I Want Anything From This Shop As Long As It's This Merman

I was on my hang glider the other day, making the long trek down 5th Avenue from work to the Y (where I go to get myself clean, have a good meal, and do whatever I feel) and I touched down briefly in front of the darlingest shop near 26th Street next to the 7-Eleven. The store was clearly not ready to let December go, still gleefully decorated with random Christmas magic--it was all happy Santas, dancing elves, candy canes, apocryphal nativity scenes, tinsel, nutcrackers, plush Christmas animals, and sexy Mrs. Clause statues. What was the guiding principal of this shop? You'll have to ask someone else because I didn't get past the sexy mermen in the window.

This is, obviously, because the window display featured some serious figurine action up in it, and these figurines were... alluring. I don't know what God that merman celebrates during the holidays, but I'm pretty much ready to accept Him/Her as my personal lord and savior. Also, I know what I want for Christmas next year, or, alternatively, next Tuesday.

Announcing Tune in Tokyo, the Audiobook, and a Giveaway at Goodreads!

Hello illiterates! I bring you good news. (Have your wet nurse/probation officer/12-step buddy read it to you.) My book, the partially acclaimed Tune in Tokyo: The Gaijin Diaries, is now available as an audiobook. It is read by the handsome voice actor dreamboat MacLeod Andrews, whom I don't know but am now a big fan of.

To celebrate this edition I'm running a giveaway over at Goodreads. Enter and you can win a free copy that I'll send to you with my landlady's signature on it! You'll also get some leftover turkey and stuffing and half a slice of pumpkin pie that my cat threw up.

Don't deny yourself the joy of hearing my words read into your ears constantly, for like nine hours. It's Christmas!

Thanksgiving Summed Up in One Photo

The only way this picture could be more perfect would be if it was the cover of a Ted Nugent album.

Whoever Slapped This Poster Onto a Random Scaffolding Wall in NYC Is Basically the Next Nate Silver

This is one telling flyer. It's been up for a few weeks and in that time I've watched it blossom into supernova of multicolored chewed-up gummy gnarliness, aka, a gorgeous reflection of our great democracy at work. Obama clearly won this iteration of the popular vote up here at 35th and 6th, and I do believe this data comports with the actual vote tallies in this area. So the point is, whoever's idea this was is the next Nate Silver and should be given a bunch of poster board by the New York Times so he can expand his gum-data campaign into the country at large and continue to give folks the most precise reading of the electorate in the midterm elections of 2014.

In the future we will all vote with our gum.

And voter fraud will be accomplished with taffy.

New Nervous Breakdown Essay: And Gimpy On Strings

Kids, I've got a new post up over at The Nervous Breakdown, which you should click over and pretend to read immediately. Here's a teaser:

Children of the world, don’t believe your parents, your shrinks, or your imaginary friends: worst nightmares sometimes do come true. Sure, many humans can get through their entire lives without falling out of an airplane, having a leg eaten off by a shark, being kidnapped by a tiny car full of saber-toothed circus clowns, or being awoken at 2 a.m. by a group of drug-crazed hippies wielding ice picks and chanting “Kill the pig, acid is groovy.” But some don’t. We all have these fears and they are perfectly rational, so watch out. [continue reading]

My Cat Stella Is Pretty Bummed That Romney Lost

My regular reader might remember that a few weeks back I got the devastating news that my cat Stella was voting for Romney. I, of course, was fit to be tied, and I tried and tried to talk her out of it, appealing to her rational side using charts and graphs and endless videos of Rachel Maddow breaking things down. But Stella is as stubborn as my mother and she was not swayed. So Tuesday night she was thoroughly bummed out and has been doing nothing but sleeping and gorging on corn dogs and watching daytime TV and giving herself baths and just sitting in the corner for hour upon hour ever since. She's not even reading her Us Weeklys anymore.

Lest she be quietly entering Victoria Jackson or Donald Trump territory with a hilarious Twitter explosion imminent, I sat down with her this evening to get a sense of how she was doing and if I needed to worry about her waking me in the middle of the night shouting about socialist Muslims under the bed.

"Stella, how you doing? Feeling okay?"

"Meh."

"Pretty blue, huh?"

"Voter fraud."

"Oh, God, Stella, it really doesn't exist, are you kidding me?"

"New Black Panthers."

"Stella, there was one guy in a beret and sunglasses at a polling station opening doors for old ladies." 

"Appeasement."

"Stella, I don't think you know what that means."

"Skewed polls."

"Gah, the polls weren't skewed, Stella, and it doesn't matter anymore anyway because the election itself has confirmed that the polls were pretty much right."

"Chris Christie."

"His state was underwater! He said a few nice things about Obama! What was he supposed to do?"

"Benghazi."

"Ugh, that's it, I'm cutting off your Fox News."

"Reparations."

"And no more Drudge Report, Red State, or Breitbart."

"Binders full of sadness."

Bammerz!

"I WILL SURVIVE!!!!!!": A Word from Valerie Cherish

Hey kids, have you about had it up to here with your mother's crazy declarations that Obama is a secret Muslim whose religion is more of a danger to the country than his challenger's weird cult religion that has anti-black racism written right into its fundamental documents? Have you been hitting your head against a brick wall over and over again over the past few years dealing with the increasingly paranoid beliefs of someone so close to and beloved by you? Are you increasingly fearful that this whole national carnival of crazy actually won't be over come Tuesday owing to the desperate attempts by state officials in Ohio and Florida to cockblock the vote and make the electoral results questionable at best? Are you about ready to slit your own throat in mortal frustration?

Take heart! And take a cue from Valerie Cherish, who feels your pain and, in the above video, sets it to music. Careful, though. Angry hurts your throat.

Gruesome Video of the War Against Dying in Hurricane Sandy

God, we were lucky. Really lucky. Had no idea how lucky we were during the filming of this video. (Thoughts and agnostic prayers go out to all in Staten Island, lower Manhattan, New Jersey, etc.) The sounds outside were scary, but at least those sounds didn't decide to invite themselves in and bring their friends, Wind and Rain, who were both hella spastic and angry that night. So, some uncomfortable, frightening moments on Monday, but, hey, it's me and Jimmy, our relationship is made of uncomfortable, frightening moments (usually involving our cat Stella's litter box). God bless NYC.

My Cat Stella Purrs in the Face of NYC Snowricane Horror

Yes, despite the fact that this is our last night on earth, owing to the spastic flailing devil's storm that is right now barreling toward NYC, my cat Stella couldn't stop herself from just stone cold sittin' on Jimmy's lap and purring her ass off. I got it on this film, which is awesome, because I'd wanted to capture a tiny little fragment of what our last night on Earth was like, and this pretty much sums it up. Here's what you will hear: my loud-ass voice, some Stella purrin', and then a god-awful ruckus that is my reaching into the Dorritos bag to get a few more chips because I was hungry. Sorry bout that last thing, but the rest is golden.

 Anyway, I thought, you know, we live in the big city and everyone will want to see our mad crazy hurricane blowout, so you're welcome, see you in heaven, we'll be the shirtless ones wearing the powdered wigs and Bugle Boy jeans.

Truth-Telling Stickers Dept

Sometimes bumper stickers fall short: "Don't blame me, I voted for XXX," for example. What a smug, irritating message to paste somewhere. Or "Romney/Ryan 2012"--what a smug, irritating message to paste somewhere. But sometimes bumper stickers distill wonderful truths into tiny bite-sized nuggets of pure wisdom. "My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Student," for example.

Well, the above sticker, which some armchair philosopher hobo slapped onto a pole on the Williamsburg Bridge, is in the latter category, I'd say. Because is there any doubt that folks like Elvis, Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, and '80s Joan Collins are indeed at least a little bit closer to Christ than the rest of us? The answer is no, there is no doubt.

And you know what this means, right? Yes. Jo from The Facts of Life is getting into heaven, and you're probably not.

It's also a little sad for all the balding/bald/thinly haired folks out there, because they're at a distinct disadvantage. But buck up: this is precisely why God invented wigs and weaves.

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Morrissey at Radio City

Can you believe that I'm almost 40 years old and I haven't ever seen Morrissey live? Wait, let me ask that again. Can you believe I'm almost 40 years old? Isn't that crazy? Like completely bonkers? Like you can't even make heads or tails of that fact? Can it be possible? I know, I know, it doesn't make any mathematical sense, but still, you can't really argue with the mathematical sense it truly makes.

Anyway, listen to this magical story: I was just lamenting the other day, after realizing that I'd just missed bumping into Morrissey at the Strand bookstore a few Sundays ago, that I'd never seen that charming man live. How could that be? Then, out of the blue, I get a text from my dear friend Laura asking me if I had any interest in going to see La Mozzer at Radio City on Wednesday. What are the odds? Of course, I was all "Yes, yes, a million times YES!"

I was a little worried that his voice would be weak from all that hard core vegan eating he's been doing (I heard that he's got a pretty bad arugula habit), but he sounded robust and flawless. He began the show by immediately throwing us sycophants a bone with an exquisite rendition of the timeless Smiths slowjam "Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me."



It was nice to see Oscar Wilde make an appearance between songs.



It was less nice to have to sit through the interminable PETA agit-prop snuff film played during my least-favorite Smiths song "Meat is Murder." There's really nothing like watching cows and chickens and other farm animals being slaughtered on the big screen for your viewing pleasure. Nothing like it. Feel good movie of the year. I wasn't surprised that Morrissey went there--he's a strident little thing in his old age--but gah.

Another complaint: too many new songs. I know, I know, he must get tired of being told to shut up and play the hits, but all I wanted from him, really, was "The Boy With the Thorn In His Side," and it's a bummer that he couldn't have swapped out one of these forgetable new tunes to make room. Sure, I probably would have wet my pants if he'd played that, but that's why I wore my Queen is Dead-brand adult diapers.

Still, the man delivered a fine, fine performance, and pretty much everyone in the house was beside themselves with adolescent joy, particularly the fellow in the row in front of us who I'll call "Ducky from Pretty in Pink," who was going all in on the fey hand stabs and the new wave hair tweaking.

You wanna know what hits he played, so as you can be more jealous of me? Okay: "Shoplifters of the World Unite," "Every Day is Like Sunday," "Still Ill," "Speedway," "Spring-Heeled Jim," "Ouiji Board," "I Know It's Over." Could you be more envious? Yes, of course you could, but the fact that you harbor even a tiny amount of psychotic envy makes me not only happy but downright smug.



In conclusion, enjoy this blurry and off-puttingly low quality video of Morrissey getting bum-rushed during "Still Ill."

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Dina Martina at the Laura Beechman Theater, NYC

Jimmy and I enjoyed a night at the theatah last night, because we are urban sophisticates who sometimes find something we both want to do on the same night. I recently discovered Dina Martina thanks to my secret conservative extra-marital boyfriend Andrew Sullivan and his blog. Andrew started featuring Ms. Martina on his web series Ask [Someone] Anything, in which he gets a prominent person--usually a political or cultural pundit--to sit down and field questions from readers. Dina Martina is a nice "lady" singer Andrew loves who performs all summer in Provincetown, where he summers like a big old gaywad, and so when she landed in NYC to do a stint of shows, he asked her to sit and preview her show/field questions from the unwashed Internet. It was her insightful and edumacational answers that convinced me that Jimmy and I could not spend our Sunday night doing anything more meaningful than basking in the glamor and clammy glow of La Martina.

She did all sorts of stuff from the great American songbook, from "Genius of Love" by the Tom Tom Club to "Legal Tender" by the B-52s, from the theme song from "The Love Boat" to a song for children that she'd written on a crumpled up piece of notebook paper she appeared to have found in a public toilet. It was, as Mitt Romney might say, "marvelous." She's on her way to London, so London peeps, she's playing at the Soho Theater from October 23 to November 3, get your tickets, it's good clean American comedy, like the Osmonds but so much better.

Jimmy darted out before I could force him to take my picture with her, but that's okay because I just took one myself, minus me, plus a nice woman with electric red hair.

Below, watch Dina take a question. You'll learn something, maybe.

Why Is This Sexy Mannequin in the Window of the Adult Store Constantly Trying to Seduce Me?

This mannequin won't leave me alone, I swear to God. Every day I walk past her on my way to Sixth Avenue to get a coffee or an Atkins bar or an apple or a hit of acid, and there she is, dressed in her sexy skivvies 'n chains 'n leather wristband thingies, giving me that come hither look. As if. Come on, mannequin, you've been around the block. Surely you know you are barking up the wrong tree. I don't even like wristbands! And how do you stand like that in that position day after day after day? It's not natural, mannequin, to put your arms and hands in that position for long stretches of time. Who taught you to do that, Anna Wintour? Give yourself a break and sit down for a while or something.

In conclusion, while I admire your confidence and your swagger and your dead, dead eyes, you've got to just give it up and start focusing on those who will be more receptive to your message. Because let's face it, unless you've got a hot gay surfer friend behind that curtain, I'm just not interested, okay?

Wait, you do? And his name is Chad? Hold on, let me put my wristband on.

Missed Connections Dept

Well this is kind of a bummer. Turns out I was this close to recently running into potato-faced misanthrope Morrissey at the Strand bookstore here in NYC. As reported by Queerty, Mozzer was apparently minding his business and perusing photography books when an elderly woman collapsed near him and he leapt to her aid like the SuperVeganMan that he is. The takeaway from this story is, of course, that I was at the Strand that day, too. Mozzface left soon after the incident because he's so sensitive and camera shy, which means that if it hadn't been for this selfish old lady I might have had an opportunity to sneak up and slap him on the arse with a copy of the Picture of Dorian Gray, which would inevitably have prompted him to ask me out to his favorite vegan eatery, probably called Grass or something.

I WANT TO EAT AT GRASS WITH MORRISSEY SOMEBODY MAKE THAT HAPPEN!

I'm Confused By It: "Mitt Romney" at Herald Square

 Okay, I didn't get a great picture of this person because he (I'm going to just assume it was a dude) wouldn't freaking stand still for longer than a millisecond, but the sign he's holding says "I AM MITT ROMNEY". So the question becomes: "B'scuze me?" Or maybe just plain old "Huh?"

Now, we all know I'm not always the sharpest tool in the tool container, but am I missing something? If this is satire, what is being satirized? Filthy rich plutocrats who secretly love wearing red spandex, look fake pregnant, and wear spooky serial killer masks? I'm confused by it.

When I first approached this person to snap a photo, he stroppily held out his hand and shook his head as if to say, "Uh-uh, you want a shot, put a dollar in the pot" or some such. When I wasn't immediately forthcoming with cash, the guy turned around so as to ruin my picture, then held up his sign toward the oncoming traffic on 34th Street, apparently hopeful that a passing car or taxicab would pony up some sweet dosh for some sort of explanation of this nonsense. This is not how capitalism works, amiright?

Or maybe it is, I don't know, I'm poor, gimme some money for writing this dumb blog post.

Busking Report: An Impromptu Duet

Sometimes when you get off the F train at 14th Street you are simply forced to turn off your iPod because otherwise you are a jackass who misses out on a beautiful little number performed by a dude with a piano hanging around his neck. And you would also miss out on a young lady with an umbrella passing by, stopping, and joining in for a few gorgeous seconds.

Of course, sometimes a train announcement interrupts your moment of zen, but never mind, the music will still be there when it's over.

Wonkette Drinkie Thingie, Rudy's Bar, NYC

Everyone knows that Wonkette is the single best source of news about political idiots, snowbilly grifters, and buttsecks jokes. They have also twice linked to this here blog because SeeTimBlog is the single best source of news about angry teabagger illiterates and how best to talk to your gay baby about awful breeders. So I was thrilled when I saw that editrix Rebecca Schoenkopf--who is in the midst of a little RNC- and DNC-inspired jaunt along the east coast, during which she's taken in Tampa, Charlotte, Philly, and maybe some other places who cares--was going to be stopping by Rudy's Bar in Hell's Kitchen here in NYC in order to meet her public and buy us pitchers of beer.

I tried to rope in a friend or two to accompany me but got no takers (thanks, NYC Facebook friends, I'm unfriending ALL OF YOU), so I had to show up by myself. I got a beer and made my way to the back yard space where the shindig was happening. On the far wall a giant screen was showing the game. (Which game? The baseball game. Which baseball game? The one that was last night.) I stood on my own for a while pretending to watch this "the game" and trying to see if there was anyone who looked semi-approachable that I might beg to talk to me. Then I saw Rebecca talking to some folks in the center of the space. I figured if I was just going to walk up and interrupt someone's conversation it might as well be hers.



So I stepped down and squeezed into her general area. Then I just stood there watching the folks around her talking, waiting for my moment to strike. In the mean time I introduced myself to a tall gentleman next to me and asked him if he was with Wonkette.

"Blowjobz1258," he said.

"I don't know what that is," I replied. Then I realized: he was introducing himself by his Wonkette commenter moniker.

"Are you on Wonkette?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, no, I mean, I read it religiously, but I don't comment."

He was done with me by this point, pretty much, getting on his phone and pretending to text as he stepped away. I turned around and there was a tiny man standing behind me who had just come down the stairs. He looked up at me and said hello. I shook his hand and introduced myself.

"Hi Tim, I'm Zaltar," he said with an indeterminable accent.

"Zaltar? That's your name? Your real name?"

"Yes," he said. "Zaltar. It's Turkish." (I think he said Turkish, he may have said Klingon.)

"Wow, you do realize that's pretty much the best name ever, right?"

"Yes, I do."



At that moment, I saw Rebecca turn away from the older gentleman she'd been talking to for a few minutes. Here was my chance. Her eyes met mine, she smiled, and I introduced myself. She was nice! I told her that I'm SURE she doesn't remember but that she linked to this blog a while back when I tried to start a meme based on John Derbyshire's hilariously racist riff on The Talk that black parents have to have with their sons about living in a white world, which we all learned about in the wake of the Trayvon Martin shooting. (Mine was the gay version of The Talk. The meme did not take, sad face.) She said she remembered, that it was the first post of the morning and that she remembers just being really lazy and block quoting me and then linking to my post. I thanked her for doing it and told her that was just fine because click-through are click-throughs, amiright?



There was a guy standing next to her holding what looked like a Jack on the rocks and who looked about twelve years old. Since I'd already made it with Rebecca I thought I'd go ahead and throw caution to the wind and insert myself into his life, too.

"Hi I'm Tim, what's your name?"

"Jack."

"Jack. Jack Stuff?!"

"Stuef, but yeah."

That's right, it was Jack Stuef, my favorite ever Wonkette writer, dearly departed. I showered him with flattery, because I'm such a starf*cker.

"I was devastated when you left," I told him.

"Uh, really?" he said. He was not buying my schtick at all.

"Yeah. Well, okay, I might be overstating it. I was incredibly sad for days and thought I might never be able to read the Internet again."

Soon after this he excused himself to get another drink and get as far away from me as the venue would allow. Oh look, there's blurry Rebecca (my camera phone had had a few drinks by this point).



I then moved on to take over someone else's life and found two young folks off to the side who had friendly yet sarcastic faces that I felt really drawn to. They were Mwaanza and Lillie and they were both born in 1990, isn't that weird? I didn't realize people could be born after the eighties, but whatever. Here's a great picture of them.



We talked about what irritates us about everything for the rest of the night, the end.

In conclusion, this place had free hot dogs. Free hot dogs! Communism is delicious.

UPDATE:

A hawt photo of yours truly is posted over at Wonkette, feast on it below and check out other nonblurry photos here.

Creative Busking Dept: Theremin Magic Show!

This just made my heart all squooshy when I got off the F train today at 6th Avenue. It was a li'l Japanese theremin-maker just stone cold standing there and conjuring sounds like a dang sorcerer's apprentice or something. Doesn't it make you feel boring and useless that you can only play musical instruments that already exist in time and space and that have to be plucked or picked or bowed or blown and that can't just be gestured at? Yes it does, but there are other reasons you are boring and useless, so don't worry too much about it.

Devastation: My Cat Stella is Voting for Romney

I'm just beside myself. I knew that Stella was a fiscal conservative--she's always been a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of kittycat. (Sure, she's never worked a day in her life, but neither has Ann Romney!) And yeah, she did kind of have a soft spot for Sarah Palin back in '08 because, as she put it at the time, "that woman is a grade-A c*nt." (She was impressed!) But, really, I thought Stella and I both agreed that the Republican Party had gone absolutely bonkers in the past few years and in no way did they deserve to be in the White House again.

So when Jimmy told me that Stella had told him that she was a Feline for Romney, I was aghast. I went straight to the cupboard, took out the DentaBites, shook the packet, and into the kitchen she ran, at which point I scooped her up, took her into the living room, and sat her down to give her a talking to.

"Stella, what's this I hear about you planning to vote for Romney? You do know that he's a congenital liar, right? And that he's just going to bring back Bush-era policies that will screw the middle class? And that he's going to try to get rid of Obamacare? Stella, you do also remember that your daddy is a type 1 diabetic, which, in the parlance, is a preexisting condition?"

"Socialism."

"Stella, Obama is not a socialist, Jesus."

"Kenya."

"Stella, if Mittens wins you know what he wants to do? He wants there to be a Constitutional Amendment to ban gay marriage, which means your two daddies would be forcibly divorced and I would lose my damn health insurance."

"Birth certificate."

"Stella, let's be clear: Obama was born in Hawaii, and Paul Ryan is in the tenth grade. Tenth graders can't be vice president!"

"You didn't build that."

"Argh. Okay, Stella, listen, if Romney is elected president, daddy's probably not going to be able to buy you Fancy Feast anymore. How does that sound?"

"Secret Muslim."

"Stella, do you spend all day on Breitbart.com? I'm going to have to start putting some parental controls on the Macbook."

"Seamus."

"Girl, that poor dog is supposed to be a reason not to vote for Mittens."

"White is right."

"Stella!"

"Liberal fascism."

"You're making less sense as this conversation goes on."

"Eh, tired, bye."

"Stella don't you dare walk away. Stella! If you go under that bed I swear to God I'll..."

"Can't hear you. Purring."