Archive for the ‘participate’ Category

There have been so many classic collaborations in music:

Nat and Natalie.

Ella and the Duke.

Louis Armstrong and Oscar Peterson.

The Captain and Tennille.

And while watching an episode of Crossroads¹ yesterday which featured Maroon 5 and Sara Evans performing duets of each other’s songs, I watched this clip of She Will Be Loved:

It was cool.  I actually like the timbre of Sara’s alto and that as you watch her and Adam stand there, the way we categorize genders of voice means your mind expects each of their voices to be coming from the other person’s face.  But there are also a few places where it just didn’t work; not even miniature disasters or minor catastrophes, just blips.

But my mind started roaming.  I don’t why I go to extremes.  I wanted to know what the worst collaboration or duet in the history of time was.  And as I opened my browser to see how deep the rabbit hole went for a few pairs I could think of, like anti-manna from hell, a gift and a curse fell into my lap:

Mel Gibson and Oksana Grigorieva are expecting a child, but that’s not their only collaboration.”

Annnnd… my search was done.

Billy Altman wrote my sentiments perfectly.  Despite my love for Braveheart,

with everything that’s come and gone over the course of Mel Gibson’s career and life in the public eye, there did seem to be one area that was safe from Mel-dom, and that was music.

You want the lyrics Mel co-wrote?  Of course you do.

I got no way back home/ And every time my heart beats, it’s one less that remains…The future contrives to draw me in its wake/ I’m not afraid of leaving, if I know why and when/ I’ll have to walk a few more miles before you say my name again/ My name again.

“Contrives to draw me in its wake.”  That just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?  And it gets better: this is all product of Mel’s label, Icon Records.  He actually has a label, which means we’re at risk of him signing a max of 3-4 other confused souls and spreading their work around like some aural plague.

But maybe I’m overreacting.  Tell me about a collaboration that makes you cringe more than the idea of one featuring Mel Gibson.  Do it.

¹In no way affiliated with the Britney Spears movie of the same name.


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This is not a TMI post.


In reverence of LiLu — the Queen of TMI — and in awe of Maxie — her Royal Majesty of “Would You Rather?” — I give you

Name Your Price.

That’s right, for one day and one day only, I’m starting a game of gross, hideous proportions.  Why only one day?  Well, because those two ladies are brilliant and while imitation is the sincerest flattery, too much imitation makes you Miss Musing.

Anyway, the game has some rules.

  1. You must choose a person/character profile that you would share crotch space with (read: sex up).
  2. That you have already chosen one is presupposed.  I.e., no “none of the above.”  This game assumes you have sexed up or have already promised to sex up one of the three choices.
  3. You name your price.  What would it cost for you to actually do it?  Because everybody has a price in this game.  Everybody.  Your price can be food, or dollars… whatever it is.

Contestant #1:

Meatloaf with the breast implants he rocked in Fight Club.


See that nip?


  1. lactating
  2. singing 7 minute songs
  3. The Rocky Horror Picture Show


  1. specifying what he wouldn’t do for love
  2. safe sex
  3. not videotaping every encounter he has

Contestant #2:

Joan.  Rivers.



  1. Botox
  2. younger men (though, who isn’t younger than her?)
  3. sucking up to Donald Trump


  1. good jokes
  2. quickies
  3. happiness

Contestant #3.

The person who owns this foot.

ugly feet

Admittedly, this is a wild card.  The gender is completely undeterminable.


  1. fungus
  2. foot-sex
  3. toe jam


  1. toenail clippers
  2. soap
  3. self-respect

So, there you have it.

How much would it cost for you to hump 1, 2 or 3?

I’ll start.

Joan Rivers. *sigh*  My price: an Audi A5 and a complete wipe of my student loan debt (hint: it’s more than 200k).

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oh, snap!

I got tagged a couple days ago by Patrick at The Definitive Dmbosstone.  But if you’re reading this, and have a blog, you probably know just how bad I’ve been at reading blogs and taking care of mine, lately.  So right now is the first chance I’m getting.

“Tagged” means there are some rules, right?  Always.

1. Take a pic of yourself right now.


2. No primping or preparing.
Yeah. I think we’re good.
3. Just snap a picture.
I did this part already. *confused*
4. Load the picture onto your blog.
Yep, yep.
5. Tag some people to play along.
Liebchen and PQ, you’re it.

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It all starts with Michael J. Fox.


He’s the first face I see.  But then there are others.  One at a time, they make invisible entrances — I notice them but can’t see their faces.

Two of them sit next to MJF at an Idol-like table.  The rest join me, standing in front of their bench.

Their bench?  Oh, I’m being judged!  Wait, there is a god and it’s Michael J. Fox?

Then he, MJF, speaks.  “Welcome back to Bravo’s newest show, Cinemaddict.”¹  It was a show about movie-making.

I’m on a reality show?  So, I’m not dead…

One by one, MJF calls a name.  Soon there are only two people standing with me, as a handful of others celebrate within earshot.  Then just me and another.  And that’s when it set in: the feeling so many of us have had when someone’s picking teams, there’s an odd number of people, and you’re one of two left.

Sure enough, he picked the other person to stay on the show.  Michael J. Fox cut me.  He cut me deep.  It hurt, kids; kind of like when the guy’s dad got shanked on “The Mad Real World” on Chappelle’s Show.  He must’ve cut me early, too, for that many people to be celebrating their survival.

I’ve made a few “movies” for this blog.  I was actually pretty proud of the trailer for A Googled Kind of Love.  My pride took a hit with this fantasy rejection.

But maybe I’ve totally misread the entire scene.  If you’ve got any ideas, I’m all ears.  Otherwise, clearly I’ve got some work to do around here.  No matter how I’ve felt about the videos I’ve made, if it wasn’t good enough for MJF and Cinemaddict, then it wasn’t good enough.  It’s that simple.  Guess it’s back to the drawing board.

¹Ok, so I don’t remember the name of the show.  But I know it was on Bravo, which means it was something cute like “Shear Genius.”

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I don’t want to sadden everyone today, but we gotta get up from here, kids.

credit: ClickFlashPhotos

credit: ClickFlashPhotos

I get it.  I really do.  And we’ll get to that in a minute.

But I was on the metro yesterday, and the sadness was suffocating.  Every single face was its own perfect storm: furrowed brow, droopy eyes, frowned lips.  There was only reclusive color: a sea of grays and blacks and browns; the kinds of colors perfect for blending into shadows.

I felt out of place.  But not because I don’t have any reason to fret or fear or fall.  It was because when people are that sad, you feel as if they should be left alone.  You don’t belong in that moment.  They don’t want to be seen.  They want to curl up in bed, pull up the comforter and watch reruns of their favorite sitcom or the last movie they watched with him before he left or the first movie they watched with the her that got away.  They want them to themselves.

And there I stood in the middle of it, my eyes bouncing from face to glass to another face to floor, trying to notice unnoticed, feeling guilty for having boarded with a smile.

Then today, just walking down the street, I saw the second person I’d seen in the last two days sitting in a car at a light just crying; just sitting and weeping, waiting on more than the light to change.  I thought of Jonny Lang’s “Red Light:”

Too slow to roll
Put your life on hold
An open path
With nowhere to go
You start to wonder
While sitting at a red light

And I know none of them are reading this.  But for those of you who are, we gotta get up from here.  The energy in this city is fleeting.  I know part of this is because DC’s unemployment rate is 9.9% as of February.  That’s 1 in 10 of every person we know.

I get it.  My family is struggling, too.  Our last three years?  There are parts of it you wouldn’t believe if I told you.  The parts I can tell without (I pray) revealing too much of the lives of others…

All three parents have lost their careers: mom, dad and step-mom.  My dad lost his after 26 years, 5 days before his birthday this February.  It was the only job I’ve ever been alive to see him have.  It was part of his identity.

Two Christmases ago, my brother, mom and I spent Christmas at my place here in DC because it was the only home between the three of us.  Why?  My brother was still in the dorm stage in college.  And for the last three years, my mom has been living with friends in Pennsylvania.  We sold and packed our home in Connecticut three years ago to move to PA.  But a lingering complication has meant the closing on the PA house has still yet to happen.  We still haven’t moved my mom into that home.  For three years, she’s been with friends there, while everything that made our house our home is in storage: baby pictures, furniture, you name it.  My place was the only “home” any one of us had.  Our Christmas presents to each other were homemade gifts that year.  And the money I’m able to send home since then just isn’t “mortgage money.”

After failing the bar exam last summer, unable to rely on the promise of a law license to find a job, but also unable to hide the last three years and a law degree from my resume when applying for things like retail after the first 150 resumes to firms went unrewarded, I started the fall telemarketing, just to make ends meet.  Everyone I knew from law school was at a firm right away and I was asking people for money over the phone, during a recession.  One night, one of my randomly-assigned calls actually went to someone I had sat next to in a few classes.

In just the last few weeks alone, my brother has been in a car accident that nearly totaled his car, almost three years to the day his best friend lost his life in a car accident, and also had his home burglarized.

So I get it.  This thing called life will break us if we let it.

But my family still smiles when we talk to each other on the phone.  And we still laugh when we see each other.  And no one who has met me in real life lately would know any of this if I hadn’t told them, because I still smile when I walk down the street or sit across a table at happy hour.  Because at a time when everything seems so able to defeat us, I know we’re incapable of being defeated.

And though I may not have met you, I have to believe the same about you.  I just do.  I don’t believe the smiles we wear on our morning metro rides should be secrets, let alone never worn at all.  There has to be a way to deal with this while we face it, not just once it’s a memory.

Maybe you were one of those people on the train yesterday.  Or maybe you gave up on this post paragraphs ago because none of it seems like a big deal.  Maybe it’s just April and the rain.  I don’t know.

But for today, I hope at least some of you use the space to talk about why you’ve felt burdened lately (if you have) or why you’re still smiling anyway.

Because these are our options:

you can wait for ages
watch your compost turn to coal
but time is contagious
everybody’s getting old.
so you can sit on chimneys
put some fire up your ass
no need to know what you’re doing or looking for
but if anyone should ask..
tell them i’ve been cookin’ coconut skins
and we’ve been hanging out
tell them god just dropped by to forgive our sins
and relieve us our doubt

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Now, I’m sure they’re just dolls.


But DC, meet your new Plastics.

No, seriously, they even pose like the movie characters:


The two women in the middle of the photo at the top are two-thirds of the Blonde Charity Mafia.  That’s right: the Blonde, Charity, Mafia.

If you’re like me at all, odds are you are now experiencing one of the following:
a) the best laugh you’ve had in weeks,
b) a wicked reintroduction to your gag reflex, or
c) fierce anger.

This story isn’t new.  The DCist and The Washington Post have been all over it.  These DC-socialite ladies are going to have their own reality show.  Naturally, it will be produced by those responsible for The Simple Life.  And can you guess what network picked up the show?

Not MTV or Bravo.  Not even Lifetime.  Let me repeat: Lifetime — network of epic fail and tremendous suck — said no.  What could that possibly leave?  No, not Peter Griffin’s side-boob public access channel either.

But if you guessed The CW — home of syndication and WB-UPN televisional residue — you win!

Thank god for the interwebs, there are two things about the show already online.
1) the Blonde Charity Mafia blog and
2) leaked portions of the show’s script.

And thanks to fishbowlDC, part of that second one includes:

Natalie: Can I get you a “Dresser”?
Sophie: A what?
Natalie: A “Dresser” — a cocktail to drink while you get dressed. Duh.

Well, isn’t that just delightful?

So here’s what we’re gonna do, people (I can’t believe what I’m about to say).  Normally I’d say we should run from this like the plague or, at best, only watch it as part of a drinking game.  But their blog has a page for their bios and, thank jebus, that includes the bars they like.  The next step should be obvious.

If you are in DC, or plan on ever being here in the near future, we’re going to find these ladies and see for ourselves just how disastrous this train wreck can be.  One of their favorite places is Third Edition and hey: I’ve already been there.

I know, I know.  But listen: part of me still believes this might not be real.  Maybe we’ll be surprised, right?  Maybe they’re brilliant, socially aware young women just trying to find their place in the world like the rest of us, notwithstanding that their collective trust funds probably rival the GDP of our recessive nation.

Or maybe us laughing so hard in the background during some of their taping will ruin a scene the producers really wanted to air for its… well, stuff like this:

Phone rings – It’s SOPHIE’s dad – He grills her for leaving work in the middle of the day after she showed up 2 hours late. Sophie apologizes and then promises to be in early the next day. She hangs up.

SOPHIE: He’s so ridiculous…are you kidding me? Get off my back. I have bigger problems than my dumb job right now.

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Ladies and gentlemen, this…

is TMI Thursday!

If you’re new around here, this is what TMI Thursday has meant to me.  I thought about writing a short composition to explain, but I’m not 11 and it’s not 1956, so I skipped the composition idea and went with that nifty link.  TMI Thursday is code for “remember that time you [insert gross, horrible occurrence] and how you vowed either never to speak of it again or laughed hysterically?  Well, on TMIT, inspired by LiLu, we break those vows and share that laughter.

Today’s TMIT is different, though.  It’s less of a story and more of a public service announcement, brought to you by the good people at the DANGLE Initiative.  No, not this Dangle –

dangle911(though his mere appearance qualifies as TMI) – but the DANGLE Initiative: Dudes Against Netherly Grazing Leftover Excretions.  It is a crack team organized to alert the world to one of its silent and oft-overlooked dangers: the dangle.

What’s the dangle?  Let’s start from the beginning.

This is a Norwegian public toilet:

_38727573_looWhy did I pick a Norwegian public toilet picture?  Because as we all know, the average American public toilet is a steaming disaster filled with post-mudbutt remainders.  And despite it being TMIT, I just wasn’t going to post an image of that first thing in the morning.

Forever, women have been professing the horror of having to sit on the seats of one of these public toilets, claiming to risk life and literally limb as their quads feel the burn of squatting at odd angles to avoid contact.

Ladies, we have it worse. We dangle. What you fear is outside the heart of the great American porcelain beast. That stuff on the seat? Arguably accidental. Sure, some people are just all sorts of stupid nasty. But what you face is mostly lazily inaccurate excretion.

We face excretion where it’s meant to be, and we face it head-on.

Size doesn’t matter here. After decades of research, DANGLE can guarantee that every male has sat on at least dozens of toilets while fearing the centerpiece of his nethers dangling and thereby grazing the INSIDE of the toilet. The INSIDE.

The process goes a little something like this:  We sit.  Where does the netherstick go?  We remember that there’s a no-tuck rule, especially when a tuck in this situation virtually guarantees the soil on your part would be your own.  We consider sitting our now nervous buddy on top of the seat, maybe even on a bed of TP.  But no; then there’s a risk of spraying your jeans with stuff that was still left in the tank.  So you point it down, begging it not to touch that stain of butt-fudge and what-looks-like-a-raisin on the front inner-rim.  Sometimes you walk away victorious.  Other times you almost make it out alive until you flush too early and get a soggy netherstick.  And worst-case scenario…  we here at the DANGLE Initiative are here to prevent the worst-case scenario.

Now an obvious suggested resolution is that men should start to squat above the seat.  But men only hover when in a hovercraft. Not even the strong risk of having our netherstick graze the lining of an uncleaned public toilet can overwhelm our stubbornness and respect for a challenge.

Therefore, here at DANGLE, we are working hard on a solution.  And we want you to help us.  There’s a DANGLE suggestion box below and we’d love to hear your ideas.

Save a netherstick, save the world.

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