Rage Against The Machine

Technology has a bitch, and her name is Ariel. I can't survive the daily task of living without my cell phone, computer, handheld, ipod, microwave, vibrator...and they all have me by the (figurative) balls. When do they all fail, inexplicably, for no conceivable reason? WHEN I NEED THEM THE MOST.

Take voice mail, for example. I'm doing 80 in a 25 mph zone trying to make an appointment. My cell phone beeps--I have 1 new message. What the Christ?? The fucking phone never rang! I hit vm, # and my code.

"I'm sorry, that is not the correct password." Oh, really? It's only the same one I've been entering for the past five years, you cow. I enter it again, narrowly missing sideswiping a school bus.

"Sorry you're having trouble," voicemail bitch chirps, then hangs up on me.
At this point I throw the cell phone out the window, and then drive over it several times to make sure it and voicemail bitch are truly dead. I've gone through several phones and boyfriends in this fashion.

Work--It's 9:56, almost time for the big meeting. My proposal for new Post Its looks fabulous--I may be promoted to SENIOR Staff Assistant! I hit Print. A paperclip icon that looks seriously stoned pops up to tell me "Printer not responding." I dash over to the printer. Seems fine. I dash back to my computer. The paperclip has now dropped acid and is attempting cartwheels across my screen. I hit Print 80 more times and the computer decides it's time for a virus scan. I decide it's time to pay homage to my homies in the picture above and do what I do best: kicking the fucking shit out of inanimate objects. Join me, won't you?

Thanks

On this day of Thanksgiving, I'd like to give thanks to Leeann Tweeden. For being Leeann Tweeden.

in a sea of Wanna-Bes, Shatner Has Been

Folks, you may recall earlier how Ken was lulled senseless by Juliette Lewis's siren songs. Or maybe it was that divine bottom. Anyway, this alarming trend in LA County seems to have no signs of abatement--Minnie Driver and Robert Downey Jr. have just released albums, Jada Pinkett Smith opened for Brittney Spears, and who's the asshole who told Jennifer Love Hewitt she could sing?!?

But that's not the point of this rant. The point is, in a world of model/actor/singers, Captain Kirk is the dude that really deserves to rock out. At the height of his Trekkie career, y'know, back in the day before computers were invented and your parents were still screwing other people, William Shatner came out with, get this, a **spoken word** album called "The Transformed Man." It was hysterical, it was campy, but what's so friggin cool is that he did it first, before anyone else. He beat all the stoopid "Beam me up, Scotty" impersonators to the punch.

Now here he is, decades later, doing it again. And you know what? I'm gonna buy it. And, if you've been good little boys and girls, you might just find this special CD under your tree this year. Next to the re-release of Rick Dees' "Disco Duck."

my babies' daddies

Cereal was, is, and always will be my first love. Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, that rapscallion Cap'n Crunch... they satisfy my clandestine cravings morning, noon, and night. So imagine my orgasmic delight when I saw this.

Fighting Boredom #328: Fun With Washing Machines

In my college days, I remember a pal whose dorm room gave him a strategic vantage point of one of the campus laundry rooms. What this dude would do is sit lazily by his eighth-floor window, tucked neatly out of view of passersby on the ground below, and wait for the hottest chicks to come by to use the washing machine.

After he watched them exit the laundry room -- with their unmentionables tucked safely in the whirlwind of the spin cycle -- he'd get out his own laundry bag, and head on down (at this point, I should probably mention that each of our campus laundry rooms contained just one washer and one dryer). Once inside the laundry room, he'd sift through the booty in the washer before him, grabbing anything even slightly resembling female underwear, and stuffing it in his bag. Then he'd walk back to his room nonchalantly, giving any onlookers the impression that he's just another sad sack who wants to do his laundry but has to wait for the friggin' machine to free up. Little did they know that he had just added to what amounted to one of the largest collections of pilfered underwear that I, myself, can recall.

What's the point of all this? Hell, I don't know. Ownership of women's underwear --even as proof of some sexual conquest -- seems a bit odd to me. But there is definitely an allure to women's undergarments that can sometimes get the better of the male species. That's why walking into Victoria's Secret is like a religious experience for most guys.

Yes, the embarrassment factor is high; wander too close to the dressing rooms and you feel like a pervert, let your hand rest a bit too long on that camisole and you feel like a cross-dresser. But there's something about the smell, the atmosphere and the sales assistants that makes my heart do the flippy-flop every time.

And let's not even mention the incredibly uplifting feeling you get when you see a red hot mama casually sifting through a sales rack of thongs. It is, I can only hope, what heaven feels like.

If you'd like to read the reader question and response from Ariel & me that inspired this insanity, it can be found here. Thank you, and good night.

It's also his porn star name

Where do I begin to describe the sublimely brooding cretin that is Vin Diesel? His name alone makes me quiver with gooshy Catholic school girl excitement: Diesel, the special pump at the gas station with the nozzle that's TOO BIG for my tiny hole. I mean my Honda's gas tank. No matter how hard you try to jam it in, it just won't fit! Lord have mercy, gimme some water.

And let's talk about his delivery. He uttered these words in breathtaking mono-syllabic glory in that Oscar contender, "Fast and the Furious":
"I live my life a quarter-mile at a time."
How fabulously zen! How mysterious! Indeed, it would all do us some good to slow down and smell the fumes--Diesel fumes. See how it all ties in?

XXX: I'm speechless. Pitch Black: bloody brilliant. Chronicles of Riddick: I've already bought 10 copies of the special "Director's Cut" DVD. I can't actually tell you what the movie is about, but I've worn down the replay button on my remote to a sad nub, watching Vin's bare chest hurl itself across my TV screen over and over and over. If he and The Rock team up, I will be a puddle of liquefied goo.

Cutest. Photo. Ever.

Just when I thought I couldn't possibly love Scarlett Johansson any more...

Makes a Swell Gift... For Someone Else

Yesterday, I heard someone talking about The Best of Mandy Moore. And I figured they must have been talking about her boobs. Or her mouth. Or her ass. Or possibly the movie Saved, in which she was actually somewhat decent. Because when one sits down and actually considers what could possibly constitute The Best of Mandy Moore, you have to think in those terms, don't you? It has to be the gratuitous derriere shot at the beginning of How to Deal or those dippy makeup ads, because that's really what she's bringing to the table, isn't it?. Why ruin it all by trying to sing?

It seems, however, that I was wrong.

Remember back in the day when to have a greatest hits CD you actually had to have, I dunno, at least one actual hit song?

Apparently, those days are over.

Oh, and coming soon: The Joss Stone Retrospective Box Set.

This one speaks for itself

I've had beer goggles of the worst kind, like when the alarm goes off at 7:34 a.m., I've gotten 35 minutes of sleep, I'm still too drunk to drive but suddenly sober enough to realize that the dude lying next to me is, sadly, not Colin Farrell's twin brother, but a not-so-distant relative of Elmer Fudd.

But I've had an even stranger, twilight-zone-esque alcoholic calamity--the reverse beer goggles. The scenario goes like this: I'm out at a bar/nightclub/Shell gas station, etc. I'm drunk, I meet a boy, I investigate his molars with my tongue, then take him home. Then I squint my eyes, rub 'em a few times, and think, Christ Ariel, you picked a real coyote date. So I make him sleep on the couch and stumble off to bed.

Then, the next morning, some friggin' greek god is in my kitchen making pancakes. That's right, a GQ model is asking me if I take cream and sugar while I'm giggling nervously and surreptitiously looking for Mr. Fudd under the couch cushions.

So who knows? Maybe I sleepwalk and wake up at the Chip n Dale's frat house. Maybe the UFO keeps dropping off the wrong alien abduction victims at my house. But hell, if this is the product of impaired judgement, then keep the drinks comin'!

Old School Sexy

Sure, you can flip on MTV any time of the day and find college chicks in various stages of undress. But how much Road Rules and Real World can you absorb before you actually start becoming less intelligent? These days, I prefer the not-so-subtle sensuality of Match Game reruns.

Forget the fact that the entire concept of the game is built around the inherent appeal of a dirty mind [sample question: Dumb Donald wanted to get lucky on his blind date. So he wore a "blank."] The entire game is an exercise in sexual innuendo. First, dig on host Gene Rayburn's microphone, the longest and most ridiculously phallic ever produced for daytime television. Then, there's the swagger of perma-guest Richard Dawson. You just know he's banging half -- if not all -- of the female contestants. Christ, he's the only one they ever pick during the all-important "Big Money" round [wink, wink]. And Brett Sommers, the veritable template for that sitcom staple: the randy, sexually-charged "older woman." And she spends so much time hanging on Charles Nelson Reilly. Do you think they're... But, they can't be, can they? I mean, he's... isn't he? I mean, he must be, right? All those pipes and ascots?

Alright, my brain hurts already. Maybe it is time to click back to MTV.

Piece of Ass by the Dashboard Light

In high school, Joey Baptista had an Alfa Romeo GTV. Joey was a cute boy because he was first generation Italian and his father ran a landscaping company that required months of shirtless outdoor activity. But it was the GTV that made the man. Hopped up on testosterone and a shot of Jack Daniels, Joey would kick me and the car into overdrive as he swerved around streets, curbs and a few unfortunate lawn gnomes.

Second gear was my favorite. It made my slippery, over-Armor-All'ed leather seat throb with such an urgency that I was convinced my panties would become the first-known case of spontaneous combustion in Massachusetts. Of course, Joey loved it too because I would squeal and grab his thigh to avoid sliding off the seat and smacking my face into the Black Flag decal on the dashboard.

Alas, things started heading south when Joey decided Missy Cartright's double Ds made a better hood ornament than my 36 Cs. I'd like to think it was also because, unlike Missy, I hadn't fucked the entire defensive line of our football team, or anyone else for that matter. But to this day, I'll proudly say that the beautiful, throaty, GTV was the one that popped my cherry.

Now Available in Rock Star Form

Understand: I never cared for Juliette Lewis, the Movie Star. Except for Kalifornia. That was a cool flick. Everything she's done since then has seemed a riff on the whole "white trash chick" thing, with movie after movie of diminishing returns.

That said, Juliette Lewis, the Rock Star is fucking spectacular. I confess; I thought Juliette and the Licks was a joke. And in many circles, it may still be. But seeing a recent televised performance left me enraptured. In a good way.

It really isn't a concert so much as an rock-and-roll actress playing a rock chick rocking out. There's a real band. And lots of tight clothes. And perhaps a new record set for the number of times a female lead singer can stick her ass out at the audience until the act actually starts to seem offensive. Of course, those who know me understand that in my book, that number is "never." Unless you're the fat girl from The Donnas.

A gimmick? You bet your ass. But in her effort to become, as she herself puts it, "the female Iggy Pop," she's reminded at least this typist of the sort of in-your-face sexuality that's been sorely lacking in today's music.

Do the math, people. Norah Jones plunking the keyboards, or Juliette Lewis shaking her ass in your face? Sheryl Crow chirping incessantly about how important it is to vote, or Juliette Lewis dry-humping her guitarist?

The lesson: Always bring the sexy. And when she plays Boston next week, I'll be there. It may actually make me a less intelligent person... but I'll be there.

Me and Mrs. Rossdale

Is there anyone in this world cuter than Gwen Stefani?

No, there is not.

Very cute. Dare I say very hot. And, as my local parish priest says, "one of the best rear ends I've ever seen on a white girl." So there you go.

Actually, I had the Gwen Stefani dream again last night. Not the one where she casually shifts her weight off my face to ask if my jaw is hurting [it never is, BTW], or the one where she and I attack Kansas City with a killer robot. This was the one where she's pouring me bowl after bowl of Count Chocula while I practice the trumpet. No, I don't know what it means, either.

Then I woke up from my slumber and saw her latest video. The one for "What You Waiting For."

Ugh.

I think I'll go back to bed now.

"Stars--they're just like us!"-US Weekly

Oh hell yeah, you betcha. Every time I go get my latte at BigBucks I'm absofuckinlutely MOBBED by goddamn paparazzi and little brats whining for autographs. I'd just like a little privacy, OK? Is that too much to ask?

Well, actually, yes it is. When you officially begin your 15 minutes, an agent (Lucifer's stunt double) extracts payment: anytime you're in a public place, like, say, your bathroom, you're in the public eye. Sure, some valiant celebs like Alec Baldwin or Sean Penn take the kick-the-shit-out-of-everyone approach; but the rest of 'em scurry off to the plastic surgeon or the enema spa or snort an 8-ball so they can look 'effortlessly' fabulous getting coffee or grocery shopping when caught on camera.

What's the trickle-down effect? Schmucks like yours truly who compulsively flip through the glossy pages and think, whoa, if I have to look that good buying Charmin and tampons, I better get the fuck out of LA.

Vote, or she'll Proposition 69 yer ass

Ah, election day. The only time in four years that you'll (presumably) find yourself in the rec room at the fire station, the middle school gymnasium, or the basement of the Elks Lodge. But, this aint your typical- octogenarians-with-irritable- bowel-syndrome voting denizens of four years ago. P Diddy and hot celebs with strategically-tied "Vote or Die" t-shirts have registered young voters in record numbers. So replace the blue-haired horrors with the hot brunette in stilettos ahead of you in line, or the drool-worthy tanned god still ripped from a recent ab workout behind you, and gee, suddenly your civic duty doesn't seem so tedious anymore, does it?

No Man's Land

Guys are horndogs. Hardly a revelation, I know, but one of the most interesting things about the male species is how we can take a sentence as innocuous as "Would you like some apple juice?" and contort it into something racy, possibly involving rimjobs.

I used to think we were bad. Until I began working in an office full of women.

I'm the only guy in my department. There are seven others here, all women, ranging in age from 22 to 49. And, somehow, the sex talk and innuendo flies at a rate rivaled only by, I'm guessing, a construction site.

Last week, in a meeting, I attempted to adjust the video projector to enlarge the output on the screen. Unable to get it to work, I uttered the most unfortunate line: "Why can't I make this bigger?"

Without missing a beat, the 49 year old quips, "Oh, honey, bring it over here. I can make it bigger."

Not to be outdone, the pregnant 32 year old adds, "I find breathing on it can help."

Suddenly, they're off.

"Want me to sit on it?"

"Tell it how hot it's making you."

"Give it a little kiss right there [pointing to the underside of the projector]."

You get the point [these are all verbatim, by the way]. There were more interjections, but my mind couldn't process it all, what with their hysterical laughter punctuating every line. Needless to say, I sat there, red faced and nervous, fumbling with the projector until it finally worked.

Then there was the seemingly harmless birthday party for a coworker, which quickly shifted gears when my boss, of all people, informed us that her 14-year old son recently asked her what "sixty nine" meant.

This launched a half-hour discourse on -- you guessed it -- sixty-nining, so I got to stand around and listen to seven women discuss the merits of sitting on guys' faces.

Hey, I didn't just get off the boat. I've lived with women. I see them in action. I watch Sex in the City, goddamn it.

But each and every day at the office, I find myself thinking the phrase I never thought would ever pass my lips:

"Ladies, can you please stop talking about sex."