and aim my new nickname in my direction. I became the I’m sick maverick, so I wouldn’t need to go to school altogether. My parents eventually noticed that something was up, so they urged me to go to my teachers. But my teachers were way off when it came to their perception of reality, and their estimation of any teenager’s ability to maturely and gracefully deal with this type of public humiliation. I mainly heard three textbook responses:

“Ignore them.” As if that was anywhere near the realm of humanly possible.

“Maybe they’re not talking to you.” Fine, but considering I was the only person in seventh grade with a mustache, male or female, I don’t know who else they could have been talking to.

And my favorite--“When they tell you that you have a mustache, Dana, it means they like you.”

So I had officially exhausted the usual options, done everything filmstrips and PSAs and sitcoms starring John Stamos told me I should do. I had no other choice but to follow my instinct and do the only thing I thought would finally work. Standing alone in my kitchen one weekend, not sure I could handle another week, I pulled the lunch menu for the following week off the refrigerator. And I saw my answer.

During lunch that following Monday, my hands shook and I had zero appetite. There was no way I had the balls to actually do this. I stared at the compartment of my tray that held what I had viewed as the “answer” in my kitchen that past weekend—a paper dish of chocolate pudding. Then, I picked up my spoon, and sank it into the pudding, gathering a heap of Instant Jell-O’s finest. I raised it to my lips and opened wide. Please, I could never pull this off, no way, no how.

“Mustache!”

Yes I could.

I spared my pudding, “borrowed” a friend’s uneaten pudding, and went up to empty my tray. I held on to the flimsy, paper dishes bulging with chocolate ammo. I had a clear shot from the cans, which was at a safe distance from them, but I wanted to make a strong point, and I don’t have a sniper’s aim. So I marched right over to Nate and Jim, who were both facing me ready to dish out what I was no longer in the mood to take.

It all happened pretty quickly. I don’t think they even saw the pudding in my hands ahead of time. I wound up, and simultaneously landed both dishes on both heads. I dropped the mic, I spiked the football. It was a deliciously satisfying equation. The force and speed of my wind up plus the flimsiness of the paper dishes caused a pudding explosion—which hit not only Nate and Jim, but the rest of their occasional cohorts. I hadn’t counted on this. I clasped my hands together, and walked back to my seat to the sound of silence, immediately followed by uproarious laughter and applause.

My face burned with pleasure, and all of the almost embarrassing accolades I was receiving. But adoration is fickle and the joke only lasted as long as it took for the pudding to stain.

I was still throbbing with adrenaline next period when the loudspeaker switched on. Achtung! My head snapped up as the usual list of bad apples were called to the principal’s office. Just as I cracked a smile at the thought of Saturday detentions for the usual suspects, an unusual suspect was summoned.

“Dana Rossi.”

Well…shit.

I walked into the principal’s office. He was in the process of explaining my offense to my mother and father, who had been called in for the occasion. I took a seat, avoiding eye contact with anyone. This was clearly the worst thing I’d ever done. Principal Jones asked my dad how they planned to punish me at home, and I braced for impact.

“We’re not going to punish her,” my Dad answered.

My head sprang up.

“Actually, we’re probably going to reward her.”

I was so shocked I couldn’t even muster a triumphant “suck it.” But as I sat there, hairy mouth agape, Principal Jones snapped, “Well, she will most certainly be punished here. She’ll stand in the corner tomorrow during lunch. I can’t have the entire student body thinking they can just go around dumping pudding on people’s heads. Who does your daughter think she is, the Queen of Mexico?”

I don’t remember learning that Mexico had a queen. But, this was public school.

My mother ignored that cleverly racist comparison and asked how Nate and Jim were going to be punished. “Well, the boys won’t really be punished,” Principal Jones declared. “The fact that they were publicly humiliated by a girl is punishment enough.”

I stood in the corner the next day, and as I faced the wall, I felt a quarter hit me in the head and bounce to the floor. Next, a nickel came flying from another direction, and hit me in the arm before landing heads up. It took a second for me to realize that kids were pitching coins at me, like a duck in a carnival game. And it took no time at all to realize that the lunchroom monitors weren’t doing a damn thing about it. In the span of one day, I had gone from the height of admiration for standing up for myself to Joan of Arc being burned at the stake for the same reason. I bent down to pick up the change (of course), when suddenly something hit me that wasn’t a form of currency.

I was definitely on the outside. But the outside is where I was visible.

I remember the early 90s as though we’re still in it, and that span of two days like they happened at 3:30 today. I can still see what I wore, what the boys wore, the layout of the lunchroom, the hodge podge of stalactite bangs, peg legged jeans, and banana clips that festooned the teenage population. I remember how sticky my hands were. I can feel the hush that happened the second after the pudding exploded. I don’t need reminders of those events or that time, the time just before the outside became the inside, before our entire generation would be clawing to be the ones who stood out for being uglier, angrier, and dirtier than thou. Yet almost twenty years later, even as a hairless adult who no longer looks like Magnum PI, occasionally a stray, coarse hair pops in on my upper lip to remind me something that I easily forget—sometimes being on the outside isn’t the worst place to be.

Then I tweeze it.

F the Oscars...this is the night I care about.

2010-03-15T21:26:00.002-04:00

Tonight, the following musicians were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame:

ABBA
Jimmy Cliff
Genesis
The Hollies
The Stooges

CNN published a quick article today, wondering how it is that these artists could be inducted, and yet the following are still to be inducted:

KISS
Depeche Mode
The Cure
Chicago
Hall and Oates
Rush
Alice Cooper
Moody Blues
E.L.O.
Cheap Trick
Bad Company
Peter Frampton
Heart
T-Rex
Bon Jovi
Journey
Foreigner
Public Enemy
Red Hot Chili Peppers

According to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Website, "Performers become eligible for induction 25 years after the release of their first record. Criteria include the influence and significance of the artists’ contributions to the development and perpetuation of rock and roll."

Nowhere in there does it say the GOOD influence, the WELCOME significance, or the POSITIVE development and perpetuation of rock and roll. But yet everyone commenting below that article is hooting and hollering about the inductees versus the waiting list. How DARE they welcome ABBA with open arms, yet slam the door on Bad Company?!?!?!

Look. Do I think KISS should have been inducted before Genesis? Of course. Am I fearful that bands like Cheap Trick, Chicago, and The Cure could remain on the waiting list while someone unbelievably ridiculous like the New Kids on the Block get waved on in? Oh don't scare me like that. But all this aside, yeah. It's the plain influence, significance, development and perpetuation that they're looking for, not an out and out rad factor. It's a suckfest that ABBA's catalog is now inspiring copycat "rock musical revues" that feature musical theater trained actors belting out "Longview." (Did you hear that? It was my colon snapping.) But that was their "influence" and "perpetuation" of rock and roll. And that's what the ol' musee is looking for.

As long as they don't drag their feet inducting Stevie Nicks (as a solo artist), who has been eligible for 4 years now. I'll give them another three years. Then I may have to take serious action. Because you know who else is eligible in 3 years? Gwar. And I can not remain a law abiding citizen if they get in before she does. I just can't.

Reporting Live, this is Barbie...

2010-03-08T15:08:00.007-05:00

Apparently, this was decided last month. But I just saw this on a bus this morning, and was low on things to Google today, so...

Earlier this year, a call was put out for votes on what Barbie's next career should be, and after a tough race, it was decided that Barbie's next TWO careers will be--computer engineer and news anchor. Girls voting selected the "news anchor" career, while the popular vote went to computer engineer.

My interest for this quickie is in Barbie as a news anchor. According to Mattel, this picture on the top left is what she will look like. Typical "hooker gets a day job" attire that wouldn't in any way fly in the real world of the industry she's portraying. Stripper hair parted too far to one side of her scalp. Slutty skirt length. Glossy lips that make her mouth look like, as my friend Chip puts it, a freshly lubed asshole. You know, the fantasy "Barbie" version of how an industry professional really dresses. Oh. Unless...

Paper During Any Other Musical

2010-02-27T10:49:00.003-05:00

This struck me as odd.

Last night I went to see HAIR on Broadway, and while the music was great, the performers incredible, and the patchouli scent kept to a much appreciated minimum, I couldn't help but be bothered by one little oddity in the entire HAIR package.

Our program contained five paper inserts. And during the show the cast passed out paper fliers advertising their upcoming "be-in" which contains phrases and information we have already seen and heard on the stage ("Bring something to suck on"--consider it done.)

This revival opened March 31, 2009. So that means that the "forest" I received in my singular program last night is but one in the hundreds of thousands of superfluous paper program inserts plus an unnecessary paper prop wasted in the past year--for a musical about a demographic of people generally referred to as "tree huggers".

It just struck me as odd. Well, odd but typical Broadway. For a theater artist, to be on Broadway is considered the pinnacle of artistic success. But look close enough and you'll see exactly how much this artistic zenith is actually just as corporate as any big business.

It just allows more nudity.

Happy VD!

2010-02-13T21:54:00.003-05:00

I love wishing people Happy Venereal Disease. After all, it's only polite.

So today on the CNN website, the center story was about crappy Valentine's Day movies. It talked about how Valentine's Day movies are cheesy and predictable--the women are always whiny and needy, the men are always overly sensitive and poetic. And even though this is typically the time of year when Hollywood drops their cinematic stink bombs, the success of last year's He's Just Not That Into You prompted them to release similar movies at this time this year--for no other reason than to benefit from America's shitty rom com jones.

In the comment thread below the article, most people were disgusted with these typical Valentine's Day movies, but one woman spoke up for them, saying she goes to the movies to "escape reality", and these movies provide a trapdoor into an overly florid fantasyland. Well, if only we could truly separate reality from fantasy.

Unlike actual "fantasy" movies like, say, Lord of the Rings, rom coms have seeped into our subconscious and made us think that life is actually supposed to play out like they do. The drama is supposed to be high, the relationships clingy and psychotic. But in "planet Earth reality", relationships come in all shapes and colors, and there is no "one way" a relationship should be in order for it to be worthwhile. Ask anyone on the street if Gollum is real and they'll tell you no in a heartbeat, but ask if the cookie-cutter idea of Mr. Right exists, and suddenly, everyone's pissing razors and shitting kittens and the issue has more gray area than religion and abortion combined.

And so, on this the eve of St. Valentine, I have decided to dig into my personal annals. This is something I wrote about five years ago to use as a writing sample to get an internship. Basically, it's my rant on He's Just Not That Into You, and why it's dangerous to drink this particular kind of Kool Aid. Thank you for reading, and Happy Love Day, however you celebrate it.

“Dear Greg,
He’s just not that into who? I thoroughly enjoyed your dated and patronizing opinion. Can’t wait for your next book, You Didn’t Get the Job Because You’re Black. Oh, but I loved you on Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn. You really held your own against Nick DiPaolo.”

My letter never made it to print in Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo’s book, He’s Just Not That Into You, which has become a frightening, yet likely cultural phenomenon in this age where our society is becoming more and more desperate for absolute answers and easy targets at which to direct blame. The book is aimed at women, seemingly the easiest target of late. He’s Just Not That Into You, in a weak attempt to follow through on its promise of clear cut, easy answers, puts all the blame on “you”. He’s just not that into you. He doesn’t like you. He’ll get married someday, just not to you. It tries to knock a hazy definition of sense into modern women, saying that they are better than the “romantic” conundrums they have gotten themselves into, hastily tagging every situation with a weighty “he’s just not that into you,” which is slowly becoming the “hear me roar” of this drove of femme Gen X-ers.

The book is set up in chapters in an easy to read, almost hypnotic fashion, where mock letters detailing relationship mysteries are answered by Greg Behrendt in absolute black and white, leaving little room for charcoal and ivory. Liz Tuccillo then provides damage control in her segment, explaining why each situation is “hard” and presents the desperate, flailing reader with justifications in much needed shades of gray. Following this is a section that is alternately written by both, called “This is What It Should Look Like”, doing what the entire book does best; categorizing, generalizing and stereotyping. Each chapter ends with a summary and “workbook activities” (no seriously, “workbook activities”); but not before proving to the reader that the preceding pages should be treated as gospel, because confirmation lies in “Greg, I Get It” where women give testimonials as to how this line of thinking has successfully jarred them from under the black spell of Mr. Unforgivably Flawed, and pushed them toward the warm promise of a caring embrace at the end of the path they’ve just cleared for themselves. If only this path weren’t so crowded with unicorns.

In a very weak attempt at inspiring a cry of “you go, girl!”, He’s Just Not That Into You discourages women from “wasting the pretty.” Women are told to use “the pretty” sparingly and only haul it out when it can be spent on someone who has proven to be utmost worthwhile. It will pay off in the end. I’ve heard this somewhere before. This sounds an awful lot like my mother telling me to only use my emergency credit card when I am on the brink of starvation and need cereal to save my life. In other words, “the pretty” is a form of currency, a system of bartering, and if women play their cards right, “the pretty” can be exchanged for an essential in a dire situation. Like love, affection, expensive gifts, and possibly, the occasional box of cereal.

Oh, and let's not forget Liz, the Gracie to Greg’s George, the peas to his carrots, the spina to his bifida. In her segment of the book, Liz offers a voice resembling a feminine sensibility, putting a softer, more understanding curve on Greg’s rusty edged opinions. She tries to empathize with the readers, claiming she knows exactly what women are feeling in order to get themselves into sticky romantic situations, but then attempts to show the reader why Greg may actually be right in his views. This approach sounds great in theory, as it attempts to cover all possible causes for dissent that this book may attract, but all it really does is come across as wishy-washy, co-dependent, self degrading whining. The woman has a coveted career, she’s written for one of the most successful shows in all of television history, but she’s still moaning about how desperately she needs and wants to continue to play such ridiculous social games. Basically, she appeals to and comforts the audience that this book hopes to target, instead of using her position to inspire women to take a progressive, less traveled road to happiness, be that in a relationship or not. But we’ll believe anyone so long as they’ve written for Sex and the City. And that’s the power she should have used. For good, not evil.

The lingering theme in this book basically urges, almost frightens women to seek someone who will dote on them 24/7 because women “deserve that.” This makes the underlying, but main message of the book ring clear. “You can’t ride the see-saw all alone.” Not once does this book tell women to fuck the see-saw and go play on the slide for awhile. It never says, “You’re single. Start a business.” Or, “You have no ties. Go treat yourself to an exotic piece of jewelry. In India.” For all the progress that women have made over time, this book is more than willing to lend overzealous aid to the regression of women, where they’ve been broken down and weakened to the point where they truly believe that the only way they’ll be happy or fulfilled is if someone is acting not as their partner but as the new appendage growing out of their ass. The more women are encouraged to water the magic beans of neediness, the more likely it is that their beanstalk will lead to an ogre.

So take He’s Just Not that Into You off of its position on the nightstand. Replace it with Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece Meets the Big O, where the missing piece stops trying to find available and suitable O’s to roll with and just learns to roll by itself. As for He’s Just Not That Into You? Winter’s coming. Use it as kindling.

30 is the new...87

2010-01-20T23:30:00.004-05:00

If I hear one more person bemoan how "old" they are whilst they occupy their thirties, I'm going to launch my own colon into the stratosphere.

Speaking as someone who will turn 32 in about three months, I simply do not consider myself old just because I don't get what's so great about that Pattinson twink. I look at it this way.

I am not old (and neither are you, fellow Gen-X-er) because:

I am not in a nursing home, nor will I be anywhere near in need of one for another FORTY TO FIFTY YEARS, which by my calculations exceeds my CURRENT LIFETIME.

I can still feed myself, wash myself, dress myself, and mobilize unassisted.

I know my name, your name, the president's name--in other words, I exhibit no signs of the onset of dementia.

My immune system is still kicking it live, and my chances of dying of pneumonia are pretty slim.

My bladder is still aware that I'm the one who's boss.

When I trip and fall down, my hips don't shatter.

And on and on and on--look. We just all need to stop referring to ourselves as "old" just because Nirvana is on the verge of being considered classic rock. It's a serious waste of the youth we still have. A friend who happens to be a doctor's son was recently telling me that at a medical conference his dad attended, the big discussion was about how people of our generation will easily live to be in our 90s. In fact, living into our 90s will be the norm due to how far medicine has come and how far it is going. Fellow thirtysomethings, we've got sixty more years, which is another one of our lifetimes, on top of ANOTHER one of our lifetimes.

So, enough already.

A Quick Bitch Slap

2010-01-06T12:21:00.002-05:00

What is so tough about this?

If you don't know me, and I am not bothering you, and I am barely even making eye contact with you--you coming up to me and telling me to smile will only irritate me, drastically increasing the chances that I will blast the middle one all up in your swirl. My reasons for not smiling in that particular moment are none of your business, and of no real concern to you. Maybe I just got some bad news. Maybe I'm clinically depressed. Maybe I'm deep in thought. Maybe I have to pee like a racehorse. Maybe I'm high out of my mind and intensely focusing on the gnomes dancing in front of me. You don't know. You know none of this before you--a person who has no authority over me as a complete stranger--command me to smile. But I will say this, there is one thing you can be certain of after you butt into my life and order me to make your atmosphere more pleasant:

The last thing I feel like doing is smiling.

Sometimes I hate the laundromat.

New Year, New You. No, Seriously.

2010-01-03T18:52:00.004-05:00

It's the time of year when I absolutely abhor going to the gym.

Now and for the next few weeks, the gym will be crawling, no, slithering with the "New Year's Resolution" crowd. You know who you are, and in addition, you know how long you'll last. About two weeks. I give you two weeks before you realize that the resolution to get in shape actually invovles moving your ass, and therefore, you will find this to be too involved in roughly fourteen days. But for now, I will just have to bite the bullet, and "share" the gym with those of you who think that by sitting on a machine and texting your friends you are "working out." Grr.

But at any rate, this got me thinking about the time honored tradition of making a New Year's Resolution, and how this really benefits those of us who make them. On January 1, 2010, you resolve to go to the gym more so that by January 1, 2011, you will become...what? King of America? An immortal demigod? Buttons, The Time Travelling Tit Mouse? Okay, so maybe if you DO keep up your resolve to hit the gym more you will slip your ass into slightly smaller jeans without the need for some kind of lubricant. But...then what? What will this ultimately make you? So now you wear smaller jeans. And you're still you, complete with pretty much all of the other issues you've always had.

What if, instead, we looked at the New Year as a time not for resolution, but for reincarnation. The resolution is merely a tool that will aid you in whatever you are going to come back as this year--an entirely new you. Hmm. Let's see how this would play out.

According to Wikipedia, three of the most popular resolutions for the new year are:

Lose Weight
Drink Less
Save Money

Okay. Now let's look at this through the View Master of reincarnation, and see if we can't get these resolutions to be a bit more beneficial in the big picture.

This year I will lose weight, so I can come back as--a stripper pole.
Answer me honestly. In your entire life, how many times have you had strippers bending over in front of you and using your body as a waxing post for their lady bits? Yeah, that's what I thought. But if you come back this year as a stripper pole, well, it's time to change that answer from "never" to "so much it became a medical issue." Score.

This year I will drink less, so I can come back as--a camel.
True, drinking refers to alcohol in this case, not all liquids. But alcohol is known to quickly dehydrate the body. So by not drinking alcohol, you will not lose water as easily, and therefore, your chances at becoming a camel (and thus becoming more attractive to desert dwellers looking for a ride) have just skyrocketed. But why else should you become a camel? Well, look at it this way. Camels can go for two weeks without needing to quench thirst. Without a need to quench thirst, you won't drink water. Without drinking water, you won't pee. So become a camel, and say goodbye to public toilets, long bathroom lines, and awkward reasons to excuse yourself in the middle of copulation.

This year I will save money, so I can come back as--a game of Monopoly.
The board. The shoe, the iron, the hat. The houses. The hotels. The properties. Chance. Community Chest. The di. But all of this don't mean shit without the bank. By saving money, you provide the bank, which is the most essential tool in a game of Monopoly. But, so? Why become a game of Monopoly in the first place? Well, let's put it this way. How many friends do you have on Facebook? Aw, that's cute. Well, since it first hit the market in 1935, the game of Monopoly has had more than half a billion players, making Monopoly the most popular board game in the world. Most popular. In the world. Not even those Jonas twinks have this many Facebook friends.

Think about it.

The Un-Bucket List...

2009-12-08T09:55:00.004-05:00

I had posted this on Facebook earlier this year, hoping to start a "Notes" trend. I failed. Oh well. At any rate, I am reposting this here as I believe it fits with the tone I have set for this here corner of the Internets...

So I was reading New York Magazine, and in it was a thing that Michael Ian Black did where he listed the things he has no desire to do before he dies. And I thought it would be fun to make mine. So here goes...in no particular order...ten things I have no desire to do (or do again) before I kick it.

1. Wear UGG boots, not even ironically.
Those things are hideous. When are we, as a people, going to finally admit that to ourselves? We are walking around in shoes that make it look as though we've shoved each foot up a groundhog's ass and are now walking around in it. And it needs to stop, or at least for me, never start.

2. Develop another kidney stone.
This sucked. I was 20 years old and developed a mammoth kidney stone in the tube that leads from my right kidney to my bladder. Oh so awful. And so huge it had to be surgically removed. Lesson? When your pee is the color of rusty pipes it may be time to think about drinking more water--water that doesn't have caffeine in it.

3. Stand in a long and pointless line outside the Abercrombie and Fitch store on Fifth Avenue, just to wait to go in and shop for unremarkable jeans I could buy online.
I think this speaks for itself.

4. A second viewing of the "film" Hustler White.
Basically, this was the story of a gay male whore. And Tony Ward was in it. Oh, and there was a scene where some dude was being fucked in the ass with another dude's wooden leg stump. I'll stop now. But just so you know, I saw this movie so you don't have to. You're welcome.

5. Date a guido.
Let's put it this way. I have one hair dryer, one curling iron, one straightening iron, four sizes of round brush, two sizes of comb, two kinds of hair spray, a curl serum, an anti-frizz serum, and a very specific system on how to effectively use all of this on my hair. And I just can not date a guy who would surely outdo me on this front. If I wanted that, I'd date chicks.

6. Attend another Tori Amos "meet and greet."
For as much as I love her, that was excruciating. Her truly rabid fans (known as "Ears with Feet") are very difficult to be around for any length of time, and I can only hear so many theories about which spirit animal Tori becomes with each album. If you've ever wondered what it feels like to NEED to rip out all of your eyelashes as a distraction, attend one of these.

7. Gentrify.
I live in a Greek part of NYC that is, for the most part, successfully resisting gentrification and I think it's great. So how, you may wonder, is it that I (a non-Greek) am allowed to live here without technically gentrifying? Well, it's like this. When I was looking for apartments in this mostly Greek neighborhood, I was told by several realtors that they needed to meet me in person before they showed me any apartments. I am sure this was to make certain I looked Greek, and was not some yuppie Manhattanite looking to make Astoria Park the new Sheep Meadow. So I let my hair do its Chaka Khan curl thang and...voila! I look Greek, the realtors approve, and I am allowed to remain here without pissing anyone off, or changing the face of the neighborhood. And I can do it all without eating one grape leaf. Score!

8. Buy (or sell) a black market baby. Or gun.
I think this also speaks for itself.

9. Twilight.
I don't want to read it. I don't want to see it. I don't even want to know it exists. I don't want to be aware of Twilight. I also kind of wish we could erase that time of night, and go right from sunset into dusk without any stopovers in this highly annoying and overrated area. No mas! The last time I was even remotely aware of a cultural phenomenon that never should have happened in the first place, I wound up being able to readily recognize any New Kids on the Block song. Forever and ever amen. You don't want to see this happen to me again, do you?

10. Go cow tipping. Or nightclubbing. Either or.
I would only do this if "cow tipping" meant monitarily rewarding a cow for excellent service, or "nightclubbing" meant swinging a bat at the dark part of the day. But since these two things are popularly known as "pushing cows off their feet" and "hopping from scene to scene", well, you lost me.

Moving on...

Since no bridal magazine would ever publish this...

2009-12-04T13:03:00.003-05:00

I'll say it here.

One of my sister's friends is in my friend collection on Facebook. We've never actually met in person. Her name is Brenda (it's not). Brenda is getting married. As I've mentioned, I've never met her in person, but from what I can see of her Facebook picture, Brenda is a very pretty girl. But she is getting married fairly soon, and therefore, all of her recent updates broadcast her weight loss progress as she counts down to the big day. Mind you, this weight loss plan is not the simple "eat junk less, move ass more" plan, but rather, she is fasting to lose weight for her wedding day. Fasting. Meaning no food. All to melt a few pounds so that she looks as heroin chic as possible in her dress, and therefore, is immortalized in photographs as thin--if only for that day.

But here's the main problem I have with this, especially since this trend is not just specific to Brenda. Brides practically kill themselves to slim down for their wedding day, and they often use very unhealthy methods to do it. As we have learned watching "The Oprah Balloon" for the last 20 years or so, unhealthy trend diets almost always guarantee long term failure--the weight comes back (sometimes ten fold), and stays. So in a year, two years, ten years, as you look back at your wedding photos, you see Skeletor in a veil looking back at you, and immediately become depressed at how good you "used to" look. And when you show that wedding album to friends, or worse, friends who didn't know you at the time of your wedding, all they see is how svelte you looked on that day--and what a fat ass you are on this day.

Achtung, ladies! Here's what I propose. As your wedding day draws nearer, start packing that shit on. Your goal should be to gain at least thirty pounds. I'm talking muffin tops spilling over the undies. I'm talking back fat. I'm talking flabby fingers. Your belly should jiggle when you wash your hair. You should be able to start a fire with the friction from the insides of your thighs. Gain it!

Finally, the big day arrives, and you have your photos taken. If you've done it right, you should look like sausage packed tightly in wax paper. It's a huge plus if the photographer has a hard time fitting anyone else in the frame with you. Then after the wedding, since you don't normally exercise the Caligula-like indulgence you've been exercising for the past three months, you put in minimal effort to return to your normal weight. And when you look at your photos, or show them to anyone else, you merely sit back and bask in the "fuck yeah!" that comes with knowing how much better you look now (and forever) than you did on your wedding day.

But I guess I should keep dreaming. Seriously, show me the woman willing to actually do this, and I'll show you a man.

Time Travel Already Exists...

2009-11-25T16:21:00.003-05:00

Unfortunately.

Let me back up. I'm home in Nazareth, PA for T-Giving, and this being the case, I now assume my role as errand runner, mostly because there is nothing I love more than driving. So in the last 22 hours, I've been sent to two video stores, the drug store, the grocery store, and...the cheese store.

Nazareth has one Italian cheese store (to my knowledge), and we've been patronizing this business since I've been knee high to a bag of Parmesan. Since my Mom doesn't want to know a cheese that hasn't been soaked in salt water, I'm sent on a quest to this store every time I'm home to buy mozzarella in its many forms--ropes, balls, and shredded pieces.

The store has been owned by one family since it's been in existence. This family has two sons, and the older son is my age. When I was in high school, I had a biiiiiiiiiig crush on this particular cheese heir. But who wouldn't have a crush on any cheese heir--if he were tall with dark hair and skin and blue eyes not seen in nature since that 1985 issue of National Geographic with the Afghan girl on the cover. I could say "and he didn't know I existed", but he did. Our school wasn't big enough for him not to, besides, we grew up on the same block. We just did not socialize. High school culture is more segregated than Alabama in the 50s.

I haven't seen this person since 1996. The last time I saw him, I was 18, and was everything that came with being me at 18--fat, hairy, crooked toothed, and, shall we say, "between" hairstyles. I'd never lived in one big city, let alone two. I was a virgin. No one beyond the borders of this town knew who I was, and I wasn't sure I could make friends with people who didn't know me since I'd been little. I'd never met anyone famous. My name had never appeared in print. I'd won zero awards. I hadn't gone anywhere, done anything, proved jack shit. But that was the mid 90s.

Now it's 2009, and the aforementioned traits no longer apply to me. Yet, when I walked into that store today, and up to that counter only to discover this "Afghan girl-eyed" person standing there, I was immediately transported back to 1996. All the cred or self-assuredness I'd built up in the last thirteen years vanished and suddenly, I was about as awesome as a neon green fanny pack. I talked and laughed too loudly. I made not one but two completely clumsy non-sequiturs. And I mimed a story. Mimed. A story. About me tripping over a homeless man in the Port Authority.

I was the definition of uncool. Move over, Muzak version of "Helter Skelter".

I think this is the closest I'll come to what it feels like to time travel in my lifetime. It's a kind of weird psychokinesis or teleportation through time, where it felt as though I'd been transplanted back into the body and mind of my younger self. I felt exactly as I did as a teenager, and the more I tried to act like an adult, the more I couldn't. I was flustered, and kept adjusting my hat. My eyes wouldn't focus. I was jittery to the point I was concerned about it. It was like my head knew where and WHEN I was, but my body, in reaction to the presence of this (now pretty unremarkable) person I used to have a crush on, refused to match my 31 year old mentality. I was two different people being pulled to two different times, and therefore, two completely different states of being.

And all this time, I thought time travel was going to be fun.

It could go either way...and does...

2009-11-21T10:36:00.004-05:00

I am either doing something very right or something very wrong. Or both.

So the latest book I'm covering for Sony is the "extended personal essay" (It's not long enough to call it "memoir". This isn't an actual rule, I'm just in the mood to make something up and adhere to it.) of a woman who lost her job at a top magazine last year, and now cuts corners to make ends meet. Which is all lovely, except for the fact that this particular woman's idea of the poor house is the inability to shop at Whole Foods anymore, and the fact that she had to sell her $250 aerobic sneakers.(Be a lamb and pass me a tissue, would you?) And it's a bit startling, because this person was brought up in a humble and modest family. In a nutshell:

1) She collects unemployment.
2) She still freelances for her former employer and other magazines.
3) She is married, and her husband still has his job.

So show me on the doll where the "hardship" is.

But this made me think about my own situation. In 2008, I lost my day job not once but twice. I'd lost a job I'd had for almost two years that January, then got another job, then lost that one at the end of July. So I started temping, but that petered out by December. So since that time, I have been pretty much entirely freelance and collecting partial unemployment (some weeks not collecting at all since I had enough work). In this past year I, how shall I put this, moved my ass. I've covered books for Sony, written press materials for Barnard College, PS 11, and a touring musician, written recommendation letters for artists trying to get US visas, stage managed at a few theater companies, and coached monologues for kids trying to get into LaGuardia High School. Oh, and I've written an article here and there. Here and there. Since it's tight now, it's tough to sell an freelance article when they can just assign in house and save money, so I've turned to other avenues while I wait for the upswing.

Not the end of the world. And never once in this past year have I felt like I was going to have to do something drastic--like hook or move back in with my parents.

And in the new year, I've already resolved that since I may owe a lot in taxes, it might be a good idea to take a temporary job waiting tables or whathaveyou to pay them off.

Also not the end of the world.

I guess I'm just no stranger to hustle. Hell, I once participated in a low risk drug study just to get the money to buy myself a new laptop. I've had every kind of "pays the bills" job imaginable. I buy clothes in moderation. I don't have nor have I ever had a store credit card. I didn't borrow the full amount on my college loans, so they are almost paid off.

On the flip side...

I have a savings, but its size would call for the adjective "cute." I have no stocks. I have a 401K, but it is also adorable. I have no health insurance (though this is changing soon). I rent and do not own my apartment. I live with a roommate--in Queens.

You know what, though? This (or a variation of this) has been my situation for as long as I can remember. So this economic downturn has been business as usual for me. I'm sure I'm doing something traditionally "wrong" during an economic boom. But now that the economy doesn't so much stand firm as it does wobble all lopsided like the table in my living room, what was "right" (buy stocks, buy real estate, buy stock in real estate) has now become wrong, and what I've been doing all along--what was previously known as financially sloppy or ignorant--has been the thing that's made me numb to what everyone else feels as pain right now.

I don't feel a thing. In fact, I'm a little high.

All the (actual) pregnant ladies say "ho-o"!

2009-11-19T12:58:00.002-05:00

It's awful, but it happens all the time.

Whenever I'm on the subway, no matter how crowded it is, no matter how badly I want to remain in the seat I'm in, I always want to give my seat to a senior citizen or pregnant woman. But here's the thing...

Who exactly is pregnant?

I'm terrified of being wrong about this. Yesterday on the N, a young woman got on the train at Lexington. She was wearing a wool skirt and a fitted jacket, but she clearly had a belly. However, I had a very hard time determining whether or not this was pregnancy. And this is terrible, I'm aware. She was on the shorter side, and her face was not that of someone who is particularly heavy. Her belly protruded, yes. But it didn't quite read "pregnant", and so I spent an uncomfortable amount of time starting at her trying to determine which it was. I looked for a clue, anything, to see if I could draw the right conclusion based on something other than her belly. I even tried to get a good look at her ring finger, to see if she was married, conscious of the fact that you don't have to be married to be pregnant, or pregant just because you're married. But, well, I guess I'm all about detective work.

I wanted to be polite and give her my seat, but a kind gesture can so easily become unkind in this instance.

"Do you need to sit down?"
"Why would I need to sit down?"
"To take a load off?"
"What load?"

And then it keeps going and going, and I dig a deeper and deeper hole, and crawl in, curl up and suck my thumb.

So from here on out, there are only three logical solutions that I can see:

1) I pretend to always be asleep, so I can't see anyone, pregnant or not.
2) I let men be the chivalrous ones.
3) I wear a faux pregnancy belly whenever I ride the subway.

Hm, "3" could work...

Revival, revival...

2009-11-17T22:07:00.002-05:00

Last summer, I had a vision. A vision for a blog where people would write to me and tell me about times where they were in need of the perfect bitch-slap comeback, but coming up dry, so I would supply all their sass for them. But much like the ill-fated MTV Jon Stewart vehicle of the early 90s known as "You Wrote It, You Watch It", there were two steps to this, and everyone somehow only got on board with one of the steps. So it didn't quite go the way I thought. It happens.

So I decided to revamp this here corner of the internet. No more letters. Just me. In my wagon. Careening down a hill with a "Miss Jackson if you're nasty" attitude.

Holler.

My Landlord Locked Me in My Bathroom (Sort Of)

2008-09-30T20:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Sasswagon,

So my roommates and I recently moved out of a nice, spacious, cheap apartment because our landlord was crazy (what's new). She was such a stickler about stupid stuff--locking the front door (complete with a lecture on how to turn a lock) and walking quietly on the stairs. The straw that broke the camel's back was when my roommate got locked in the bathroom for three hours because the door knob broke. We had to call a locksmith. When we simply asked our landlord to reimburse us for the cost, she flipped out on us and got into a screaming match about how we neglected and abused the doorknob. This all escalated into shouts of "how dare you ask me to pay for that when I keep your rent so cheap" and "I'm not paying for it – I just got you brand new windows two years ago!" We did argue back, but in the long run, we just had to make our point clear by giving our 30-days notice. But if we had argued back using the the sasswagon method, what should we have said?

-- Astounded in Astoria

Dear Astounded,

Please please PLEASE tell me that the doorknob on the bathroom was one of those clear plastic ones designed to look as though a big clunky diamond is all that stands between you and your toilet. Those are great.

Anyhoo, her technique is a joke. Isn't an argument is I yell something, you yell something related to what I yelled back, on and on, until one of us challenges the other to ten minutes in the cage? I don't know why, but this reminds me of one of the Bush/Kerry presidential debates four years ago, when no matter what Kerry said, it seems like all Bush could do was retort, "What about Poland?" So it's like she has her select issues and that's all she can come up with. But look at it this way--since she's defaulting to her old standbys, that means she's flailing in this shouting match. Perfect time to draw your trump card. Which has a little picture of the city inspector on it. He looks mean. He's wearing a hat.

Land "lady": I'm not paying for the locksmith!
A in A: A girl was just locked alone in a small room for three hours wondering how and if she was going to get out. Now while I know I just described your wedding night, let me see if I have this right. The lock is on the door of the bathroom in an apartment in a building that you own. All legally in your name. And you would rather not pay for a locksmith when your doorknob in your apartment breaks. So what I think you're saying for future reference is, "don't call a locksmith" since one can't and won't be paid for. So when, I don't know, say, the city inspector comes to have a look at whether or not the doors and locks are up to code in this apartment, and he gets locked in the bathroom, WE ARE NOT TO CALL A LOCKSMITH because you don't want us to. We'll relay that message. And we'll make sure he has the proper spelling of your name. Seriously, how sad would your mug shot look with your name misspelled under it?

~The Sass Wagon

My boss is Satan...if Satan is a micromanaging cake baking pervert

2008-09-19T20:18:00.000-04:00

Hi Sass Wagon,

For a period of 2 years, I worked for a woman that I absolutely despise! I've since escaped her wrath, but every now and then I still have to deal with her professionally, and I leave these encounters dreaming that I could actually one day be bold enough to say exactly what I think. Here's the scoop...

Complaint number 1: She stares people in the chest. She doesn't look them in the eye, she looks them in the chest. I would love to call her out on that.

Complaint number 2: One day, she had baked a cake for the birthday of a co-worker. It was 10am and it was some super duper sugary ridiculous cake...I didn't think my stomach could handle that at 10am, so I politely declined. She was a b-i-t-c-h the rest of the day to me, and the only thing I could trace it back to was "the cake incident."

Complaint number 3: She always made me feel like I was incompetent, when I knew I wasn't. I realized then that she was not only a horrible manager who only has her job by default, but also a rude woman.

So, Sass Wagon, please fulfill my dream of telling this woman off. Thank you!

~Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

I just threw up in my mouth a little after reading about all her vicious passive aggression. I've found that the best way to deal with passive aggression is head games. For example, if someone is always on your case to organize things in a certain way, start rearranging their things on purpose, just to prey on their OCD. I think this strategy can apply here.

1) She stares at your chest. Um, schnast. So the next time she does it, no matter who is around, stare at her crotch. Keep your eyes on her crotch. When she asks, "what are you looking at?" (and she will) you can answer with a stone straight face, "Oh nothing, just following the smell."

2) Pixie stick cake at 10am? Schnast two, the wrath of schnast. So here's what you could have done...and can tell your friends you did do. On your lunch, you went to a store and bought the cheapest, grainiest cake you could find. You cut it up, and brought a piece to your other co-workers loudly announcing that you brought them cake. When boss-lady came to you to ask what you were doing, you offered her a piece, saying, "I just thought everyone needed something to get the taste out. You too?"

3) Okay, since this one was a little open ended, I'll give you a sample scenario that you can model your actual response after. Say she's micromanaging you so much that she's telling you step-by-step how to do something you very well know how to do. After each instruction, no matter how minor, ask in all seriousness, "and then what do I do?" "You fill in the address field." "And then what do I do?" "You fill in the city." "And then what do I do?" "You fill in the state." "And then what do I do?" Always phrase your questions using the exact same wording. All kidding aside, this is a variation on an actual acting exercise, one that usually frustrates the hell out of acting students. It will drive her crazy.

And isn't that the point?

~The Sass Wagon

Over the Beam, Under the Beam, Right in the Solar Plexus

2008-09-18T15:35:00.000-04:00

I took gymnastics at the Easton YWCA from age 7 to age 7. Gymnastics is something many little girls go through, a rite of passage of sorts, our very own tribal ritual. I won't lie, I was terrible at gymnastics, hence my short tenure at the Easton Y, and was mostly focused on coming up with new and creative excuses for "sitting this one out." All that being said however, this particular story is not about my attitude practicing a sport I was frightening at, but rather, the sparkling sassiness of a fellow lil' tumbler.

Parents Day, the last day of lessons. My mom was in attendance, ready to tell me how great I was when the contrary was true. We all took our places by the balance beam, ready to show our parental units just how finely tuned our inner ears were. One husky and pigtailed girl attempted to mount the beam, but as she wound her legs around it she toppled over and swung under the beam, dangling by her legs. I (because I was so good on the beam) had no other choice than to loudly announce:

She meant to fall OVER the beam, but she fell UNDER the beam!

No one there thought it was funny either.

So I repeated it.

She meant to fall OVER the beam, but she fell UNDER the beam!

Wait, one more time.

She meant to fall...

You get it. I repeated it over and over, each time louder than the last. The girl abandoned her beam routine and headed right for me. I figured she was about to tell me to shut the fudge up, or something along those lines, to which I would have announced how I was kidding, and how I only kid because I love. Wrong.

She socked me right in the gut.

I doubled over, the wind knocked right out of me. I looked over to my mother for sympathy, beyond certain that she was already giving this girl's mother a sound tongue lashing. Wrong again. She mouthed (to me) YOU DESERVED THAT.

The entire car ride home was, of course, a lengthy lecture on this husky gal's juvenile vigilante justice and how I got what I so rightly deserved. I knew it, and could still barely believe that this girl actually hit me. But one thing was for sure. She shut me up right good. Unfortunately, sometimes the best comebacks have no words, and can only be expressed in stage directions.

My ex-boyfriend won't leave me alone...and Madonna is his Jesus

2008-08-19T21:00:00.000-04:00

Dear Sass Wagon,

There's a guy that I've had a relationship with twice in the past – once in high school and then about ten years later. He always said the right things but nothing ever progressed. I finally ended things (both times) and we went our separate ways. This was seven years ago.

Recently he heard that I was single and the phone calls started back up. He leaves "our" songs (from high school) on my voicemail and messages every day about how we have to hang out, etc. Even as I’m typing this, he’s leaving Rozalla’s “Everybody’s Free.” He has an enormous framed picture of Madonna over his dining room table, is ridiculously flamboyant, claims he's straight but has been known to sleep in the same bed as his best friend.

My main issue is he's arrogant, self-centered and you can't trust a word he says. No matter what I say to him, he always shows back up.

So what to do? I just want to tell him how much of an asshole I think he is for everything that's transpired but nothing gets through. Anytime I try to tell him anything he tells me I'm being a drama queen.
So…for this case, I'm requesting something appropriate for voicemail (easier than trying to get a word in). He can be super bitchy and I need some help matching him drama for drama.

Sincerely,

L off the L

Dear L off the L,

Madonna shrine. Shitty mid-nineties dance jams. Directing the word “queen” at someone else. And a heterosexual claim. Yup, I’d say you’ve got the old “almost out of the closet with one foot still stuck under some Legos and a Sit n’ Spin.” When I first read this, I was going to try to write a parody of “Everybody’s Free” for you to leave on his voicemail where you make it “gayer”, but then I listened to it on You Tube and thought, why paint the peacock?

Hmmm…so how’s this for a voicemail zinger?

“So I was watching Jeopardy the other night. The category was ‘Things We All Need’ and the answer was—‘A socket, a bald man, you.’ And wouldn’t you know it, that physics teacher from Deluth nailed it. ‘A plug.’ So you just let me know when you’ve gone out and gotten yourself one long, solid, coming out plugging, and then maybe we can finally relate to each other how we were meant to…where we’re both the girlfriend.”

~The Sass Wagon

Fostering positive negativity since 1978

2008-08-08T15:46:00.000-04:00

It started with a swingset.

I was three and had to use the can. I left my friends to fend for themselves on the swings and teeter-totter in my backyard while I went in to take care of the horse I had to see someone about...or, whatever. I am a firm believer in a grande dame re-entrance, so when I returned to the swingset, I dramatically pushed open the back door and belted "HERE I AM, THE ONE THAT YOU LOVE, ASKING FOR ANOTHER DAY." And wouldn't you know it, a solid Air Supply reference was totally lost on group of three year olds. But that wasn't my biggest problem. While I was inside draining the train, another kid came over and took my swing, which meant there was no swinging apparatus left for me on my own damn swingset. So I put my hands on my hips, glared at the group and said, "And just what the hell is going on here?" My mother (who was in earshot) thought, "Now just where the hell did she learn that one?" It didn't matter. It was bold, it was sassy, and it made the extra kid bolt off my fargin swing. He ran home. He may have soiled himself on the way. We'll never know. But that sassy one-liner, far from my most creative, did the trick. It's been doing the trick ever since. And now it can for you.

Look, I'm sure someone, somewhere is dumping a bunch of sand in your oyster. And try as you might to coat it with oyster milk to make a pearl (I really don't know how that happens, exactly, but stick with me) it just don't get no prettier. Because this sand dumper is an a-face who just pops your last blister. You can't shake him or her, be it at work, at home, or always in the job johnny when you really need it. But at the same time, you can't bring yourself to be rude.

Allow me. Email me at sasswagon@gmail.com and tell me what's going on all up in your swirl. Be as detailed as possible, but only give me info you're comfortable having me post. I won't use your name if you don't want me to, either. I'll post your letter, then the most fitting verbal bitch slap I can concoct. Sometimes it's a multi-layered insult. Sometimes it's a one-line zinger. And sometimes it's a wordy and mighty verbal TKO that just may reference obscure or non-obscure pop culture. Use it whenever, wherever. Point is, I'm here for you, ready and willing to be mouthy when you can't or don't want to, all the while working through both of our aggression. Everyone wins. Except the a-face. How can this not be fun?