"Better To Leave Something To the Imagination"

You know how at some point an older dressing room attendant at Nordstrom's said this to you when you were like, "Can I pair the miniskirt with this belly shirt?" (Haha I have never once asked that.)

I think it's dumb advice, because people have crazy imaginations. Like you would never want to dress in a way that leaves anything to the imagination if you were dating James Cameron, because then he'd inevitably be disappointed you didn't have an electric blue 10-ft-long tail/flying horse syncher tucked in your baggy pants.

I DUNNOOOO, THIS IS JUST SOMETHING I WAS THINKING. DON'T SHOOT THE MESSENGER. IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO.

“If you can’t afford to hire a bartender,” he added, “you shouldn’t be having a party.”

You shouldn't even have friends. What would you and your "friends" do? Walk? OUTSIDE? Play the recorder on the 5 train platform? Lick a banana peel you found lying on top of a city garbage can and say it's okay because of the "three second rule"?

Let's Not Forget About The Burritos.

Tommy Lee’s born-viral letter to Sea World condemning them for masturbating a whale reads, in part:

“We understand that you refuse to release this frustrated whale because he is your chief sperm bank, and we know that the way you get his sperm is by having someone enter the pool and masturbate him with a cow’s vagina filled with hot water. Even during my wildest days in Motley Crue I could’ve never imagined something so sick and twisted.”

A PERFECT RATIO NOTE ON THIS: It’s like, okay, small clap, Tommy Lee, you're a bonafide animal rights hero and a hilarious Internet meme for the day of December 9th, BUT buuuuuuuuuuuuut let’s not forget you used to fuck breakfast burritos on your tour bus to get the smell of groupies off of your penis. Not quite as disgusting as hot n'wet cow pocket, I agree. But then, of course, you, as a human being, are not the same as a whale. Balancing out the differing species expectations, I might go so far as to say that sticking your junk into a breakfast burrito is maybe just as sick and twisted. I remember when I read this anecdote in The Dirt I underlined it and then wrote the best side-of-page note I've ever written, which was simply: WHY NOT SHOWER?

(A motto I now live by.)

Audience Questions Are The Best

Last night I went to a screening of Blue Valentine. There was a Q and A after and every single audience "question" went something like this. Audience "questions" are the best.

Susan: Hi my name is Susan, and my question is, well, I think that scene in the motel when you're making love was really intimate... like it just speaks testimony to your skills as actors,you know? I mean when you guys were on the floor rolling around it was just great to watch, I really loved it, it felt super real, though I suppose you must have had a thousand camera men around you, right? Ha ha. But just considering how intimate it must have been and how realistic it seemed to us, you know?"

DEAD SILENCE

Susan:...So I guess I was wondering if you could talk a little bit about that?

Fake Lyrics To Taylor Swift's New Fake Song "Dear Jake"

Can’t believe it took until today
To realize you’re just another Kayne
I thought it all was so clear before
but now I know the score, now I know the score

[Cut in Brokeback Mountain audio: “I just can’t quit you. you. you....you.”]

The day we went out and sipped coffee,
laughing freely, for all to see,
Said you didn’t want to live without me
Told my Mom, and she said “Careful, T”

I’m way too young to be played around this way
really i was like basically born yesterday
Did I mention I hated “Runaway?”
This song is about Jake Gyllenhall

yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah....fades.

An Imaginary Conversation With The Cat On My Block.

Cat: God bless you, mami.

Me: What?

Me: Seriously, did you just say something?

Cat: Meow.

Strong Open

The great thing about keyboard smiley faces is that they allow us to quickly express emotions that are sometimes difficult to put into words.

Three Songs That You Wouldn’t Possibly Think Are About John Mayer That Are Actually/Maybe About John Mayer

While Swift isn't naming names on "Dear John" — well, last names at least — she doesn't shy away from calling out someone for a love gone terribly wrong. There's no confirmation that the tune is about Mayer, but some lyrics that have appeared online have everyone wondering if he's the John she's singing about.


1.) Frank Sinatra “Fly Me To The Moon”

Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On a-Jupiter and Mars

In 1952, Mayer was a freshman student at Berkelee School of Music. By the end of his first semester he contracted both mono and the typical white boy itch for an alternative education. The itch begets the prolapse, as prostate wisdom goes, and Mayer fell quickly into drug dealing. His particular cocktail of cocaine cut with spermicide was nicknamed Moon Trip not for any sort of launch sensation it provided but because it was typically packaged in ass-centric pornography pages ripped from vintage Hustler issues. You know the rest of the story. He was contacted anonymously. He was floored by the visage in the doorway. He spent the night in a penthouse giving his idol a sponge bath. Both client and provider were genuinely moved to tears, like a grandpa realizing his lapdog has just pooped on the couch for the last time.

2.) Tracy Chapman “Fast Car”

You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere

True fact: John Mayer drives a Ford GT, the older, meaner brother of the Mustang, with 550 horsepower, and two side mirrors that can be angled to catch the light glints reflected off of both driver cheekbones. His GT is custom painted in road cone orange and choke sex blue ensuring that at no moment the outer world mistakes him for anyone but John Mayer, and he never has to wonder about the horror of making a right turn unnoticed. Anyway, one time in 1993 Tracy Chapman was hitch-hiking on Route 101 and Mayer saw leather and the promising outline of breasts and he pulled over. Chapman asked him, “Maybe we make a deal?” but the terms could not be met.

3.) Blessed Union of Souls “Hey Leonardo”

She likes me for me
Not because I look like Tyson Beckford
With the charm of Robert Redford
Oozing out my ears


They were just a small town Ohio band. A 100 lb bass in a Midwestern pond. But they had dreams. Dreams that invaded their daily thoughts when they were in line for concessions at the Apple Creek drive-thru or stirring soup on the stovetop. The dreams were of Billboard Top 100 fame, the kind of get me out of this damn place Springsteenian fantasies that make people very bad middle country boyfriends. One night, Elliot was driving around town with his girl sitting shotgun when John Mayer’s “Your Body is a Wonderland” came on the radio. “I COULD do this, Lisa!” Elliot shouted, hitting the steering wheel emphatically, “I could!” And Lisa, her poor potato-eyes looking to the sky for divine intervention, took to petting her boyfriend’s ego like it was a shaken and fragile cow that had just been tipped. “Baby,” she said, “I like you for you.”

I've never really understood

the bizarre synergy between Liz Phair and Keith Richards. Mainly because Richards has always seemed more myth than man to me-- you know, he's the large-than-life rock God sustaining a vampiric existence care of 4am speedballs and maybe/probably daily unicorn blood transfusions, and as much as Liz Phair rocks and rocks hard, her persona seems to be culled as a direct affront to the very sandbox in which Richards' plays. Sure, Phair's Exile in Guyville was a tribute (or was it more of a jab? or was it be BOTH? OMG FALLING DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE.. WHERE'S MY SPEEDBALL?!!) to the Stones' Exile on Main Street, but it also a painfully human bitch-out of the boy-owned world that she desperately wanted to enter and simultaneously wanted to destroy. I feel like circa 1993 Phair would call it a hate fuck.

Anyway, here is the Liz Phair of now reviewing Richards' biography.

Pseudo-Intellectual Thought of the Day!

It's interesting that the Jackassers closed Jackass 3D with a song called "Memories" and flashes of their baby pics, because the whole humor of Jackass necessitates being entirely un-precious about life.

That is all I have to say about that.

Here's Something Happening Tonight!

Experimenting with my Beta Blocker dosage now.

Bed Intruder Halloween Costume

Remember how last month a news report of an attempted rape became the number one most watched video on YouTube, essentially because the victim's brother was super gay? Maybe you really enjoyed that one? Well now you can play the highly entertaining role of a poor sing-songy dude from the projects whose sister almost got raped... for Halloween!

Is this costume:

A.) irrefutable evidence we're now living in a dystopian society where there's no discernible distinction between "news" and "entertainment"?
B.) an easy way to get people to pay $25 for a tank top and a bandana?
C.) Both.

You stab the hot dog sections with the uncooked spaghetti and boil.

Do You Know Where Your Memes Come From?

It’s an unverified fact that many of the major Internet memes of the last year (Chatroulette & IWriteLike, to name two) have sprung from the brainmush of young Russian geniuses. At the same time, we have apprehended at least one very sexy Russian spy known to canoodle with tech bigwigs on U.S. soil, and a handful of inconspicuously unsexy Russian spies with a knack (unrelated to point) for growing healthy hydrangeas (Also unrelated to point: is that girl like SO happy she got a joke into the Times? I mean, I would be SO HAPPY.) My first theory was that the poor unfortunate spies were victims of some sort of Hot Tub Time Machine journey and were mistakenly operating as if in the Cold War era (a plot perhaps to be turned into a Brendan Frasier* movie), but, consider this comrades: what if these SPIES were here to learn our taste and proffer us endless cultural delight and constant virtual candy designed to lull us into the acquiescent state of puppies getting a good belly rub? Like what if their memos back to the motherland were “129-456 Like deciding which famous person they are similar to” or “234-868 Like showing genitals on grainy web cams”? I mean, just WHAT IF?

This post is sponsored by the I Couldn’t Think of Anything To Write About Today Foundation.

*Brendan Frasier, I hath not forsaken you!

A Short Story About Soho House

(phone rings)

Hey you! What’s that? You want me to come to Soho House? Sure, I mean I was just at Soho House last night. HAHAHAHA, I know. Soho House is the shit! Yeah, no problem I’ll just catch a cab to Soho House. Okay, getting in the cab to Soho House now. I’ll see you at Soho House, girl! Wait, did I tell you that hilarious thing that happened at Soho House LAST week? OMG, it was just so so typical Soho House, you know? Just totally Soho House being Soho House. Okay, I'm seriously on my way to Soho House now. (“Soho House, pls. Can you avoid 6th Ave?”) Be at Soho House in 5 minutes! Wait outside of Soho House for me, k?

Protagonist arrives at Soho House.

Fin.

Mad Men Season 4: Prediction Time!

Matt Weiner, Mad Men creator/tyrannical czar, recently told Entertainment Weekly:

"The theme of the season is 'Who am I?' It's about stripping away the things that these people think define them. Once they're taken away, they just may have to look at who they really are."

What are these essence-defining things our favorite elegantly-draped, abulically unhappy characters will have to learn to live without? Some guesses:

Don will lose his penis (or at least a section of it) in the front seat of his Coupe de Ville, one fateful night with the over-earnest, possibly unhinged school teacher, you know, World According To Garp-style.

Sally will lose her lisp, and her long hair, so she can emerge from puberty as the tool-bearing "little lesbian" we all know (and hope) she can be.

Joan will lose her dick of a husband in the war (THANK GAWD). And to get a little meta here, hopefully Christina Hendricks will lose her unfortunate penchant for giving dumb interviews that make her seem far more one-dimensional than the character she plays.

Betty will lose all the money that she inherited after her father's passing when her family's BP stock plummets during the oil leak in a special Doctor Who/Mad Men mashup episode.

Pete will lose his clothes, his apartment, his car, his toilet...basically, his dignity. Oh wait.

And Peggy is perfect and she doesn't need to change shit and don't you dare disagree with me here.

If I Knew How To Edit Film I Would Make A Montage of All The Computer Disk Scenes From 90's Movies, But I Don't.

If you choose to do it, please start with these incredibly hilarious shots from The Net:

Do You Know What A Brooklyn Hit Is?

I shall tell you.

In this life, you will meet people who do activities because they enjoy doing them, and people who do activities because the activities like them back. You might also meet people with horrific handicaps who are incapable of activity. If I hadn’t already adapted my drafting compass for use as a sophisticated heroin injector, I would Venn-D this shit because there’s some obvious overlap between the various camps—like if you’re born with the natural physique and testosterone stores that make one innately good at crushing nerds into garbage cans there’s a good chance you’ll probably learn to like crushing nerds into garbage cans.

The real important point of this exposition is that I’m part of the latter group— I power walk because my body does good at a bouncy 4 mph. I put the hamburger in my mouth because that cow specifically requested to be there. And now I bowl, because I recently scored a 111, which I’ve been told is great score for a lady without a mullet.

There are many terms batted about the universe of bowling—“Strike,” “Spare,” “Where’s the fucking money Lebowski?”—but today we’re going to concern ourselves with a shot called the Brooklyn.

A Brooklyn is a roll that hits at the opposite side of the pocket from where it was thrown. If you’re a rightie, that means the ball impacts at the 1 & 2 pins; for the left-handed among us it’s a shot to the 1 & 3. It’s a fairly ugly ball that rarely yields any marks (but when it does it’s called a Brooklyn Strike). Contrary to many Internet rumors out there theorizing that the Brooklyn hit is a geographical metaphor—the logic being the denizens of Manhattan are DOIN’ IT RONG when they “cross over” to Brooklyn, the true derivation is from another, smaller-balled sport: baseball. Specifically, a baseball team, The Brooklyn Dodgers. In 1956, after a stunning season in which the Dodgers finished in first place with 93 wins, they went on to face the New York Yankees in the World Series. There they were humiliated like shaved Chihuahuas before a pack of wolves. The Yankees won all seven Series matches, one of which was a perfect game thrown by Yankees’ pitcher Don Larsen. Thus the sloppy form of the Brooklyn Dodgers during their disasterous ’56 World Series showing became immortalized as a term for a typically ill-fated bowl to the opposite pin side. And this is what we talk about when we talk about Brooklyn Hits at dirty bowling alleys.

Here is an interview I did while RAGING on ENERGY JERKY!!!!!


And here is a fascinating article about how the Donner family WERE NOT actually cannibals.

The only relation between these two things is that everything you know is wrong.

Lines From Emails I'd Like To Find Another Use For

"Ditto what your Mom said about last night."

"If they're not here by tomorrow, I'm going to start killing one Girl Scout for each day they don't arrive."

"MY BWLCH IS BOOMSLANGING ALL OVER THE PLACE."

"You know what just totally crept up on me this year like snakes on a plane or my heroin addiction?"


"DO YOU OR DO YOU NOT MESS WITH THE ZOHAN?"

"Well here's the thing about the laid off menfolk. he's going to be all waaaaaaaah, you know my life is really difficult and i've got a lot of shit going on right now."

"OK after I see Dear John and the Ghost Writer I will work on that."

"Masturbate on everyone's chair! Weeeeee!...Do you think I'm retarded? I'm asking you honestly."

Thank You, Janeane Garafolo, In A Few Very Long Run-On Sentences

On the long list of small kindnesses that Janeane Garafolo has bestowed upon me over the years-- the majority of which are oft-repeated quotes from The Truth About Cats And Dogs that, in 1996, probably resonated a bit too much with my woeful B-grade girl soul, comes this most recent kindness, via the hazy, dense medium of anxiety dream. Janeane starred as an RA-figure of sorts (Side note: WOULD SHE NOT BE THE GREATEST RA? Tell me a bedtime story about date rape, Janeane!) in a rodent-infested dormitory for grown-ups. You know how dreams have a sort of inviolable logic of their own that you don't think to question when you're in them? Like, say, Stalin is disguised as your brother at the dinner table, but you can't signal this to your parents because he's implanted mini-Russian poltergeists in their souls or something? So whereas in real life if you were confronted with this situation you would just be like, "Mom! That's not Danny! THAT IS STALIN, THE DEAD DICTATOR OF RUSSIA!", you can't in your dream, because he'll know about it and then kill you with his alpha-red laser eyes. So in the internal logic of this specific Janeane dream, the mice infesting the dorm loved water. Thus I was afraid to even take a shower, but at the same time, I really needed to take a shower. Janeane took me aside and told me in her totally cool, even-keeled voice, "Look, girl, there are going to be mice in the shower, and they are going to freak you out, and you are going to get so freaked out you're going to fall down on the shower floor." As I was only beginning to process the terribleness of this prediction, Janeane bent down and started painting my knee caps with this sparkly-glue like paint that smelled like My Little Ponies. Then she moved on to my elbows, and as she was painting my elbows the paint she had put on my knees was starting to dry into a sort of rubber encasement. "This is paint-on protective gear," she told me, "I invented it after I couldn't get work as an actress. This will protect you from breaking your kneecaps when you fall in the shower." In the end, even though this was an anxiety dream and I had to get in the shower with rodents, I felt a lot better about things.

So thank you Garafolo.

BETCHY LINES YOU CAN SAY ABOUT NAPKINS AT BUSINESS DINNERS

Senior year of college our attendance was encouraged at a black tie-mandatory Etiquette Dinner held at Brown's Faculty Club. It was hosted by an ancient lady with a Winehouse-esque beehive that probably hadn't been taken down since 1982 and was clearly mummified with toilet paper each night. She spoke with a long-lost upper-deck-Titanic affectation and over the span of three courses, she taught us how to give a toast, how to excuse oneself from the table, and all the other behavioral niceties one should know for a business dinner. During the Q & A after dessert, one student asked what she should say if a business associate had food on their face.

"There are times when I find a napkin very useful."

Adorable Letters from People Born At The Turn Of The Century Who Still Don't Quite Know What The Internet Is.

There was such a thing as an era before irony, or at least widespread, cultural mainstay irony. Nothing exemplifies this better than my Grandma's consistently hilarious use of quotation marks in her Hallmark cards. The latest, for Valentine's Day (includes a $20 bill):

Dearest Lauren,
Have a "fun" day! I miss your calls. Hope all is going well for you in New York! Share your "treat" with Joe!!

Love,
GaGa


Dear Gaga,

Thank you so much for the "treat!" Joe and I shared it and while at first it was a little "uncomfortable" I definitely, DEFINITELY got used to it! We used the $20 to buy smokes and "cognac" for after!

Love you,
Lauren

I Ate Domino's So You Don't Have To

Here.