Time-Lapse Video of Dude With Questionable Taste in Music Driving Cross Country

(Dope-slap him with your pointer to view video. Or if you're the non-violent sort, gently click here.)

TastyKake Puts Your B'ness in the Street

Speaking of talking dirty via snack food, earlier this week my beau, responding to my jones for the delightful but elusive TastyKake Coconut Cream Pie, ordered a 9-pack shipped to me from their website. The Philly-based goodie monger serves the Northeast, but not to the tune of adequately stocking Manhattan shelves with this particular not-too-confectious confection. When prompted to type in a message to the gift recipient, he did so, not knowing the message is displayed ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE SHIPPING CARTON.

TastyKake.com rocks in several whicha ways (and my pies are delish, thanks), but be forewarned. If you don’t want the postman to know which of your girlfriend’s undiepants are your faves, or you’d rather the doorman not be hipped to what comes between “I wanna” and “your brains out,” best limit your gift messages to the text equivalent of a friendly handshake.

As luck would have it, my man was more in the mood to grouse this time, complete with angry typo.

A Doll's Descent

I’ve just seen the most touching documentary by Director Greg Whiteley on New York Dolls founder and bassist Arthur “Killer” Kane, his post-celeb descent into poverty, attempted suicide, and Mormonism, then subsequent reunion with bandmates David Johansson and Sylvain Sylvain. Though woefully lacking in actual concert footage (a rights issue, I’m guessing), New York Doll more than makes up for it with its charting (literally) Kane’s route from the Latter Day Saints short-sleeves-and-tie, surrounded by cooing geriatric library co-workers, to full-out Seinfeld puffy shirt, surrounded by cooing young European groupies. And back again. The actual Kane/Johansson reunion moment is one of true film magic, proving brothers estranged are still brothers.

It’s a 2005 film, but though I live in the land of the limited release, I’d not heard of it. Check here to see when the doc-lovin’ Sundance Channel is airing it in your region. And don’t blink, or you’ll miss Killer's role as the unnamed “plane passenger” in the 1987 Dennis Quaid / Martin Short slapstickfest, Innerspace. Especially if you blinked the first time.

WARNING: Contains Morrissey.

A particularly adorable clip. Explaining Rock & Roll bass to Mormon librarians.

A slightly less adorable clip. Explaining tithing to Johannson.

Snag the DVD.

Now playing in my head: New York Dolls – “Trash”

Dirty M&Ms

Wanna have your sweet nothings printed onto personalized M&Ms for your Valentine? Order before 1/31/07 and get a free bonus bag of the customized sugar buttons (use promo code VDAYFREE6). With or without the bonus bag offer, their minimum order is four 7-ounce bags at twelve bucks a pop, so either make sure your V-Day target's a big eater, or tone down your text so the goodies'll be suitable for your alternate Valentines. Grannies, momses, Jon Stewart, etc.

Another reason to lighten your love letters. The fine folks at M&Ms allowed the above-pictured "eat-horny" declaration, but a request for "eat me" was rejected, earning me the following scolding:

Sorry we cannot print potentially offensive or inappropriate messages. Please enter a different message or call 1-888-696-6788 for further assistance.

This is what I want for Valentines Day. Recordings of those incoming calls.

Dunkin' Donuts White Hot Chocolate!

Vile!

First of all, there's no such thing as white chocolate, so please stop calling it that. But with wind chills well below that of a three dog night here in NYC, I'm not gonna ignore a steaming hot new Dunkin' Donuts item, no matter how likely it is to be foul.

The stuff is heinous. The consistency of warm Noxema, and tastes like molten Turkish Taffy* with sugar added until it reaches its saturation point. Then a little bit more sugar. Topped with an overkill-sized dollop of whipped cream. The DD website describes their White Hot Chocolate as possessing "a hint of vanilla," but using the word 'hint' anywhere near this infection-colored goo should get the copywriter pimp-slapped.

I will say this for it. It was so bad, it made me laugh. Pretty hard. And that'll warm you up on a cold day.

*No offense to the probably-dead-by-now purveyors of Bonomos Turkish Taffy, which I enjoyed immensely as a child, and am now craving like a motherfuck.

Chunky Pam: Bridge and Tunnelriffic

Since MTV has packed her away until next Christmas, I offer you a link to my new favorite holiday song, "XXXLMAS," as snarled by the shiny clothes wearing* "Chunky Pam" da Moanium, aka "Margaret Thrasher" of the Gotham Girls roller derby team, aka actress Ashlie Atkinson, whom I very much enjoyed in Neil LeBute's Fat Pig on Broadway a year or two ago. She was also featured fat girl in the chubby bulimic romance story line for a season or two of Denis Leary's successful TV mystery (mystery to me, anyway), Rescue Me, where poor Ashlie was forced to dally with a dim light bulb, and be grateful to have him 'cause he's conventionally attractive and she's fat.

The way the show's writers hose down every sex scene with their testosterone taint (woman gets slugged by, then happily climbs atop the man, who offers her an abbreviated, foreplay-free romp, followed by blocking her number on his cell phone), we shouldn't be surprised they'd employ a tired stereotype and write an otherwise happnin' fat girl character as romantically needy.

But Atkinson's 'tude shone through, and I hope to see more of Ashlie, Neil LaBute-ing, Chunky Pamming, and yes, even tossing her cookies in the ladies room after a good meal, if that's what it takes.

* Nod to the long gone Spy Magazine. Best dead rag ever.

The Breakfast of the Blog

What was it Time Magazine said? Each day, 13,000 people launch a blog? And the average blog has three readers? I prefer the way Lore Sjoberg of Wired put it. "Creating your own blog is about as easy as creating your own urine, and you're about as likely to find someone else interested in it."

W'shit. If you count me, my best friend since 11th Grade, and then me again, using a fake name, I can maintain an average blog readership!

As I enter the brightly-colored-snot-wads phase of this year's bout of CHARAD (Crowded Holiday Airplane Recirculated Air Disease), I find myself awake in the middle of the night, sitting upright at my desk, so I can cough and sneeze and breathe through my mouth Danza-style. And being jacked up on Nyquil (a full 90 minutes of effectiveness in every 6-hour dose!), I figured I'd take advantage of this bored anguish.

Figured I'd start a blog.

I've barely ever read a blog (combination of dyslexia and apathy), let alone wanted one of my own. But for years, people have asked why I ain't bloggin'. (I now realize that's an insult.) I haven't the vaguest what that means, but cluelessness has never stopped me before.

So here I sit, cracking my knuckles, clearing my throat, and doing that Ed Norton preparation ritual of unfurling arms and cap adjustment. And now (drum roll, please), my first ever blog entry:

Ode to the Butterscotch Pudding Cup

You're a mystery to New York City grocers, and must be Priority Mailed to me from four states away. Pretty sure only you, I, and the four-states-away person wouldn't find that odd.

Your proud amber hue, nuclear in intensity and defiant in its very color-not-found-in-nature-ness, knows no peer. Which sucks when you're trying to explain away the smudge on a very important notarized affidavit.

Every brand of you tastes exactly the same. Reassuringly artificial, and bearing no gastro-resemblance to actual butterscotch pudding, for which you are named.

Oh, the aural pleasure of that snap, as I break you off from your twin. The music of promise, that snap.

Peeling off your top and licking the first of you, I pause to ponder your quivering creamyness. Your heaving and quaking beckons me. You rise as I embrace you. I want to consume you. I want to release you from the prison of your over-packagedness. Take that, landfill!

When I have you at my desk, and the laborious task of fetching a spoon from the kitchen is more delay than I can endure, I find I can pinch your bottom and squeeze you up, plunging my tongue into you again and again, frantically slurping and sucking until you are spent and I am satisfied.

But only if no one is looking.

My nose and chin still dabbed with evidence of our love, I eye your siblings. They pretend not to notice me, but how can they not feel the heat of my desire? Their faux innocence taunts me. I try to resist, but jayzus, what was that? Three, maybe four mouthfuls? C'mon! My breath quickens. I reach for another.

O butterscotch pudding cup, you may taunt me, but you do not lie.

<> <> <>

Yup. That's all I got in me. An open letter to a processed food product not intended to be consumed by adults. Not just an unashamed display of affection for a fake food, but an "I told you so" to the peeps who've been suggesting I blog.

I told you so.