In honor of my newest obsession next to classical music in the 20th Century, my nearest and dearest received (or will receive, depending on when I can make it to the post office) the gift of giving to Project Holiday Spirit. The following open letter explains it all...

Hey all my children:

I've made a bold and beautiful move and donated _______ to Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS with your young and restless spirit(s) in mind. The donation is under the names of Van Hansis and Jake Silbermann, the two guiding lights behind As the World Turn's Luke and Noah ("Nuke" as they are known in certain circles--"Loah" as they are to be known in mine).

As the world turned in 07, I understand you may not have caught the passion for daytime television’s first gay supercouple, but the New Year provides a perfect opportunity to reflect on Loah's trials and tribulations and forget your own. What a blessing not to have to deal with a new school, a demanding internship, an unknown hooker mom, a jilted ex-girlfriend, a homophobic ex-marine father with a shotgun and bloodlust for anyone trying to "take" his son, and Thanksgiving and Christmas with your sometimes lover's family. And that's just Noah's drama.

Seriously you all: these are the days of our lives, and we do, after all, only have one life to live.

Here’s to a great 2008!

I think the donation page is still open, so visit and give often. If you don’t care for network television's commercial/sanitized ideas of gay relationships, you can give a goat, or choose other gay TV characters in the names of which to charit from AfterElton’s zippy blogophilic list or this scholarly tome comprehensive of all lists in all times from all nations, presumably.

Happy Holigays!

Tell ya why, Mrs. Lovett:

"Congress drops hate crime bill covering attacks on gays".

But it does raise interesting conundrums: could I fully support the war if I got some semblance of protection out of it, even if only from my compatriots? Would extremes of self-preservation disintegrate my loosey-goosey constructs of morality, ethics and spirituality? Should I be asking for a helmet and baseball bat this Christmas?


Go Padres.

Best spam subject line ever.

Is it me or is the real John 6:27 kind of hot...

Labour not for the meat which perisheth, but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting life, which the Son of man shall give unto you: for him hath God the Father sealed.

And is that last bit a reference to sheep intestine? Holy King James' Jimmy! Safe sex rulz.

Just until I find the 300 images that mysteriously disappeared from this blog. Thank goodness I came up with clever text markers for most of 'em. My naked posts, however, exacerbate an editorial deficiency evident throughout.

ISO an editor...

And man boobies.



UPDATE: F*ck.

UPDATE 2: Taylor the "Superb Tech" rocks!

UPDATE 3: Make that an editor, man boobies and a web designer. Apply within.

Weather you celebrate or not, Happy Valentines Day!

To bring in the New Year, Weird and Mysterious posted their screepy Halloween Episode just in time for Christmas.

PS - If yesterday was the first day of the rest of my life, then I missed it.

Sync your ipods and get ready for some phone six: the latest podcast is alive and thrivin' at iTunes.

Seriously, best episode yet. Hello!

Somebody turn on the parental controls because this is internet porn.

Hotness in the key of WOOF via Acappella U. (I highly recommend #21.)

[UPDATE: Our very own very weird and mysterious Episode V is up and live.]

After two weeks of technical difficulties, Episode IV is live!

Thwarted by the technological disadvantages of poverty,
our eponymous duo ducks the ever waging street fight
outside of their apartment only to become
distracted by the bloggesphere so
readily available at
their fingertips.

Topics:
Acceptance into iTunes' Music Store
Jeans
Fans
Je-joogle
Daniel Vosovic
Dave Gorman
Jennifer Garner's Real Life Pregnacy
My Annoying Voice

GAP is the best!

Via everywhere.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but it sure looks pretty up close. Visit Weird & Mysterious for JF/stop and my attempt to make our 30 min of downtime a day into something productive, fun and ready for mass consumption. Mmmm... smells like 44.100 kHz.

Speaking of booty-bumping sound wizardry, I just discovered DJ Earworm's I Like The Way Jenny Scrubs. I'm so glad MR. Earworm's tongue is back firmly planted in cheek... even if it's not mine.

JF/stop and I made our first visit to the American Museum of Natural History yesterday. Thank goodness JF had his trusty camera in hand because upon arrival we ran into...


Oh. My. God?


No, it's Darwin!


Here he is shunning the public eye. No pictures, please!

Darwin had a lecture on the link missing from the current administration to humanity, so he forwent the dinosaurs and legions of children on the 4th floor. He was able to catch up with us at the mammals.


As a naturalist, he naturally prefers moose to mousse.


Mutual bush admiration.


Grrr tiger!


Aaahhhhhh, watch out for that bear, Darwin! Luckily Grizzly Man taught us the best way to handle a bear is to pretend it's a poodle.

After a narrow escape it was on to the hall of primates.


We tried to make friends with this little guy against Darwin's warnings.


Oh no, it's an attack lemur!


Whew! It only got some of the kids from the 4th floor. On to some life aquatic...


Darwin got my seal of approval for this potential album cover shot.


Swimming with the dolphins. Mmmmm... good enough to eat!


Things got a little heavy when we reached an amphibious display. Darwin lamented the fact soon there would be no frogs due to the ever-increasing toxicity of Earth's water supply. To comfort him, I hypothesized that in the future kids would be able to make frogs in their home science kits. "Holy cow, it's as though we're becoming God... or at least catalysts towards the next stages of evolution," I deducted. Darwin perked up: "Talk about intelligent design!"

Ah, life is never a bust with Darwin!

For this intrepid camp scout, perception-altering magic happened last night, Saturday, April 15, 2006--what would have been tax day for us New Yorkers if it weren't for the providential placement of Patriot's Day on this calendar year.

Out of nowhere (or "Seattle" as some call it), one Ms. Dina Martina rose from Wigstock 2005's waste of false eyelashes and established herself firmly in the pantheon of NYC's downtown-and-dangerous drag cabaret punk scene. If Kiki is your volatile cocktail of an aunt who uses and abuses everything in her path during the Christmas gift exchange, if Jackie Beat is your scary cousin who sometimes shits on the Thanksgiving centerpiece, if The "Lady" Bunny is your creepy uncle who wears too much makeup and tells a discomforting array of pedophile jokes at any holiday function, then Dina Martina is your psychotic, bipolar-but-well-meaning half sister who set up shop on stages across America once they closed down the state run mental health facility--a 4th of July firecracker ready to set some Middle Eastern oilfield ablaze.

Through a shocking and awe-full barrage of fractured idioms and maligned misnomers, this Mrs. Malaprop delivers a live-and-in-your-face scrapbook of everything so wrong with middle-American, conservative Christian mass consumerism that it's right. Though I advise against dining while watching--I can't tell if my indigestion stemmed from gut-crunching belly laughs or the Easy-Bake Oven-cooked pizza at the Cuttin' Rooms--the evening unfolds as a grab bag, pot-luck supper of show business pay your dues and dont's.

There aren't many specifics I can divulge without ruining the bewildering spectacular that flows through Martina's engorged hysterics, but I dutifully declare that she takes to the stage like a scary, scary clown from outer space and exits--sans much warranted encore--a mangled, God-wranglin', fiddle playin', robot dancin' superstar about to go nova. Should they ever award a Tony for trash, an OBIE for obtuseness, a Bessie for besmirchment or the Pulitzer for the biggest fucking mess ever, Ms. Martina would be a winner.

OFF THE CHARTS!

Since the consumer is the new proletariat, I'd just like step out from behind my protective Manhattan curtain and say FUCK YOU ACADEMY, FUCK YOU HOMOPHOBES, AND FUCK YOU HEFFALUMPS & SCIENTOLOGISTS. What's that sandwiched at the bottom end between two versions of the Brokeback?



For those of you who noticed that Gustavo Santaolalla "Wings" theme sounds like a slowed down version of the "Hey!" chant, now would be a good time to start singing. Hey!

Pure genius and entirely too short. When the original divine Miss M. (with a "z") goes off into one of her mid-song trances it's as chillingly volatile as a Pacino performance, and it happened at least once during EVERY SINGLE NUMBER. No wonder her mind is mush now.

Thanks to JF for the lovely phone pic above and to the cavalier Mr. M. for braving the April foolery up in Harlem to take part in one of the gayest Saturday nights ev-ah. Blame it on Pappa!

Listening to my new Yeah3s album while they reconstruct my kitchen wall (the sounds go surprising well together), I found The Modern Age's review of the late February Bowery Ballroom concert:

I don’t even know what to say about last nightother than it was really a downer. The crowd was not very into the show, despite being subjected to some stage antics like Karen eating green feathers during “Honey Bear” (she had to tell everyone to “Hold up, I gotta pick the feathers out of my teeth” several times after the song finished) and having us sing “Happy Birthday” to her mom sitting in the balcony. (Her birthday was in 3 days.)

Karen was even wearing the most ridiculous circus-performer attacked by lamé and a Be-dazzler half leotard/skirt thing [Ed. note: she was just tapping into the zeitgeist; this concert came at the height of the figure skating competitions during the 2006 Winter Olympics]. Nothing. Nada. Didn’t do one iota for the folks there. Which probably makes it a really difficult task to get amped about performing. The band even nicked doing “Date with the Night” for the much slooooower “Modern Romance.”

Let me just leave you with this, right before Karen sang “Our Time” she went on a little rant about how she lives in LA now and asking the audience not to “judge” her for what she’s been working on all by herself with “no friends”. Want to know how the crowd reacted? A mix of booing and uninterested silence. Way to go guys."

I cannot take credit for the total lame-ass-ity of the crowd (indie-hipster/industry clusterfuck much, Interscope Records?), but I am the one who started the booing. Karen O in L.A. is like a ruby encrusted diamond in a sea of sponges. She needs to be here in NYC (or at least next door in The Jerse) keeping us jaded, soulless iconoclasts a'clasting. She is this generation's Joan Jett (the commercially viable badassness), PJ Harvey (the dangerous femininity), Pat Benatar (the hooks), Blondie (the sass), Chrissie Hynde ("the rhythm and vocal cadence"), and Linda Rondstandt (those outfits!) rolled into one. I am happy to report that the vortex of the fly-over states has not diminished the pure yowza of her and her fellow Yeahs' music, even if it didn't carry over the freshman rambunctiousness.

In the words of the O(C?)-ster, "dance like a warrior" bitches. It's rock 'n' f'n roll!

I watch the Oscars for the gowns, which were mostly safe and tedious this year... much like the best picture winner. To quote Jack Nicholson, "Wow."

Wow. They dolled up Kinja! Almost makes me want to return to the internets. But on the internets it's not called a return. It's called downtime at work.