Come Fly With Me

I'm sure by now even the most remote corners of the world has heard about the Flight 1549 plane crash into the Hudson river. New York sure doesn't have much luck in the "planes not crashing in their general vicinity", do they? I'd take it as a sign that the end is nigh and that someone, somewhere, was trying to tell me something. Maybe not jebus, maybe it's aliens, we don't know. Repent, earthlings of New Amsterdam, repent and you shall not be smited! And while the experience may have been terrifying and I'm glad that no one was killed and the pilot is a super genius and I'm Ok, You're Ok and Kumbaya my lord and all that touchy-feely warm feelings crap, I can turn this tragedy in a much more cynical direction. Shocking, yes it is.

You just know that at some point in the not too distant future, some butthead is going to insist on launching a dramatic investigation and try to sue the airline for a bajillion bucks for their "emotional trama". And you just know some assmonkey will get a book deal out of it, about their harrowing tale of terror in the unfriendly skies. And, if we're really lucky, you just know some numbnuts will eventually turn the story into a Lifetime Movie Event tearjerker, with Luke Perry playing the hunky-but-capable pilot, with some retarded title like "Not Without My Floatation Device: Coffee, Tea Or Lifeboat?"

Furthermore, let me just state that the cause of the crash was birds flying into the engines. Freaking BIRDS. I always knew a flock of seagulls could not be trusted and would be the end of us.



What kind of Flintstone-sized birds could take down a jet?! Did the plane get caught in some kind of time-space continuum screwup and end up flying over prehistoric New York? It's just like in the 1961 Twilight Zone episode! (You probably don't care to know it's titled The Odyssey of Flight 33. I'm a self-professed Twilight Zone nerd. Shut up. Don't judge me.)

Gin and Juice

How To Throw Up Your Gang Sign In The Suburbs:



East Side Housewives represent, beotch.




You know, it's not easy being a thug in the suburban 'hood these days, what with all the bundt cakes that need to be baked for the PTA fundraisers, the numerous phone calls that need to be made to the tennis court caretaker and to the mechanic who's currently pimping my minivan with tinted windows and gold rims. And someone has to instruct José how to properly groom the rose garden so that they can beat that bitch Mrs. Henderson's petunias at this year's Flower Fest. Do you know what it's like working 47 minutes a day, only to have to drive down the street to pick up your 2.3 children from soccer practice and come home to prepare a delicious and well-balanced meal of meatloaf and Jello surprise? It's exhausting. It is a hard knock life, yo.

And then there's our competition. Don't even get me started on our rivals, The West Side Homeschoolers. Those triflin' ho's are always steppin' to us, dog. Do you know how many times the East Side Housewives had to throw down with those fools through carefully-orchestrated dance battles to Henry Mancini jazz instrumentals and perfectly-timed finger snaps? Too many to count, y'all. And if those biznitches even think they're getting our blue ribbon Betty Crocker Pineapple Upside Down Cake recipe, oh it's on.

Yes, We Have No Bananas

Yesterday I was on Twitter, randomly twittering about nothing interesting and boring the other twitter-ers, when a Twitter-er who lives in the western part of the US was talking about just picking a lemon off her tree. (Also, how many times can I say "twitter" today? Seriously, enough already.) That got me to thinking that A.) I wish I could pick a lemon off a tree here in the northeast, instead of looking at dead, freezy tree branches and B.) How nice and toasty it must be in the west and C.) I wouldn't want to live in the west anyway, what with California always spontaneously combusting and near-falling-into-the-sea and Jellystone Park also close to suicide and swallowing up that part of the US (and yes, I know it's not Jellystone, I just wanted to see if anyone was really reading this and would catch the retro cartoon reference and also, I just found out that there are real Jellystone Parks all over and I am an ass, because there are buttloads all over the east, and one right here in PA- how did I not know this? Oh that's right, I hate nature) and D.) Speaking of retro things and lemons, it also got me to thinking that kids don't set up lemonade stands anymore, all old-timey and whatnot. What gives?

Is it because we don't trust our neighbors, afraid they might spike the lemonade? Because I'd be afraid of that. The again, I also live in a craptastic area. In fact, I can see Interstate 80 from my backyard, that's how classy of an area I live in. (Don't be hatin', I know you're jealous.) If anyone is ever travelling across the US on I-80 west, let me know when you're heading this way and I'll send up a flare when you're close and you can roll out of the car, down the hill, across the wooded lot, across the empty lot and into my backyard. It can't fail! Hold the phone. Isn't there an 80's John Mellencamp song about an interstate running through someone's yard? It's just like that here, except replace the good people/mid western livin'/mullets and tractors/soda pop and hot dogs/Field Of Dreams/good times with robberies/cheap housing/hood rats and tricked-out day-glo Hondas. Hondas for crying out loud! So you see the similarities.

The point I took a long stinking time in a very stupid way to make is that A.) lemons are on my mind and B.) You can never go home again and C.) I have a hard time making a clear, concise thought in a short period of time and space. GOSH.

In honor of lemons today, I suggest you not only rock out 90's-style and listen to the Lemonheads (keep the angst, lose the flannel) or invest in some Lemonheads candy,



but also invest in some good, lemony vintage! Coming soon (this week!) to Fast Eddie's Retro Rags is this vintage 50's lemon novelty print dress, with rhinestone neckline! Even the biggest sourpuss will think it's sweet! (Good lord, that was cheesy as hell. Never again.)



You can't mess with these lemons, baby. (I don't know what means, it's just that kind of day.

Are You Hep To The Jive?

True, the holidays are officially so last week and over and all, but if you're a cheap penny-pinching Scrooge (read: cleverly frugal domestic goddess) such as myself, then you're aware of all the after-Xmas crap you can buy at dirt cheap prices. A box of cards that you swear you'll get around to sending out next year but probably won't because the idea of sitting down and actually hand-writing a cheerful and faux-loving note to your horrible craphead family makes your ass twitch for $2.00? Of course! A 24-pack of Xmas tree print toilet paper for $5.88? Do I even need to think about that? Bring on the bulk TP! I don't give a rat's ass if it IS July and I'm still using it, it's cheap dammit and so am I! Wait. Not like...well, who I am kidding. Nevermind.

So today I went in to one of my favorite antique malls--you know the kind. When you walk in, you get nasally-assaulted with eau de hot dogs and old people. Those kind of white trashy places are wonderful for finding awesome stuff for el cheapo prices. Not so many vintage clothing finds, but I cashed in on the vintage Xmas decor. One of my weirdly obsessive weird obsessions is vintage Xmas stuff from the 50's to 70's. The tackier, glitter-ier and plastic-ier, the better. So I was hollerin' hot damn and hallelujah when I peeped this:



Is it not ridiculous and god awful? It's tacky and gaudy and cheap-looking. Like me. Hey-yoooo! (Thank you, thank you, me and my old, unfunny jokes will be here all night.) You can't really tell, but it's huge and the bells have red light bulbs in them so when you plug it in, it has the warm glow of a skanky 1970's brothel in here. They were asking $5 for it, but instead of a fin I got to drop $3 on it instead. $3. I think the seller was just so happy to get this festive abomination out of her booth that she probably would have paid me to get rid of. But let's inspect the classiness even further:



That's right. The pseudo snow on the bells is actually smashed-up pieces of styrofoam, barely hanging on to the bells. Is there a way I can keep this up all year 'round? Maybe I can make it seasonal by swapping out that fugly/great poinsettia to go with every holiday. Ohhh, the ideas....And the Low Class Crafty Angels sing.

Ice Ice Baby

All right stop. Collaborate and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention

(Ha! You love it when I drop crazy lame, retro faux rap lyrics on yo' asses. Wait. You do love when I do that, right? No? Ok, I'll stop. But first: Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it. Ok, I'm done.)

We're due to have snow and ice and weather drop on us here in the northeast and sadly, I am one of those losers that needs to run to the store and it'll be a madhouse in there and I'll get stabby at the slow-ass 80 year olds buying their TV guides and frozen peas and it will not be pretty. But really, I have no bread or milk and apparently that's what you're supposed to rush out to get, when the end of the world is near. Like anyone even consumes mass quantities of beads and milk when you're stuck in the house for a while. Isn't it more like Cheetos and Ben & Jerry's? Oy. Sometimes I can't stand people faced with winter situations. People like me, flipping the bird to oncoming traffic. Who cares about food when there's a liquor store much closer to the house?

Is it spring yet?...How about now? Because I am not in a winter mood anymore, in fact, I'm already hankering for spring and more importantly, Valentine's Day, dreaming of all the chocolates and roses and champagne and blood diamonds I probably won't get. But if you're the schmancy type, the kind that actually gets to go out like normal humans do and get all done up real purdy-like, you'll need a suitable schmancy dress. (Ps: Is "schmancy" even a word?) Perhaps this dress will suffice. You'll dig this aMAZing vintage 50's party dress, with lace overlay in a flame pattern around the nearly-full-circle skirt, from Minx Modes. (How great is that label name? I can say it all day. Minx Modes. Minx Modes.)

Newly listed at Fast Eddie's Retro Rags! Click the picture to take you to the listing, homeslices.



(Yo VIP let's kick it. Ok seriously, I'll stop now.)

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

You know how when you're Googling and you end up getting so sidetracked that it's an hour later before you remember that you were indeed actually using Google to look for something specific and not, say, free porn? I kinda figured you did. Well I was googling vintage 40's and 50's Lucky Strikes stuff, being as though I picked up a way cool 40's (WWII?) green metal LS cigarette tin for holding smokes and I want-no-NEED to find info on it, because it's so cool. Probably not rare I'm sure because I never have that kind of luck, but what the hell do I care, I'm so keeping it. Screw you, rare vintage smoking paraphernalia! Who needs ya anyways?

Wait, what? Right. So on Google I came across some truly righteous vintage smoking ads, but this one in particular was so grotesquely 70's that I forgot about my Lucky Strikes searchin' and had to show you. (I'm sure you vintage ads freaks have already seen it, as this image is out there a few times in the internets land, so bear with me if this is old hat to you)...Behold the worst and most confusing ad of all time:



Umm, huh? I mean really, WHAT? There's so much epic fail going on, I don't know where to start, besides the fact that she has an awesome 70's hair/makeup combo and a future-leather, baby oil tan that has probably been turned into someone's cowboy's boots in recent years. However. "Blow in her face and she'll follow you anywhere." I can't....I just...can't. Blow what in her face, exactly? Yeah, yeah, I get the porn-a-rific implications of what should be on her face, but since when does a girl like that in her face, let alone smoke?! I was not aware that all a guy had to do was blow smoke all up in my grill and I'm supposed to obey him like I'm some kind of fricking "I Dream of Jeannie" fembot. Apparently my Stepford Wife switch has not been activated. But if it's not sexual, then what else can be blown in her face? Blow the leaves in her face? Blow a tire? I need to know, Tipalet Cigars. I NEED TO KNOW.

Everybody Have Fun Tonight

Everybody wang chung tonight! I mean it, I want to see everybody wave your wang chung hands in the air and wave 'em around like you just don't care. I swear to god, if there's no wang chunging tonight I will personally come to your house and force you to wang.

Because it's: A.) friday night and B.) a day after New Year's and therefore C.) the utmost of slacking and lazing is probably going on with most people, I'm going to do the super cheesy blog thang and share with you fine party people a website I recently discovered called Toothpaste For Dinner. I'm sure most of the universe has already seen this site and moved on, but since I seem to be on a permanent 4 month delay of discovering crap on the internets, just act like it's new to you. Do it for me. And if not for me, for the love of all things New Wave, do it for Wang Chung. (And PS: Did you know that Wang Chung is classified as a British new wave band? Seriously! I didn't even know they were British and also, "Everybody Have Fun Tonight" couldn't be less new wave-y if Marie Osmond was the lead singer.)

Anyway, Toothpaste For Dinner is a fun/funny site of comics. I know, you're all "Comics? Wow. How very 1986. You sure have your finger on the pulse of all which is hip and happenin' Kim. Just...Wow." But sometimes some of the comics are snarky and sarcastic and dry and just made of awesome, sort of like The Far Side but not quite as amusing. Read for yourself, and if you don't think these samples of TFD comics are the best in scribbled comics, I will double your money back and proceed to give you a good what-for.



(I could stab someone in the retina with a spork, when I hear them say "expresso".)