Sexy Malaysian Construction Worker of the Day

Why can't the construction guys working on the additional wing of the school behind my building in Brooklyn be this porn-worthy? And why can't they wear hats this awesome? Why, moreover, can't they work during the day like this guy does and not in the middle of the dang night, so we can get a better view, and so we can also get a decent night's sleep? This is unfair. Greenpoint is never this sexy. Jimmy and I are moving to Kuala Lumpur forthwith. Who's coming with us?

Best Chat Line Commercial in All of U.S. History

You remember when you used to stay up late watching teevee rather than trolling the internet for sex robots? I miss those days. Well, the above video should really take you back. It is the best phone sex commercial ever produced. Not only can these girls dance and seductively flick their hair, they can also sing! You know, like Cindy Crawford could sing with Little Richard backing her up in that awesome Charlie perfume commercial from 1993.

Just try to watch this video and NOT spend the rest of the day atonally screaming "Pick up the phone!"

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Jazz-Age Lawn Party, Governor's Island

On Sunday my friend Sarah and I strapped skis and angel's wings to our bikes and slid across the river to Governor's Island to get some Trinidadian oxtail and crash the Jazz-Era party thingie being held there. We really had no business being there because we weren't dressed up and had always thought the Charleston was a Prohibition-era illegal sexual position involving South Carolinians, but there was a lot of booze, so we consoled ourselves with that. Here are pictures!


Dancing, awkwardly.


Suzanne and Sarah (different Sarah)


Her boobz were so awesome my camera phone demanded another photo.


My favorite costume of the day. So authentic.


Sittin' and strummin'


I let her borrow my favorite blouse, and dammit, she didn't give it back.


Umbrellas



This bartender got more attractive with every drink he served me, and I think he appreciated me telling him so, repeatedly.


Garden parties are exhausting.


I discovered to my amazement that the Lindy Hop--which was the name of a brothel I used to work at--was also the name of a popular dance craze in the '20s.


These young daddies put their wiggle on and got the gams moving as they hit on all sixes with their hotsy-totsy, ducky beeswax, and how. Or something.

Well This is Just Awful

Awful. Horrific. Grim. And sad. David Carradine, dead in Bangkok. When I went to Bangkok I got a blissful yet excruciatingly painful Thai massage and had to spend the rest of the evening in the hotel bar recovering. When David Carradine went to Bangkok he ended up dead and naked in a hotel closet with rope tied around his junk. (What different lives people lead.)

Now, we really don't know what happened to Mr. Carradine. But all signs point to that whole auto-erotic death jerk-off that Oprah warned us about back in the early 90s. And that's just a shame, because, let's face it: anyone who dies of auto-erotic asphyxiation is going to be remembered for that first. Or maybe second. Whenever "Don't Change" or "Johnson's Aeroplane" by INXS pops up on my iPod, my first thought is: I love this song. My second thought? It's such a shame Michael Hutchins masturbated himself to death.

God knows, we all love to spank it. It's fun! Personally, I would never go in for the whole tying a rope around my neck and such for extra pleasure because I'm far too much of a klutz, and it's pretty much a scientific certainty that I would die and, eventually, my cat Stella would eat my face. But yes, masturbation is fun and a totally normal activity. Nobody wants to be found dead after indulging, though. I would be horrified to discover that my dead body was found naked, underwear on my head, half-eaten Little Debbie snack cake in my hand, back arched over a yoga balance ball, bare feet soaking in a bowl of Canola oil. That would be so embarrassing! And it would end up being the second thing I was remembered for.

To conclude, I really hope there's a perfectly good alternative explanation for why the dead body of David Carradine—Kung Fu legend, remember that first!—was found in such a state that we just haven't thought of yet.

My Cat Stella Not So Into Thomas Paine

My cat Stella has always preferred Dan Brown to Balzac, Nicholas Sparks to William Shakespeare, and Entertainment Weekly to The Economist. In fact, the other day I came home and caught her stuffing an issue of Woman's World under the couch cushions. Shameful, I know, but she's my cat and I love her, even if she still thinks Obama is a Muslim.

Stella is 15 years old now and, like most senior citizens, she gets pissed off easily. And when she does, she has taken to pissing on whatever is irritating her, be it the bathroom rug, my gym bag, or a pile of laundry just back from the laundrymat. This is understandable--those things can be pretty annoying. But yesterday I was shocked to find out not just that Stella hates my gym bag, but that she specifically hates my copy of Thomas Paine’s Age of Reason. I never realized that she had such a passionate dislike for books that called into question the very idea of organized religion and the divinity of scripture, but leave it to Stella to surprise me even at the ripe-old-age of whatever she is in human years!


If you look closely you can see Stella's displeasure with my choice of reading material.

I was on the L train against my better judgment and I had just pulled my book out of my bag for the long days’ journey into Manhattan when I realized that the person right beside me smelled like piss. I gave this person—a dirty hipster, don’t you know—a friendly yet irritated glance that told him, “I know you haven’t showered in five days, but I still like your shoes” and then opened my book. It only took a few minutes for it to dawn on me that the smell was actually coming from my book—the pages were stained and curling up. Stella had obviously visited my man-bag the previous night intent on letting me know that she doesn’t care for Paine’s blasphemous blathering.

Lesser men would have tossed the book. But I’m not one of those, so I continued reading because I’m not about to let the terrorist (in this case, Stella) win.

Stella also thinks torture works and that Sonia Sotomayor is a racist. And she voted for Palin. (Not McCain-Palin, just Palin.) Thankfully, though, she is pro-gay marriage, but that's not unusual for a cat.