The World is Retarded

I've been a bad blogger this summer. So lazy! But whatever, who cares, amiright? Anyway, Michele Bachman and her gay husband have now won the Iowa straw poll, so the world is officially over, for real. No more Mojito Mondays! (Or Felching Fridays, sad face.) And fuck it, I'm tired, so I'm putting on my fashion sunglasses and heading to Atlantic Beach, NC, where I will attempt to drown myself, get wasted, and then do some crossword puzzles, in that order.



To tide you over until I get back and decide to start typing again, here's a fun picture of a snowbilly grifter not stealing the spotlight from a bunch of vampire bats.

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Tacky Marilyn Monroe Statue in Chicago

I recently took a trip to Chicago (my first one ever) and will be posting more hot pics from the trip soon once I stop being so lazy, but I wanted to start with some shots of the big 'n shiny nonsequitur that is this Marilyn Monroe statue that sits on Pioneer Court, a very prominent spot on the city's Magnificent Mile right downtown. What does Marilyn Monroe have to do with Chicago? If you said "nothing," I'm pretty sure you'd be right.

Anyway, this statue has stirred some controversy! Some folks aren't bothered by the statue's tacky irrelevance. Walter Jacobson of CBS2 NEws said, "So we did not get the Olympics, but we have Ms. Monroe, keeping us on top of the outdoor world, and just when we need it, a smile on that mile." Well, he ended with a rhyme, so I'm convinced.

But then there's killjoy Tribune columnist/stone-cold-bummer Mary Scmich, who lamented that the display was "as tawdry as a peepshow." But how can you take this woman seriously when she doesn't even bother to put together a decent rhyme? ("It is cheap and dirty and it ain't even purdy." See how easy it is, Mary?) Plus, do guys even go to peepshows anymore? Don't they just watch them on youtube?

Anyway, it was just a happy coincidence that just as I arrive in Chicago the statue was unveiled. I read about it on the Intertube and immediately hopped on a train to see it because, as you all know, I love big statues. I got the obligatory shots of her underwear and such, but I must say some gentlemen spent an unnecessary amount of time and pixels on the statue's back side. It was gross. Take the dudes smutting up the below family-friendly shot I took:



Or this guy accumulating wank bank material:



Dizgusting. But, okay, I know you want to see what they're seeing, because you are also a 12-year-old boy, so here's a few artistic shots:





And a less interesting one taken from the front:



And in case any of you sweaty adolescents need more wank bank material, here's one with me. You're welcome.

So What/Who Cares?

Wow, I haven't blogged in forever. Why is that? I asked myself every day for the past week and a half. And the answer is: "Eh, so what/who cares?" This, as all writers know, is the death knell of continued typing. Because if you are a writer and you start asking yourself those two questions, you will not come up with a satisfying answer. Because, basically, so what/who cares?

Anyway, I've been kind of meh lately, which is why there's been so little blogging from me. Plus, I've been busy singing Heart songs at karaoke (see above). Rest assured, loyal fan, I will be back with coverage of my visit to Chicago and other dumb bullsh*t soon, once I summon the energy to press more buttons on my computer than I have the motivation to press right now.

In conclusion, here's a funny picture.

Oh, Miss Winehouse

Jeez, this is depressing. Not a huge surprise, no, but just so freaking sad. Amy Winehouse was a force of freaking nature. One listen to any one of her songs--or a viewing of, say, the videos for the swinging high-drama "Back to Black" or the trampy, stomping "My Tears Dry On Their Own"--and you knew there was no denying that this lady was, in PJ Harvey's system of measurement, a 50-ft Queenie. Her hair alone could have had a fabulous career. Huge bummer.

Above is footage of her last public appearance, dancing on stage on July 20 while her god-daughter, Dionne Bromfeld, sang. Amy looks, yes, a little fucked up, but she also looks happy.

RIP, Miss Amy.

Also, here is a delightful interview by Jonathan Ross from 2003 or so when her first album came out.

This Is What I Looked Like When I Showed Up To Work Today

Yes, I looked like a sweaty, sagging, and soaking-wet 140-year-old woman of indeterminate race. My shirt was clinging to my body like Marcus Bachman does to his Top Gun Special Edition DVD with the deleted post-volleyball shower scene. It's so hot outside today that it's painful. Really painful. Painful like Marcus Bachman trying to slam his flipper feet into the high heels he bought for Michele. I caught my reflection in the glass of a movie theater window as I passed by it and saw that my face was so agonized from the heat I looked like I was weeping. Weeping hard. Weeping like Marcus Bachman at a midnight showing of The Boys in the Band.

In conclusion, Marcus Bachman is a gay barbarian.