Bohemian Rhapsody

Let it be known that I generally am highly allergic to most things 70's. I may not like it, but I can appreciate the kitsch factor of most crap from the era: the not-seen-in-nature yellow and orange Brady wallpaper, the worst-designed cars in auto history (the Gremlin?! the Pacer?! Didn't anybody just say no to drugs in this decade?) And let it be known that even I can get down with my bad self to the likes of funk and disco, if the spirit moves me or most often is the case, am particularly hammered on my roofie daiquiris and accidentally played "Love Rollercoaster" on the bar's jukebox instead of "Sweet Child O' Mine". (But if we're talking about, say, the Sugarhill Gang or Grandmaster Flash, then I will rock your face off in a robot throwdown. Don't. Push. Me. 'Cuz. I'm. Close. To. The. Edge.)

While I may be prone to fits of violent seizures when dealing with 70's, sometimes something spectacular comes along and you know it's special, no matter how fug it is. Something you ordinarily would love to see your worst enemy wearing, so you can tell them how smashing they look in it, but then rip 'em a new one after they walk away for making poor fashion choices. It's like I always never say: "Passive aggression is a dish best served at room temperature."

Enter Don Luis de Espana. A cheeky designer who made some of the best and so totally 70's prints of the era (along the lines of Paganne), and judging by some of these prints, apparently he too was on crack with the rest of the world. The usual voice in my head said "DUDE. Don't you DARE take this home with you" but once I saw the label, and the over-the-top print, and the crazy neckline, I knew this wasn't just another retarded maxi dress. Turns out one of the voices in my head was right for once. AND nobody died this time, so that's always a plus.

Don Luis' designs were not for average suburban middle class housewives. They couldn't afford it, not even if they pooled their weekly Parliament Lights and bingo money. Women like Mrs. Roper had to settle for the knockoff, Kmart version. Don Luis was higher end, upscale...Don Luis de Espana was money.

Picture this: Miami. 1974. Uber-swanky pool party thrown by the hostess in this dress, probably named Dixie. Dripping with gold, over-tanned, Samsonite leather suitcase skin, overprocessed bleached hair, frosted lipstick, copping a feel of the greased-up, Brazilian poolboy named Carlos, when her husband wasn't looking. The party go-ers are sleazy Hollywood film types and coked-up actresses tottering around on mile-high suede platforms, spilling their champagne as they walk. Bossa nova in the background, the smell of chardonnay, pot and Chanel Nº19 was in the air. 1970's money.

My love/hate mental issues force me to be repulsed by this dress, yet I really want to be Dixie. You can be a Dixie too, and live out your 70's rich pool party fantasies. You will dig this vintage 70's Don Luis de Espana maxi dress, with the cool, criss-cross cutout neck detail and wild "peacock feather" flower and dragon tail print. It's so wrong, yet somehow it works.

Peelin’ Taters

Happy Thanksgiving! Hope you're all off to Grandmother's house (or the in-laws, or to the prison cafeteria visiting Dad, or to Denny's) to enjoy a scrumptious turkey. Or a turducken. Or a cod. Whatever. Apparently I'm touched with a smidge of masochism, for I shall be orchestrating dinner at my house, which sucks in that I'm doing all the cookin' for my peeps and can't just walk out the door, monster pile-o-dishes in the sink, and say "thanks for dinner, toodle-oo!" like I normally would at my in-laws. This might be a bad idea, which I somehow seem to have plenty of in stock. Side note to self: start a death metal band. Name it "Smidge of Masochism".

Any friends, vagrants or hobos: feel free to stop by, though I should warn you, I'll probably pretend I'm not home. Notes of interest: There shall be no hippie Tofurkey allowed on the premises at any given time, under penalty of the law. Trespassers will be bitch-slapped and given a home perm. Sorry, I don't make the rules, I just...make the rules. Feel free to lodge a complaint and you will receive a response from management in between a week to never.



What's on the menu, you don't care to ask? Pretty standard Thanksgiving Day stuff, really:
Turkey, mashed potaters, gravy, stuffing, corn, fresh baby carrots, fresh green beans, homemade bread (what in sam's hell was I thinking?), a can of wiggling berry gelatinous matter (also known as cranberry sauce)- but not homemade though, because A. it's gross and B. I'm not Martha freaking Stewart, you know.



So thank someone today, to show your gratitude and crap. Like your
mother for having you. Let her know that she didn't walk uphill to the hospital in a blizzard, barefoot, in curlers, towing the '71 Plymouth Satellite station wagon with a rope between her teeth and hammered on Boone's Farm for nothing.





*"Peelin' Taters" by Junior Brown.

Too Much Pork for Just One Fork

What in the name of Kentucky Fried Chicken is THAT?



This pterodactyl has been sitting high up in a tree in my backyard for hours this morning, just sitting and staring...plotting. Have I mentioned lately that birds scare the holy bejesus outta me and I think they're all a bunch of flying jerks? Because they do and they are. Even at a distance you can tell he's gonna be a big mofo.





Just look at the size of this freak! I'm telling you, he winked at me, like he knows something. I hope vulture isn't on the endangered species list, because this sucker should do nicely in the backyard deep fryer. Budweiser-batterd fried vulture and banana puddin' with extra skin, now that's a feast the pilgrims can be proud of.

99 Problems

Today starts the countdown to the big day, the day of the stuffed bird and unbuttoned pants. Also known as Thanksgiving Day to my North American homies. But don't be hatin', England. Hate the game, not the playa (ha! I haven't dropped that gem in a long time.) Even though Thanksgiving Day is a big ol' historical "FU" to England, you know we still love you UK, what with your charming accents and bad food. (But what the hell is up with lamb & mint flavored chips? Sorry, lamb and mint flavoured crisps? That's just plain wrong, right there.)

So today, instead of being the usual crabby, grumpy, sarcastic, pain in the ass as I usually am in blog-form, I'm going to be a crabby, grumpy, sarcastic, pain in the ass, but thankful. I could be one of those people who go on about how thankful they are for their kids and family and good health and they believe the children are our future, but you and I know that the other 364 days of the year those same people complain endlessly about their damn weenie kids, their lazy slob of a husband who hasn't worked a job in 4 years and won't shut their faces about their Irritable Bowel Syndrome. So I won't do that. Nay, instead I'll make a list of random things I'm grateful for.

1.) I am thankful that I've never had leprosy. I pretty much like most of my body parts and don't want to see them fall off. Although I wouldn't mind if some of the junk in my trunk region fell off. Or better yet, just shape-shifted to a different part, say, the rack region. I could be just like the liquid metal guy from Terminator 2! Only slightly less robotic in nature.

2). I am thankful for Time Life Classics' late night infomercials. You know, the ones that run for half an hour and are hosted by washed-up musicians and their co-host of some random nobody who is half their age. Really rockin' hosts like Peter Noone. Those are great to watch when you can't sleep, if nothing else than for the pure cheese factor. Man, they're lame. But man, I love 'em. Last night's was not particularly entertaining, sadly. It was the commercial for "Classic Soft Rock"- who can forget the enchanting harmonies of Seals and Crofts' "Summer Breeze" or the dazzling memories of getting a root canal in the mid 80's to Kenny Loggins' "This Is It"?

3. I am thankful that it now only costs about $25 to fill up my car, as opposed to the 50-odd bucks it did a month ago. Now I have more money to get those custom seal skin seat covers and bald eagle windshield wiper cozies for the '09 Cadillac Escalade I'm saving up for. And if prices continue to fall, I'll have the dough for 24k gold rims with baby elephant tusk clackers on them. And for that, I am truly grateful.