Tasty Fugitive Caught, Eaten

Rockford, IL-- A nationwide manhunt came to a tragic end this morning as notoriously delicious Orlando Lebkuchen popularly know as the "Gingerbread Man" was found dead, a result of what police surmise to be a gang-related execution. Lebkuchen, 25, was a native of Rockford and attended Rockford East High School for two years. Neighborhood residents say that as early as age 6 he was already a runner for the neighborhood's spice dealers. Neighbor Lucille Johnson remembers, "You always knew when he was around [because] he smelled real good! I tell them to get that baby off the street, but, you know, they liked him [because] he was so fast!" Lebkuchen's ability to evade police and rival dealers became legendary. His signature aroma and peppermint buttons led him to be dubbed, "The Gingerbread Man".

Following a conviction in 2002 for possession of 40 kg of nutmeg and weapons charges, Lebkuchen began his life on the lam, working for a time at the Keebler factory in Milwaukee and for a Pepperidge Farm distributorship in Alabama. Madison police would often receive missives from the fugitive sprinkled with cinnamon with the words, "You can't catch me! I'm the Gingerbread Man" scrawled in chocolate. Carjackings and armed Buddy Squirrel robberies led to arrest warrants throughout the South and Midwest, caused the FBI to become involved in 2005.

In May 2007, Lebkuchen's aunt had become diagnosed with a rare form of oral cancer. Police were kept on high alert for his possible reappearance.

Early this morning, a man walking his dog on East Washington Avenue happened upon what appeared to be a body partially dismembered and stuffed in a plastic bag. Authorities identified the body as that of Lebkuchen. The cause of death has yet to be determined. There is speculation that Lebkuchen was killed by rival gang members for still unsolved 2001 rolling-pin bludgeoning of Anton "Teddygraham" Ramirez.

Times Square 1970

JOAN OF ARC - OMD

Beauty Walks a Razor's Edge...

Okay, by now, we've all seen the Mickey Rourke mugshot. Yes, the star of 9 1/2 Weeks is old and crazy looking. But...
1. That's a mugshot, and you're not supposed to be cute. You just got ARRESTED and are IN JAIL! And most crimes do not mandate one get gussied up first.
2. That's hardly the most offensive photo of M. Rourke I have ever seen. His cheeky smile and Count von Count grooming is even the tiniest bit alluring.
3. Let us now judge what people do when they, ostensibly, are trying their best to look attractive. (see left.)

Now, one can say, "Mickey never really wanted to be an actor, much less a movie star that would be lauded more for his scorching sex appeal than his acting. He was a boxer and fighters ain't pretty!" No they ain't, but fighters don't get facelifts either! And what the hell happened to his eyebrows? And, fucking Lord, a bolo tie?

Add to that wife beating, tea cups chihuahuas, drug abuse and, friends, we have a stunning example of how beauty is only skin deep... and oh so fleeting. Mickey Rourke supports my thesis that plastic surgery is a losing battle against a grimy soul.

Litigationz of a Ridah

Happy Halloween

Admitted!

I have health insurance! Yee haw!

Art O' the Day: Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled, 1984

“I get my facts from books, stuff on atomisers, the blues, ethyl alcohol, geese in the Egyptian style ... I put what I like from them in my paintings.“-JMB

It's Got the Booty Flava!

Found Magazine made a stop in my town this weekend and provided me an evening of bliss. I love piecing together the mysteries of old photos and scribble notes. Without any context, they are often hilarious and a bit squirmy... just as the one pictured.

My Favorite Gibb

I'm all into Andy Gibb today. I don't know what made me think about him.

He was 70's Bop cute, made a couple albums, did a shitload of coke, dated Victoria Principal, was on Punky Brewster and then he died.

I would bet that if I had famous older siblings in my field that I always had to compete against for love, attention and respect, that seeing myself in a purple satin jumpsuit singing "I Just Wanna Be (Your Everything)" on Solid Gold would drive me to drugs. In fact, only cocaine could help me make sense of that. I wouldn't believe a word anyone said I were sober.

I'd make an Amy Winehouse comment here but she would paddle across the Atlantic with a needle in her arm to kick my ass for comparing her to Andy Gibb.

I So Heart Flight of the Conchords

My introduction to Flight of the Conchords was making a snack at a friend's house a few months ago and hearing "OhGawd! You gotta see this!!!!" I walked into "Inner City Pressure"and was mesmerized. I watched the first 5 episodes, but I've run out of excuses to go to my cable dealer's house so I guess I have to wait until DVD.

I don't care if I'm aboard a crowded hipster bandwagon. I felt tired and way too impatient for my weekend to start this morning, so I watched "Tell Me Why" and all grouchiness and malaise instantly left my body. I hum "Business Time" when I'm getting dressed for a date. I tell people to be "Ab-So-Lute-ly outrageous" à la Bowie from the Ashes to Ashes video.

I love me some Bret and Jermaine.

Critical Efforts

Whee! Susie Bright posted my Honest Random Porn Review of Xana and Dax: When Opposites Attract!

Ugh, I think I am allergic to make-up. I developed this nagging eye infection after I tried my best Anouk Aimee look this weekend. Oh well, I got a cute picture out of it. That might be worth it.

Amy Winehouse at the MOBO Awards

Oh, God! How I love Amy Winehouse. I love her music, her crazy, her drugs, her tats, her eyeliner, her everything. Where was "Tears Dry on Their Own" when I was walking down the street crying that I "got so attached"? I could have cheekily chanted "no! no! no!" when people told me to take myself a nice, long sober vacation.

And best of all, she isn't lecturing me on the evils of globalization or greenhouse gases. She sings to me and makes the best use a 24 year-old can of fame and fortune. She snorts and drinks herself senseless all day and all night. Why do I applaud self-destruction? Because while I may not know brilliance, I do know that.

All this said, this clip from the MoBo awards is too much for even me to bear. It's not so much the mumbly singing and the sad, step-step, but the blank expression that glazes over her face that is downright deadly. It's one thing to be aggressive, coked-up crazy, it's another to seem so vulnerably fucked up that you need help recognizing people and everyday object. Oh soft and cloudy smack, second only to marriage as the last recourse of the truly pitiable.

I Probably Have Better Things to Do...

To: Webeditor@nypost.com, letters@nypost.com
Re: Proofreading. A Lost Art?

Dear Editors,

I read some portion of the online edition of the NYPost nearly every day, and enjoy your breathless coverage of media, politics, crime and entertainment. Your coverage of the Fire Fiend manhunt was especially noteworthy. Usually I am charmed by your neologisms (I believe Page Six coined the term "canoodling")and your casual editorializing. But an error in yesterday's article by Raakhee Mirchandani, "Food Cutie Hides Booty, " crossed a journalistic line that pained me enough to tap out this missive.

It is located mid-way through the article in reference to Ray's fall wardrobe changes. "This season, in an effort to stay comfortable - one of Ray’s main tenants of fashion - it’s more flared jeans, jersey tops and ballet flats." I believe Mirchandani meant to use the word tenet i.e., "a central principle or belief" according to the Compact Oxford English Dictionary of Current English, 3rd Edition, rather than tenant, "a person who rents land or property from a landlord" (ibid.)

This may seem rather innocuous, but in a sea of gossip blogs and entertainment television, the New York Post should endeavor to remain "the tabloid of record." This is accomplished by rigorous reporting and research and proofreading for grammar, spelling, punctuation and usage. While your style may be that of chatty adolescent, your adherence to strict journalistic standards must be akin to that of Ben Bradlee. The Post has a long and distinguished history as the foremost source of sensational news and features, but lazy errors will quickly sweep you into the dustbin of history alongside the likes of AJ Benza and Perez Hilton.

The Super Noble Brothers Movie Trailer

This film has been in the making for ages, and finally the saga the Super Noble Brothers has unfolded in feature-length form. it will be premiering at the Milwaukee Film Festival 9/28/07, 6pm at the Milwaukee Art Museum and encoring at the Oriental Theatre , Sunday 9/30, at 2:15.

Oh, sweaty, spirited late nights powered by the smooth 60's sounds of the Nobles. Good times.

All We Have is Now

So one of my dreams came true last night, I got to go to a Flaming Lips show. Last outdoor big-time concert? Hmmm. Dare I say the Black Crowes and Jimmy Page? Last time I had my mind completely blown by pure unadulterated groovy tunes and mass spectacle...at a show, never.
I've wanted to see them since Yoshimi... came out. Bubbles, bunny costumes and videos, oh my. I love me a happening and Wayne Coyne and Co. promised one. Would I ever be able to bear witness to this. Well, finally, it happened. And it was free!!

We got there pretty early and saw Cowboy Mouth, rockabilly fun, set the tone. I'm still getting used to seeing music without booze and drugs, so I always feel awkward at the beginning. My boyfriend's a bit reserved too, so I'm kind of on my own to get acclimated to rock out. But Cowboy Mouth's spastic frontman/drummer mandated screaming, jumping around, and general mayhem. Their songs were pretty great too.

After Cowboy Mouth, we decided to check out the refreshing Southern Comfort beverages that were being promoted. I have a bit of nostalgia about my SoCo and thought a sip of my tasty teenage beverage of choice would put me in the mood. Sadly, the promotion was for SC and Lime-ade, which was pretty fucking gross. So much for that.

Cold War Kids were up next, and that's when we took our positions for the night in front of the speakers. I hadn't heard them before, but the Mr. was a fan, so I felt reasonably assured of aural pleasure. Well, I love keyboards, plaintive yowls, smart lyrics and got it all. The bass was heavy and the guitars charging and lyrics sad and beautiful. At the end of the set, I was ready for the main event. "Bring it on, Flaming Lips. I am hot and ready."

We saw a little of the wizard behind the curtain as they were setting up the a/v stuff and bringing out the props. Then, then cannons exploded...

Oh, My Nose!

So I was looking for pictures of Angel Heart Mickey Rourke just now (after I was looking for pictures of Lisa Bonet, after I saw a gorgeous photo/postcard of her in the bookstore yesterday that I didn't buy).

So of course I stumbled upon some "plastic surgery disasters" websites. I earlier mentioned my distaste for people's Sisyphean quest to achieve some vague concept of physical perfection, with most of said distaste saved for doctors that are so very eager to "give someone their confidence" back through a labioplasty. But, man oh man, do I looking at how $$$ + vanity= gross disfigurement. I'm sad a little bit, I mean, how is it different whether some people carve up their bodies on the outside with silicone or on the inside with blow and booze? But still... science proves that you feel better with untrammeled endorphin production. Thinking that you've beat the ravages of time with Gore-tex lips is just plain wishful thinking and expensive and painful to boot!

So I found a site called bodyphilosophy that had all the usual suspects: Mickey, Melanie, Lara, Joan. But actually, it's a blog completely DEVOTED to the "enhancement" of one's appearance be it through surgery, pills, kooky exercises, what have you. I must say I learned some things...

Mentoplasty: chin augmentation
Brachioplasty: upper arm surgery...makes you less wiggly
blepharoplasty: eyelid lift...makes you look less chinky
ubilicoplasty: no more outie!

But right about the 5th page, they had a video on a pertinent topic Body Dysmorphic Syndrome

Now, I'm not saying that you have to have BDS just because you'd like to have a bit less tummy. But still, I found it weird.

Respiratory Tourette's Syndrome

I think I have hay fever again.

Maybe it's aggravated by the fact that I have received no fewer than 40 mosquito bites since monsoon season started last month. I am a fucking histamine bomb. Not sexy.

When did this all start (again)? Well, in my (very young) youth, I was the stereotypical sniffly, rheumy-eyed kid beset by strange rashes and a chronic sinus infection. "Back to School" time sucked, because

1. I went to Catholic school, which meant we started while still in the throes of August sultriness. Uniform NOT optional.
2. My hay fever would kick in, ensuring that my little Kleenex fort would make positive social interaction with my peers even harder.

This was the case through high school. I made accommodations, but would still doze off my Benedryl cocktail during math class and sport a red , raw nose to parties.

Then I moved off to college. Almost like magic, the scales fell from my eczema-crusted legs and first day of class was not marked by wheeziness. It was amazing! However, I also developed panic attacks that had me whimpering at a Subway Sandwich Shoppe that I was diabetic and just needed some OJ. And I started drinking and smoking pot daily. But whatever...no sniffles, no problem.

Forthe next 8 years, I had convinced myself that my mother had "given" me my allergies. Not in a creepy Munchausen way, but, tiring of all my doctors' hand wringing and placebo treatments she just convinced herself that I was allergic to ragweed, chocolate, peanuts, and aspirin. And that conviction convinced me.

Summer evenings were bug bite free, and autumn nights were not marred by a purse full of Kleenex. Until a couple years ago. What a bitch, I finally detox myself of what would eventually kill me... my autoimmune system goes crazy and makes living uncomfortable. Okay, there's no reason for being melodramatic, it's just a little uncomfortable, but still!

Anywho, I'm stocking up on Claritin for my weekend. Unlike high school, my allergies are NOT stopping me from getting laid if I have anything to with it.

Play Clean!

I'm going to Lake Superior this weekend for a few days of fun and frolic with my lovely boyfriend . I asked my mother to send a set of queen-size sheets for my host's guest bed. I only have twin and full.

The sweet woman that she is, the sheets were in the mail the next day with a set of pj pants, a tube of Carmex, and the pictured "feminine" wipes and note.

I love my Mommy so. Even though I take great amusement in her concern for her 30-something daughter's "feminine" hygiene.

Jenny Good-Vibes

I LOVE going to the sex shoppe. It makes me feel all empowered , self-determined, in charge of my sexual destiny, et cetera. I feel like I should be grinning gaily on the cover of Our Bodies, Ourselves. I was having a shitty day yesterday, so I decided to pop by. Instant mood-enhancement...

My first experience with the sex toy phenomenon was when I was in high school. I saw an Adam and Eve ad in the back of a Details magazine and curiously sent away for my free catalog. WOW! Although I had read about dildos and cockrings I had never actually SEEN them. Inflatable dolls, endless Jeff Styker and Nina Hartley videos, vibrators, and what I'll always remember was Barbara something-or-other's Eager Beaver. "Completely life-like" and molded from the porn actress's ACTUAL PUSSY. I wondered how they did that.

I first visited a sex store in college. And much like my first time having sex it was a warm, fuzzy, great experience. I walked out with a vibrator and couple boxes of condoms and a blazing sense of confidence. "I am woman, hear me fuck. "

When I moved back home...to a CITY of nearly a million people... the only sex stores were those creepy ones that had peep show booths in the back. One was downtown, the rest were off the interstate. Ugh. The shitty lingerie, the horrible bumper stickers, the giant, porno-ized dildoes. I visited 3 and at all had an impossible time finding anything. Maybe because I felt like I was going to get genital warts from handling the merchandise. All the vibes I got broke within a year. And, NO, I DON'T think it was me! I missed my my happy women's store with the incense and real leather and Candida Royalle, encouraging all to get in touch with his/her inner goddess.

So when I moved again, I went straight to the women-owned sex store. I couldn't have been happier: plush carpeting, apple-cheeked women behind the counter, a vast assortment of vibrators with cute names. "Try me!" they invited. I felt like I was most in danger of contracting a hug. I was poor, though, and just bought some lube and stockings. I tried to get my then-boyfriend to come with. Our sex life was a cold drizzle, but I did not yet hate his fat, fucking face. No dice... "too contrived". Fucking idiot.

So I happily shopped away my worries away yesterday. Now I have some fresh, new friends to defile and that happy, sex shoppe feelin'. I am woman, hear me fuck.

Good Vibrations
A Woman's Touch
The Tool Shed
Early to Bed
Toys in Babeland

Decadent Youth

This is me over a decade ago. I love this picture. It perfectly conveys the boozy hauteur I both admired and indeed possessed.

You Can't Run, You Can't Hide

I've been living TV free for nearly 9 months now.

For the most part it's been awesome...considering that TV and pot are how I coped with chastity and rage for 4 years. I feel my attention span growing back. I have become more sensitive to violence. My tolerance for poor grammar has reached new lows. My libido has reached new highs. (The last one may also be the effect of less pot and rage)

But I miss Dr. 90210. This is a show that truly has something to offend everybody and I fucking love it! Each week was a peek into a soul more narcissistic and solipsistic than the week before, the doctors, the patients, the patients' families. Good God!

I like to think I have a "live and let live" approach to most personal matters. Particularly when it comes to plastic surgery. But whatever principles I do still retain are affronted by a mother's weeping with joy for their 16-year-old daughter's new boobs. Or by a Doctor, upon examining his vaginoplasty work, declaring, "Look at that cute little labia!" Or by the recipient of ass implants remarking upon now she has the "confidence" with which to shop "like a regular woman."

As a woman who regularly takes pride in her adorable, symmetrical tits and ass-filling jeans in the designer discount store at least twice a week, this may seem hypocritical. Aside from some acne and dandruff, I don't veer too wildly from a standard 20th Century definition of beauty. Is that what gives me my confidence to not subject myself to infection and anaesthesia? Say the lithium weight never came off, and I was still kicking it size -14 style, would I be cursing every roll or just feel curvy and sexy? I can't answer that.

What I can say is that since I can remember, I have been relegated to the fringe of every group I have been thrust into. Not rich enough, not ghetto enough, too foreign, too American, too intelligent, not smart enough, too lazy, too ambitious, too "out-there", too much a philistine. My tits didn't make me less of an outsider within my own family. My cute, li'l tummy didn't mean I had any real friends in college. My hot ass was no use when I got fired. My straight teeth didn't keep a boyfriend from trying to shove them down my throat.

Pretty much what I want to tell these girls and guys on Doctor 90210 is to turn off the TV, put down the Cosmo or Maxim quiz, tell the mall to "fuck-off" and go to the local thrift shop. (note I did not say library or museum. Yes go shopping) Find an album that looks cool, get some juice glasses that tickle your fancy, try on a 1000 pants, find something crazy that makes you look fantastic. To you.

Other people are a real "you win one, you lose one" situation. So you might as well be happy being yourself. Lest you find your vagina being appraised on basic cable by an assclown with a spray tan and a Messiah complex.