New Year’s Eve?

So, I’m wondering: What’s everyone doing for New Year’s Eve here in this fair city of brotherly love, soft pretzels and $2 lager?
I’m thinking cheap drinks in even cheaper settings until my head explodes and/or I ring in the satanic baby new year, whichever comes first, but this city is so full of white trash potential, I’d hate to miss out on another year of double-fisted Yeungling sing-along with Bon Jovi….
Thoughts please…

Attack of the sugar plum faeries….

Oh ho ho ho! Believe me, sugar is so a drug!!!

Oh, the sugar pushers don’t want you to know, don’t want you to realize that the copious amounts of candy canes, chocolate bits of sticky goo and crunchy sweet cookies are slowly sucking the very life from your veins and replacing it with a sickly sweet substance that is forever in need of replenishment…

Don’t believe me? Hit the post-holiday sales, snatch up a bagful of red, green and satanically bad for you tooth decay in a box, and eat just one serving of it…

I dare you.

Before long you’ll find yourself dreaming of it, drooling in your sleep as Johnny Depp takes you on Chocolate Factory-worthy adventures (as opposed to the usual nocturnal adventures starring a certain Mr. Depp, which generally tend to focus on a candy of a, ah, different sort…). It will consume you as you slurp down your staid, healthy breakfast, endure a bland, lowfat lunch of blah, sit in front of the TV downing yet another plateful of ick.

I fucking dare you.

And then you’ll be just like me, twitching like a fleshy tweeker, digging through the artic depths of the fridge hoping for just one bit of freezer-burned sugary badness that got away.

Pacing your room when you should be asleep, mind racing, feverish, arguing with yourself that you just need one more — one more kiss, one more cookie, one goddamn more cane — and you’ll be fine. You can control yourself. You’re fine. You’re good. You just, you know, need a little bump

Believe me, I know….

I blame Brooklyn.

I used to be able to control my impulses, destroy the box of Pop Tarts and move on, eat some fruit the next day. But the Firklover bar changed all that the day my cousin and I hit one of few remaining vestiges of the once mighty Viking stronghold in Bay Ridge: Nordic Delicacies.

On a holiday mission to acquire one almond-centric traditional ring cake for my old Norse father, we bought chocolate bars the size of our heads, and nearly as heavy, ripping into the first as we descended into the subway, cake in hand.

A week and a half later the full ramifications of my sugar-fueled rampage are on full public view: my vision is blurry from too many sleepless nights fueled by ADHD-aiding sugar and a cocoa high so powerful my heart beats at odd intervals, my fingers are stained from constant, compulsive contact with red and green dye, and my tongue is a permanent shade of maroon from the mixing of the sweets.

I’m a monster!!!

Someone, please save me….

Save me from myself…


Step away from the Matt Taibbi!

It could be the NyQuil talking, but I’m thinking it’s high time me and Irish Kelley put our deviant, devious plan into action, and soon, as the one we’ve been known to lovingly (drunkenly?) call “our baby” has made it to the pages of a major national paper of record — as a subject, not a byline.


That’s right folks, Matt Taibbi, oftentimes referred to as heir to the new journalism throne left vacant with a bullet by Hunter S. Thompson, has been featured in the Washington Post for being, well, what we here at the Netherhouse have always known (okay, in full disclaimer mode what Madame Kelley has always known, and was more than kind enough to pass onto yours truly): the man with the brains and, oh yeah, the physique to cause multiple car pileups through sex-appeal alone, and the ability to turn it into a not only entertaining but enlightening 3,000 word expose into some earth-shattering truth, for which hordes of smart and sexually-charged women will pay the cover price — not even subscription rate — for the latest issue of Rolling Stone.


You never know what corner of the earth he’s traversed or what dark, demonic closet lurking deep in the bowels of this country’s government machine he’s uncovered and explained for we mere mortals to take in, understand and get righteously pissed off about.


In short, he must be stopped, and we aim to do it, through the use of sheer force, roofies and duct tape, if necessary.


Oh, not forever, mind you. “The End of the World Part IV” must be printed, fear not. In the meantime, we’re mostly just looking for a few days … oh, okay, weeks… It’s just that a good looking man who’s also smart as fuck cannot, and should not, be overlooked, especially considering the mindless fuckwit losers who can’t string a sentence that doesn’t include the words titties and beer to save their lives mindnumbingly uninteresting overblown males out there for we lasses to endure.  


It’s sort of like Misery, minus the breaking bones. Not that there isn’t a chance there will be bruising, but that sort of thing is just, well, part of a good night…


And, again, in full disclaimer mode, I must add the following info, straight from editrix Kelley’s fingers to the electronic masses, regarding the man we, collectively, would most love to reserve our ovaries for (formerly held by Mark Morford, who’s just a bit too oversexed in print and far too forthcoming about his love for his SO and Audi to be anything less than annoying, truth be told):


“Be sure to mention he originally wrote for The Moscow Times before joining Moscow’s expat alt-weekly, The Exile. In fact, if you Google "The Exile" there’s a bunch more stories he wrote — without the burden of answering to an American publisher?


You want raunchy and ascerbic? You got it, baby. There’s also the wonderful saga of How the Horse-Sperm-filled Pie Ended Up in the Times’ Bureau Chief’s Face. Hee-larious, my dear.


For further fodder, check out The Buffalo Beast . He started it, though he’s just a contributor now.


Also — one of my faves — google: The Job Offer .”

Away in a manger… er… bed…..

It has come to my attention recently that I have neglected my blogging duties during my long and dawn out hibernation-beyond-the-ether.

It’s true, and really, I can explain. See, I’ve not been able to tear myself away from my bed, have spent countless hours there, sheets and blankets wrapped hither and yon, breathing heavily, getting hot then cold, then snuggling for a few hours before starting again….

Sadly, this has all happened solo, and under the heavy influence of OTC and prescription meds.


Seems my near-annual asthma-induced bronchitis hit warp speed, and before I even had time to line up the Robi-shots, I was knocked on my ass and out of civilization as we know it, coughing and wheezing with only my trusty pink stuffed pig Gordy for company and strength.

‘Course, that doesn’t mean the world as we know it has stopped turning, and shit continues to hit the proverbial fan across this fair nation and beyond even as I sleep. And, even more important, Christmas (or whatever you’d prefer to call the holiday – makes no diff to me as long as I get a few days off and can eat cookies with gleeful abandon) has continued its consumer-driven charge across the globe, shoving aside any item not emblazoned with the Visa, Mastercard and/or Amex logo.

I, however, have opted to step off that green treadmill, and have dedicated my sick time to creating holiday cards festooned with bits of fluff, from my creative genious to you and yours, or something like that. Although … they’re not actually done yet. Hey, I’ve been sick! Give me a break!

If you have not already provided me with a snail mail addy and would like a 100% GiRL World Domination Enterprises Inc. signed original delivered to your door sometime between now and next Thanksgiving, e-mail me here!

Until then, I bid y’all adieu, I’m hitting the NyQuil (“Big N, little Y, big fucking Q!”).

No friggin’ subject, okay?! Sheesh…

I know… I know…. I’ve been MIA for weeks now.


I hear y’all!


Right now I’ll be honest: I’m snuggled up in a pink fuzzy blanket, fleece PJs and hoodie. I’m sick — bird flu, the plague, SARS, whatever — and I’m hardly in writing form.


Somebody bring me some veggie soup for chrissakes!


Kidding… kidding. I can take care of myself. But, in the meantime, I’ll leave you with some excellent porn, er, video from the subject a forthcoming post…