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Moved again

a typo was brought to my attention…  www. junkywhore.blogspot.com

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My Blog has Moved

Though I have enjoyed my 2 month stint on wordpress, i find it hard to use, and many people have said it was hard to figure out how to follow me on here.  So I set up a brand new blog with the same wry out looks on life, and an easier format for a dumbass like me to use.   http://www.junkwhore.blogspot.com  Its Called Communism is Just a Red Herring.

How to Strip for Your Husband

"How to Strip for Your Husband"

How to Strip for Your Husband

I have a problem.  My problem is I love records (as in LP’s) and I can’t stop buying them.  Of course if you are patient and willing to search you can find some real treasures in 99 cent bins at most of the record stores in NYC.  My boyfriend and I have probably accumulated about 2000 Lp’s over the last few years which is causing quite a storage problem at our place.  But who cares when you find treasures like How to Strip for Your Husband.  It even comes with step by step illustrated instructions (which I have been practicing.)  It’s also where I got the entrance music for my monthly show TOO UGLY FOR TV (see the track For Strippers Only).  Anyways its fun music, dare I say classic, enjoy.  I ripped the LP to my computer and uploaded it for your listening pleasure.  Click the link, download, unzip, and enjoy.

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=XS4ICUNF

Dusty Springfield

Mary Isabel Catherine Bernadette O’Brien or Dusty Springfield a saucy British girl turned 60’s chanteuse who was white as a Mormon but sounded far blacker than Diana Ross could ever dream. She had genuine soul, a yearning, and an ache you seldom heard from a Caucasian. She is my newest obsession, i can’t get enough of her silky smooth voice that could both sooth and raise vocal hell.  She was the original Bacharach girl singing many of his most famous songs.  Her early work defined the 60’s and her music evolved from lush full orchestrated doo-wop tunes to mowtown, and the blues.  The quintessential Dusty album is of course Dusty in Memphis where she recorded her most famous song Son of a Preacher Man.  If you know her you should know her better and  if you don’t know her there is no time like the present.

I woke up with a fever and a sore throat on Friday no fun at all.  So Dan and I hunkered down in the ole homestead and had a Movie Weekend.  First up was the camp classic Eating Raoul (1982) the fabulous tale of Paul and Mary Bland are a wine dealer and a nurse, respectively, who bemoan their low status in life and dream of opening a restaurant.

After Mr. Bland is fired from his job at a wine shop, the couple are left relatively penniless and the chances that they will ever realize their dream quickly diminish. Their plight is exacerbated by the fact that they live in an apartment building that is a regular site of swinger parties.

After a drunk swinger wanders into their apartment and tries to rape Mrs. Bland, Mr. Bland kills him by hitting him with a heavy frying pan. They take his money and put him in the trash compactor. Later, they kill another swinger in a similar fashion, and realize that they could make money by killing “rich perverts”, and proceed to do so, getting advice on infiltrating the swinging lifestyle from one of the building’s orgy regulars, Doris the Dominatrix.

After finding a flyer on their car touting cheap lock installation, they decide, for the safety of Mr. Bland’s wine collection, to have the locks on their apartment door changed.

The locksmith’s name is Raoul, a Latino man who moonlights as a cat burglar, robbing the homes and apartments of his clients. He breaks into the Blands’ apartment the night after installing their locks, only to stumble across the corpse of the Blands’ latest victim, a Nazi fetishist.

Paul catches Raoul and the two strike a deal: Not only will Raoul keep the Blands’ secret, he tells them that he knows a place where he can “exchange” the corpses for cash. The Blands accept, and Raoul goes to work for them (he sells the corpses to a dog food company), also secretly stealing the victims’ cars and selling them.

One night shortly after, Mr. Bland leaves to buy groceries (and a new frying pan, since Mary is “a bit squeamish about cooking with the one we use to kill people”) and Mrs. Bland is left alone in the house. Their next customer, dressed as a hippie (Ed Begley, Jr.), arrives while Paul is gone. When Mrs. Bland attempts to explain that he missed his appointment, he tries to rape her. Raoul wanders in, sees the customer attacking Mrs. Bland and strangles him to death with his belt. Raoul then offers Mary marijuana and they have sex.

They sleep together once more with Raoul attempting to convince Mary to run away with him. After Raoul tries to run Paul over with a car, Paul hires Doris the Dominatrix to pose as a variety of people (including an immigration agent and a public health worker) to try to get rid of Raoul by making him believe he is being deported, and by giving him saltpeter pills (which can prohibit males from obtaining an erection). None of these plans work, however, and a drunken Raoul breaks into the Blands’ apartment and threatens to kill Mr. Bland. He informs Paul that he and Mary will be getting married, and then takes Paul into the kitchen so that he and Mary can both kill him together; instead, Mary kills Raoul with the frying pan.

Mary and Paul then remember they’re expecting their real estate agent (who’s helping them buy their dream restaurant) for dinner. With no food in the house, and little time before his arrival, Paul and Mary cook Raoul and serve him for dinner. The last shot of the film is a smiling Paul and Mary in front of their brand new restaurant, with the caption, “Bon Appétit.

With cameos from Edie McLur, Buck Henry, and Ed Bagley Junior this is a must see!  On a scale of Pride and Clark to Grey Goose I give this a solid Grey Goose!

 

We followed this with an unconventional choice a 90’s thriller starring Gene Hackman and Anne Archer (back when she was a viable star.  A Los Angeles District Attorney (Gene Hackman) is attempting to take an unwilling murder witness (Anne Archer) back to the United States from Canada to testify against a top-level mob boss. Frantically attempting to escape two deadly hit men sent to silence her, they board a Vancouver-bound train only to find the killers are on board with them. For the next 20 hours, as the train hurls through the beautiful but isolated Canadian wilderness, a deadly game of cat and mouse ensues in which their ability to tell friend from foe is a matter of life and death.

This is based on a 1952 movie of the same name and though I haven’t seen the original I fully enjoyed this as a conventional 90’s thriller.  On a Scale of Pride and Clark to Grey Goose I give this a Svedka.  I wouldn’t run out to find it but if you ever catch it on AMC check it out.

Anal sex and a side of bacon

Being a gay man means your opinion is a very sought after thing.  This is especially true of straight girls.  They crave our views on fashion and the arts, our taste in cooking, which brand of vacuum we prefer, or what the up and coming pocket dog is going to be.  They call us to make sure the poncho is still in, and express their desire for us to see them in said poncho before they buy it lest they look fat.  Without the gays pop music would be nothing and Lady GagGa would still be shucking her jive at the Bitter End.  Don’t get us wrong,  the gays love to convey their opinions to the world loud and proud whether asked for or not.  So it’s no surprise that straight girls go to gay men when they have questions about sex…well not just any sex, anal sex.  I have had a number of my straight girlfriends confide that their gentlemen friends would like to enter their back doors…girls you know who you are.

This weekend was my boyfriends 27th birthday and our neighbor across the hall took us out for brunch on Sunday morning.  Rather than go to the gorgeous little bar on the corner for an upscale brunch we decided to hit the always glamorous and always tacky Neptune Diner.  A place so Greek that they have a giant stained glass portrait of King Neptune himself proudly sitting on what looks like a toilet holding his mighty Triton…its epic.  They also have 2 dining rooms.  One i like to think of as the drunk tank, a place they can sit Guido club kids on Friday and Saturday nights.  And the classy upscale dining room reserved for the large Greek families, the elderly, and what appear to be Dungeons and Dragons nerds.

Surrounded by families in desperate need of fitted clothes and some serious eyebrow threading we stuck out like the cast of Too Wong Foo.  That combined with some necessary gay sassafras which I served our waitress when she showed up at our table seconds after being seated, is no doubt what clued her into our homosexuality, and no doubt is what led her to ask the most inappropriate thing a server can ever ask someone who is un-caffinated.  We ordered and ate what I sure amounted to over 10,000 calories worth of East Coast Diner goodness when suddenly my morning Bowel Movement was upon me.  I made haste to the restroom and when I returned found my friend from across the hall saying to the waitress ” well just get drunk, or get some anal ease and some poppers” to which I thought I’d actually settle for another cup of coffee.

Turns out while I was dropping the Cosby kids off at the pool our Lebanese waitress had approached the table, stood in front of them for about a minute, and finally mustered the courage to ask if they were partners, and if they had any advice on how to make anal sex more comfortable.   This is exactly the kind of conversation I would expect from a waitress at the Waverly at 3am on a Friday night after about 10 martini’s.  But at the Neptune Diner at noon surrounded by the cast of My Big Fat Greek Wedding it was just too much too early and too near children.  I have no idea what was going through this lunatic woman’s head but I bet she’s the kind of girl who has no problem changing her bra-less body in front of someone without warning them first that her saggy bags were coming.  But I admire her gusto and lucky for her my friends were more than happy to oblige though they hated her for it.  They went into great detail on what to do and how to do it which I’ll not put here as my mom reads this, but she just kept coming back for more.  Over and over, about every five minutes she was back again with another set of questions.  What if I do this??  What if I take a hot shower upside down??  My friends told me Mountain Dew makes a good enema? More than anything she worried about being clean which is funny cause she apparently didn’t care at all about being a good waitress.  We told her if he is going in there he deserves what he gets. She then showed us a picture of her husband who sounded like a real stand up guy.  She said “If I don’t do it he’ll just find it somewhere else.”  Or maybe that was something her girlfriends told her, either way I officially know entirely to much about what was going to happen to this woman’s butt hole later that night.  I asked for another cup of coffee, I figured at this point I wanted to stick it out and see is she asked for a live demonstration from us.  The questions kept coming, but my coffee never did.

My good graces finally worn thin I suggest wrapping our little brunch up,  we grab the check and head to the front desk to pay.  I said I would leave the tip so I head back towards the table only to find myself face to uni-brow with the newest inducty to the world of anal sex.  She grabbed the 5 dollar bill outta my hand and said “thanks babe” turned on that hoof she calls a foot and disappeared into the kitchen leaving me to wonder just what makes a women like that tick.  I know one thing for sure… she definitely would look fat in a poncho.

Tis a flesh wound

I am 32 years old and have never been on a proper vacation.  Not one that didn’t in some way involve my family or worse someone elses  family.  I am talking about one of those magical getaways you can only win on the Price is Right or Wheel of Fortune.  YOU HAVE WON A TRIP TO ARUBA!!!!  I have no idea where Aruba is, but I know I want to go there.  I long for a beach an umbrella a cocktail a Kitty Kelly novel and a half naked native waiting on me hand and foot.  Sounds pretty simple, a goal anyone could accomplish.  Two problems stand in my way.  Number one I hate to travel, number two being a proud member of the upper lower class I can’t really afford a fabulous vacation.  So a local getaway it must be.   Somewhere close,  and cheap,  and accessible by train as I don’t drive and my rickshaw is in the shop.  So I decide after 11 years in New York to break down and go to Fire Island.  Fire Island is like Coney Island to me.  Neither of these places evoke the island images in my mind like Gilligan’s or that stupid Island from Lost, and I am always looking for that elusive Island in the Stream.

The normally useless MTA offers a day package for 30 bucks which covers the train the taxi and the ferry there and back which is great cause I made a big pitcher of booze and have every intention of coming home drunk .  Taking my cue from the Barefoot Contessa herself I put together a wonderful picnic of salmon salad, roasted chicken thighs, fresh strawberries, and blueberry’s, a pitcher of white grape and lemonade with a pint of Vodka, who wouldn’t want that?  Here is where my inner Jew sprung forth and I decided rather than buy a beach umbrella I would fashion one out of a lost and found umbrella from the PIECES Bar and a shoot of bamboo from Fire Island and a little tape thus saving 5’s and 10’s of dollars.  This was to be my perfect little trips downfall.  In order to fit the umbrella in the bag I snapped off the handle creating a perfect jagged, rusty, spear like implement.

If you live on the east coast you understand that it’s the most inconvenient place on earth and something that would only take 20minutes by car can take up to 2 hours on the train.  So we were up at 7:30 to make sure we were on the 9:15 train to Sayville Long island which got in at 11:00 so we could catch the 11:30 ferry.  So from wake up to the Isle of Fire its 4 and a half hours of humid nyc commuting misery.

Once we get to Sayeville its beautiful breezy and stunning and reminds me of Amity Island from Jaws.  In fact everything feels so much like the movie Jaws right now I want to throw the loud asian gay with no chin sitting next to me off the ferry in hopes a great white shark will eat him and shut his damn trap.  Instead I cue up the Jaws Soundtrack (I have many film scores on my IPOD cause I am a dork) and listen to Promenade as the ferry pulls out and crosses the channel to the Fire Island.  We are surrounded by a flock of gays that would make Jerry Fallwell cry,  tan with popped collars and every single one of them is carrying a pure bred dog which they treat like Zsa Zsa on her death bed.  Gay people give gay people a bad name.

I must say that Fire Island is a beautiful calm and relaxing place, probably more relaxing if you are lucky enough to afford a share and stay most of the summer.  Much less relaxing when you know you have to head back on the 7:30 ferry.  You walk through a bamboo forest on elevated decks, and I can’t help but thank God I’m not tripping on mushrooms right now cause i would surely get lost and end up crying by the side of the road chewing on a stick of bamboo as if it were a sugar cane.  It’s a straight shot to the beach and on our way we each grab a stick of the aforementioned bamboo to fashion our beach umbrella’s.  We stroll down to the water and find a spot a with no children and lay out our spoils.

As Dan runs down to the water to pee in the ocean I start setting up our things.  First things first I take out my mangled umbrella and open it up plunging the ragged end into the fleshy part of the palm of my hand.  I can handle pain, pain is nothing to me.  I had an intense gall stone experience which was said to be more painful than childbirth and I took that pain like a pro.  Blood however makes me pass out almost instantly, not movie blood, real blood oozing (or in this case pumping) from my own body or the bodies of those around me.  I knew it was a deep cut because the fat in my hand is spilling out the sides like brains or tapioca pudding.

I yelled for Dan knowing I was seconds from losing conciseness.  He thought I was pointing out the little brown skittering birds darting this way and that.  I was not.  I passed out cold face first into the sand which tasted like shit, well actually i t tasted like sand, but was unpleasant none the less.  I threw up a couple of times when i regained consciousness and thought I bet Ina Garten and Jeffery have a much better time at the beach.  With an arm drenched in blood, fat oozing out of my hand, laden down with 50 pounds worth of beach gear we headed off to find a first aid kit.  Turns out there is no first aid available on the Isle of Fire.  The doctor’s hours are 1-2 and 4-5, this is the kind of job I dream of,  and we were told by everyone we ran into they’d be happy to contact the mainland and have me air lifted off.  Fun as that sounded, and believe meI wanted was a happy medium some hydrogen peroxide and some gauze, but a ride in a helicopter did sound fun.  I settled for a 10 dollar bottle of Rubbing Alcohol and an 8 dollar roll of gauze.  I looked around at the Island full of pretty much naked men, and looked at my bloody hand and decided I couldn’t stay at this place any longer.  We took the ferry back, and this is the song I listened to going back across the water…

and I cried…cause my hand really fucking hurt.  All in all a vacation to remember

Bobby Gentry

I am obsessed with Bobby Gentry.  If you are not aware she is a glorious songstress from the bygone days of the country music scene famous for her story songs Ode to Billy Joe (what did they throw off that bridge?) and Fancy which has been famously covered by Reba  Mcentire (who knew that’s how you spelled her name?).  I love the lazy southern ease of her voice, I love that every song starts and sounds just like the last one, but mostly I love her crazy way of dancing.  She retired in 1971 and has never recorded another album since.  Check out some Bobby Gentry videos as a Labor Day treat!

It’s always when I am afflicted with a particularity bad hangover that the worst of the homeless beggars seem to attack.  As New Yorkers we have heard all their tales about not getting to the shelter on time or their house burning down leaving them and their families homeless and destitute.   Their families being a pipe filled with crystal meth no doubt.  I get it, its all part of the circle of life in NYC.  They grift us we occasionally feel bad and give them change, they make 50 bucks a day they get high and leave us alone for a week and everyone is happy.

I admit it takes balls to get on a train and ask for money, or sometimes just an unfortunate amputation.  But missing a limb or moving your legless torso from car to car is a great way to score some serious cash.   Then there are the ones with no discernible injuries these guys are smart enough sing for their supper.  These are the homeless who make more money than I do in a year and the ones I hate and dread the most.  My heart sinks when I see that mariachi band coming between cars, or the black quartet singing Down on the Boardwalk.  They plague my commute between 59th and Lex and 34th street, praying on the out of towners who just love to be entertained on their way back to times square,  probably because they were too stupid to bring an Ipod or a book like all the real New Yorkers.  Investing in a good pair of noise canceling headphones and turning up the volume of my Ipod usually drowns them out but i still seethe in anger at the sheer audacity of these America’s Got Talent rejects and how they dare to interrupt my quiet time.  The absolute worst are the ethnic dancers, or the drum circle.  If they show up on my car I just leave.

Today I spotted the interruption to my commute before I even got on the train.  He was standing on the platform in a dress shirt, tie, and a sporty pair of dockers.  Bible in hand ready to spread fire and brimstone to the people of the N train.  I ran to the next car and he followed almost as if knew I sinned and that I sinned often.  The doors shut and he began his diatribe, I rolled my eyes and could hear him telling us we were all going to hell.  Now I love telling people to go to hell as much as the next guy, but I’d never stand up on a crowded train to do so…well not unless provoked.  So I turned my headphones up and closed my eyes.  I opened them again at 5th ave and fire and brimstone was still at it, “burn in hell” this, and “repent” that, all the usual religious malarkey.  When almost on Que from either side of the train the doors flew open in a hot gusty gale, and there were two more homeless!  A woman with soiled pants (good gimmick) and a black man with no teeth and yeasty swollen feet!  A good yeasty foot is sure to grab a few sheckles, but i am telling you loss of limb is the ticket to that refrigerator box in the sky!

All three of them stopped, like a cosmic coming together of craziness and despair, like the three moons in a Dark Crystal aligning so the Skexies and the Mystics could become one again.  Fire and Brimstone stopped his ranting, and looked at yeasty feet and soiled pants and then beckoned them forth.  Since he wasn’t asking for money, just our eternal souls, he did a little cross promotion.  Using yeasty and soiled as examples of the very lifestyle he wanted us to avoid while at the same time telling all of us this was a great time this might be to turn over a new leaf and help his two new stinky gross looking friends while we were finding the path to eternal salvation.  How I longed for the mariachi band and the blind accoridian man to get on at the next stop, hopefully ending in a West Side Story style brawl over territory.  Instead i got off the train and went to work where I sat on stage for 4 hours and delivered my own kind of sermon to the happy hour Bingo crowd at PIECES.  Telling all of them how Lindsey Lohan is a tramp ruining her life with booze and hotpants, complaining about the cost of a metro card and asking for a gratuity to help with my newly injured hand…look out yeasty and stinky pants I may need to work your territory sometime soon.

I was invited to see the Twyla Tharp, Frank Sinatra Dance Spectacular at the Marquis Theater this Thursday and to call it a complete waste of time isn’t fair because we left at intermission.  To start with I had less than no interest in seeing a dance show.  I hate dancing.  In fact i should move to the tiny town from Footloose so I never have to deal with dancing again.  I am certainly a Sinatra fan (I prefer later Sinatra when you could here the tar in his lungs rattle with every note) but I am a bigger fan of LIVE singing and dialogue to further the plot of a “musical”.  This stupid show which I truthfully can’t even remember the title of, had none of that.  You see the point of a musical is getting the characters to a point where they can no longer talk about what is going on onstage, the emotion is so great that they have to sing and dance about it!.  Here the dancers come off looking like a bunch of jackass mimes, mugging, and smiling so big the sides of their mouths might crack and bleed.  Also the dancing looked pedestrian.  It looked like everything I have seen in any production of any community theater show ever done.  Is this the right place to say shame on you Twyla Tharp?

Now to be fair to the show i was asleep within the first 5 minutes only to be wakened by the brief bits of lame applause.  So i drifted in and out, but what I saw I hated.  I’ll tell you what though.  The Jersey crowd (who was heavily in attendance) loved every fucking second.  They loved it so much that they all talked through the whole thing.  Amazed by the free sippy cups you could get at concessions, letting everyone around them know when one of their personal Sinatra favorites was blaring from the speakers, and stinking to high heaven of Brute and GPC’s.  I was happy for them, this was a tailor made Broadway show for the stupid and uncultured.  Unlike that Jersey Boys which had that pesky plot to pay attention to this was stripped down to the bare essentials of what Broadway has become.  A place for special event shows that can be thrown together on the CHEAP!  Everything about Come Sing With Me (or whatever its called) looked cheap.  The weird lampshades hanging all over the theater, the Christmas lights all over the set, the set,  the costumes, the choreography, cheap, cheap, cheap.

I could not help but think what Sinatra would have thought of the flaming bag of shit on that stage.  A Broadway show conceived around his music, starring “colored” people and “orientals”, the shock would have killed him again.  He would have loved the band,  the only thing worth a damn in the whole theater.  Finally the finale of Act One happened.  And it was the weirdest part yet.  I guess the production crew knew there was no actual excitement on stage so they devised a way for the lamp shapes and the ceiling the spastically  move up and down thus simulating a finale.  When the lights came up I didn’t run out of the theater as I didn’t want to cause a panic.  I allowed myself a moment to wake back up, and recycled my Playbill as I left.  I was just glad to go home and sit in my backyard and enjoy a well earned glass of cheap sangria and a cigarette.  The only thing that Sinatra would have enjoyed about the whole night.