Archive for August, 2011

MTV Awards 2011 Exegesis

Sunday, August 28th, 2011

Oh god, what a fucking travesty. I’ll try to break it down for you.

A large group of untalented people “sang” awful songs for an enthusiastic audience of vacuous industry types.

Lady Gaga pretended to be The Fonz and wouldn’t stop. She made you long for the meat dress. Britney Spears won an Achievement Award and thanked her little boys. Kanye and Jay-Z butchered an Otis Redding song by rapping over it, and Justin Bieber thanked both god AND Jesus.   Is Justin confused, or am I? Isn’t Jesus their Lord or what?

Adele offered a moment of true artistry and elegance. She was totally out of place.

Chris Brown danced around in a white suit and then flew around in one of those harness things. He was no Pink, let me tell you. At least  he didn’t punch anyone in the face, or not during the show, to my knowledge.

Beyonce performed an uninspired pop song, her hair blowing in a wind machine, and revealed her pregnancy by patting her small tummy.

Katy Perry won an award that belonged to Adele.  Some guy called Something the Creator won an award, and a guy called Pitbull presented a mystery as to his ethnicity and popularity.

Russell Brand introduced a tribute to Amy Winehouse, striking a sour note by calling her an addict and an alcoholic. What a fucking cunt™ . I can’t hate him enough. He made things worse by asserting pompously: “There IS a solution.” No, you cunt, there is no solution to addiction except to not start doing drugs in the first place.   Rest in peace my darling Amy, Max, and everyone else who could not be helped by 12 steps or 12,000 steps.

Tony Bennett was poignantly humble in his admiration for Amy’s genius. and played part of the video he made with her.

Bruno Mars horrified me by singing “Valerie,” but in the end he made me cry by singing directly to Amy. God bless him with his retro pompadour and his great horn section!

Lil’ Wayne came out and rapped about how angry he was. Every third word was bleeped out but one “Fucking” escaped in the last verse, in which I think he compared himself to John Lennon. He took his shirt off and ran around like a crazed monkey. I’m sure he’s a very nice person in real life.

That’s all I remember. Let me know if I missed anything important.


Friday, August 26th, 2011

“Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics.

You are all stardust.

You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded. Because the elements, the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars. And the only way they could get into your body is if the stars were kind enough to explode.

So forget Jesus. The stars died so you could be here today.”

– Lawrence Krauss

Ask a Man

Friday, August 26th, 2011


“How do I get my boyfriend to clean a little? I’m a realist and I know he’s never going to seriously clean something but he works half the hours I do and I’m sick of being a bitch around the house.”


“Do it very slowly and don’t confuse him.”

-Charles Mingus Cat Toilet Training Program

Never underestimate the power of pride of ownership. Every man has some thing, some totemic object of power that’s super super important to him and yet isn’t part of his anatomy. Unless a man is fully prepared to protect his Holy Grail with violent force his spirit, sensing its vulnerability, will curdle up to half its normal size and retract into his ab-domen (this may not be the proper way to pronounce “abdomen” but if you try it out for yourself I’m sure you’ll  agree  it’s better). I’m guessing your man has suffered a loss of his Holy Grail or is not fully prepared to defend it, so why should he care if those dirty dishes have been sitting in the bathroom since Labor Day?

Now if it’s the latter case, if he still has his Grail but is not fully prepared to defend it, just go out and buy him a firearm already. I personally never bed down without my 9mm Uzi Pistol (fully loaded, safety off, and home-tooled bayonet attached) but production of this bad boy was discontinued in 1993 so even if you can find one you’ll be ponying up a big bag of pretty pennies. You’ll probably need two ponies to heft all those pennies around, but one sturdy mule could handle the load so you should just use the mule. If you don’t have the pennies or the livestock, you can’t go wrong with the Colt M1911 or the Glock 22, both of which are the single most popular gun. Since you can’t purchase bayonets for handguns, I had to make one myself using the forge and anvil I keep in my kitchen where the oven used to be and would be happy to provide you with helpful tips in bayonet forging techniques.

So anyway, once he has the means to defend himself your man will realize that life is indeed worth living and that although vermin make for great target practice around the house they tend to attract the French. As we all know, the French are not only an inferior species but their very inferiority endows them with an animal sexuality and techniques that enchant and corrupt the fairer sex, so unless your man is the kind of subhuman dude who actually wants his woman to be ravished by some beret-wearing mime then he’ll start tidying up toot sweet.

If your man is that kind of subhuman or, just as bad, if he has been deprived of his Grail, then you’re better off getting a new man or living in separate apartments like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow did. That whole deal seems to have worked out well for them.

Question answered.

 © 2011 Anthony Robert Russo

I Have Issues

Wednesday, August 24th, 2011

In the morning, my youngest Wolf will be going off to college. I am braced for Empty Nest Syndrome.

Being me, I googled Empty Nest Syndrome. All the images are depressing. The moms all look like the women in ads for antidepressants. Then there are a bunch of standard bird nests, sadder looking than the moms. There is even a website called emptynestmoms or something. There are also support groups. Ha.

I read a new agey thing with a nice mystical angle but in the end, it pronounced:

“There is no more empty nest syndrome, unless you have issues.”

Oh no! What?!? Fuck. But wait:

“It is, and has always been about, discovery and recovery … and best of all realizing you can have fun and create your own reality.”


I just want to start all over again, to when each child was a baby. Everything seemed so easy. I could be a better mother and bake cookies. I would never yell.

I’m so proud of my boy and I know he’ll go on to change the world. But I wish I could stay in bed for around six months rather than contemplate my Empty Nest. You can bet I won’t be creating my own reality, unless that involves the reality of imaginary children who will let me cuddle them and never leave.

The Horror of Spanx

Saturday, August 20th, 2011

Why do you have to wear Spanx when you’re pregnant? Isn’t this a time to relax and celebrate your changing body? Since everyone can see you’re pregnant, why do they need you to have a compressed ass and thighs?

I hate Spanx although I realize they are a staple of most women’s undergarments. I once tried on a pair of black spanx in my size but it was like trying to stuff an elephant into a tight spandex sandwich bag. I barely got it over my knees. I didn’t want to fight with it. I wanted it to go live at my sister’s house where it could torture her instead.

I’m not against Shapewear per se but Spanx, never. To impose Spanx on a pregnant woman is to undermine her joy in carrying a child. It’s an abomination. A nice pair of stretchy black underpants is all you need at this glorious time.

Men, do you like to undress a woman and find she is wearing Spanx? Is it too late for a new wave of post-feminists to rally to burn their Spanx?

Ask a Man

Friday, August 19th, 2011


“How do I make it sound less like nagging and more like reminding?”

“It is of Hebrew origin, and the meaning of Samuel is ‘God heard’. Also possibly as ‘requested of God…’”

While I’m no expert in regards to dude-on-dude relationships, I’m going to assume that your domestic partnership is just like the traditional male-female relationship only with 100% more man parts involved. Actually since monogomy is as mythical and rare as the female orgasm, most relationships have more knobs involved than your typical mosh pit but fewer than a Congressional session.

Since you’re asking the question instead of giving out answers I’m guessing you take on the female role in your partnership so my advice to you is to use your supernatural ability to imagine ways to improve interior decoration schemes, but use this skill to imagine yourself as the dominant partner. Imagine yourself running around and doing things, making decisions, dealing with immediate situations like bear attacks or “bear” attacks, driving well, and staving off the advancement of the French by recreating log traps you saw in that Swiss Robinson movie. I think there were net traps as well, but few things are as satisfying as felling trees and trimming them down to their trunks, then arranging them using your Y chromosome-endowed engineering skills in a precariously balanced heap in order to crush your enemies like so much foie gras! I don’t know for sure what foie gras is, but it sounds as if it’s mushy and French, so that’s what I meant by that last simile.

So anyway, imagine yourself out there doing things like stacking up gigantic logs and suddenly this person who knows everything but can’t stack logs and doesn’t even uderstand why you’re out there stacking logs in the first place, this person comes out to remind you that… Look, it’s like I can’t even imagine what would need to be reminded about because everything that’s important is being dealt with.

So what you should do is bring out a beer or, in your case, a wine cooler, because stacking logs is sweaty work, then praise the progress on the log trap, hand over the wine cooler, and then as your “husband” takes a swig, look with love and longing at the bulge in his plum-smuggler shorts, and then remind him of whatever it is you happen to think is so important that you have to interrupt the all-important task of shoring up domestic defense against the incursion of foreign threats.

And even though this is the best possible way to “make it sound less like nagging,” it’s still nagging and you shouldn’t do it. He heard your request the first time.

Question answered.

 © 2011 Anthony Robert Russo

Send in the Clowns

Tuesday, August 16th, 2011

“Rick Perry is like George Bush without the ethics or intelligence”   – Jim Hightower

Michelle Bachman poses with her children and her gay homophobic husband. Who wouldn’t want these fine Christians in the White House?

And here are Mrs. Palin’s toenails as she relaunches her “family vacation”.

Since Mitt Romney is already toast, we can look forward to a nasty competition over which candidate is the most Christian, plain speakin’, and determined to cut social security and social services to the American People who are presumably longing for fewer regulations of aviation standards, air quality, and whatnot.

It’s the stupidity and the hate-mongering that make me gag. I’ve given up on waiting for Obama to live up to his campaign promises.   But seeing Rick Perry morph into a g’ droppin’ , Bushian fake cowboy makin’ crazy charges about treason…it’s going to be enraging.

I mean, enragin’.

Ask a Man

Friday, August 12th, 2011


“When they met one another, there was an uneasy moment as each watched the other’s right hand. If it went to his sword or gun, there was a battle, but if it went to his hat it was a salute of friendship or respect.”

The Boy Scout Handbook

Doubt and uncertainty will get you killed. An indecisive driver is more likely to cause a collision than that jerkhole who just deliberately cut you off (if you’re reading this while driving, your GPS told me to tell you to unfasten your seatbelt, accelerate, and make an immediate hard left turn exactly… now). If the month-old milk in your fridge smells like it might have gone bad, don’t drink it until you’ve tricked someone else into drinking it. If you’re not sure that the firearm you wear to bed is loaded and the safety is off then the Chinese have already invaded your home, devoured your pets, and you and your family have become slave labor in one of those sweatshops where the little letters that appear on computer screens are assembled one pixel at a time. In a social situation, the handshake provides a shorthand determination of who’s who and how steady or shaky their character is.

But the question at hand is how do guys know which handshake to use and, when it’s your standard fist bump pas de bourrée, whose fist is on top? It turns out that the top fist is determined by an extremely complex equation developed by the heretical 14th century Portuguese mathematician Aperto de Mão. Fortunately the equation with all its arcane symbols can be summed up as “who hast initiated ye fist bump is on top, unless ye initiator is a dwarfe or ye totally precocious baby.”

As for how we determine exactly which handshake to use, the magic of the Y chromosome has endowed men with a specialized gland that emits and detects identifying pheromones.

This gland  coupled with our ability to recognize types of headgear allows us to know in advance of physical contact whether the other fellow is a Lakers fan, a Freemason, a gang banger, or French, and we adjust our handshake/aim accordingly. Scoffers: this is science, dammit, and cannot be disproven by any method known to Man.

So the next time you see a couple of bro’s or homeys engaging in complicated modes of manual hierarchical determination, remember that you are witnessing just one beautiful thread in the grand tapestry of snips, puppy dog tails, farts, and dick jokes that makes being a dude so totally totally awesome. Question answered.

 ©  2011 Anthony Robert Russo

He who Hesitates is Skirtless

Friday, August 12th, 2011

This dramatic and frightening Thakoon “bustle skirt” greeted me at Shopbop this morning, only to disappear by midnight. What the fuck?!   Did it turn back into a pumpkin, or did it sell out in one day? You need to see the back view to imagine the effect you might have had, sweeping into a room or tripping and falling as the case may be.

I believe it is taffeta, and the price was around $2,000 I think.

What is the point of it? All I could think of to wear with it was a  basket  of fruit on the head. Maybe it’s a wry tribute to the mullet!

Well, now that it’s gone, I feel a vague sense of loss.

So let me tempt you with another great new “piece” from Shopbop:

They are sheer silk chiffon layered with matching shorts.   They would also look nice with some fruit on the head.   I like the way these gossamer pants are styled with clunky leather boots. It’s an aggressive statement that says, “I am a visionary, you know nothing!”   They are a steal at only $225.

Art in the Street: A Hipster Lament

Monday, August 8th, 2011

Today we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art to see an exhibit of graffiti and street art. Little did I know it was The Place to Be, with a long line of hipsters waiting to get inside the museum.   My husband and I thought “Fuck this” and decided to leave , just as we saw my adopted son Chris and his girlfriend Ada walking toward us.

It was wonderful to realize that we crypto-hipsters all gravitate to the same places. Ada became a museum member to help us avoid the long line for non-members.   The guy who helped her had 14 piercings in his face.

The exhibit was crawling with people who could each qualify as a piece of graffiti art. The was no air inside, where the temperature hovered near boiling point. Everyone was madly taking pictures of the art and each other. You had to dodge the  iPhone  flashes as you tried to avoid screwing up someone’s photo op.

I complained to my husband in a non-stop whine, but he’s learned to live with this. I objected aloud to a wall of Shepard Fairy crap, noting “Shepard Fairey is a fucking punk!” and thereby quoting my own self. I loved the cars and some black and white photos of Chicano homies. But most of it seemed boring and outdated, like break-dancing only less dimensional. Shuffling along the narrow passages between makeshift rooms, I felt like a character in “Hi, Mom.”

I wondered what would happen if someone broke out a can of spray pain and graffiti’d the graffiti.

Out in the street, an even longer line of hipters stood sweltering. I said to my husband: Haha, look at them. We walked to a Yogurtland, where a pretty girl sitting next to me blabbed about her reality show and insisted to her morbidly obese friend that what she really wanted to do was “make art.”