Ahh 2009:

The year I finally popped my world music cherry.
The year I got a washer and dryer in my apartment.
The year I got to tenth base with myself.
The year I dabbled in racism.
The year I threw caution to the wind and wore five pairs of underwear at once.
The year I made cinnamon rolls from scratch.
The year I simplified, detoxed, exfoliated and chanted my way to a new me.
The year I settled on a brand of tampon that conveys my spontaneous style.
The year I accidentally swallowed a tiny figurine.
The year I got caught in a phone booth swirling with money at half time during a Knicks game and had a nervous breakdown.
That didn’t really happen, I just saw it happen to someone when I was a kid, and it wasn’t the Knicks, it was the Washington Wizards.

Best Films of the Decade, Part 1

"Beep Beep!" (2008) - Everybody now: who's got the keys to my jeep?! Burt Reynolds does! Need we even ask? Priceless, priceless. I've seen this movie literally a thousand times.

"Dicktard" (2006) - We lost so many family jewels over the summer of '09, but none more crimson than Pat Swayze and Edward McMahon. This was their swan song, truly.

"Up the Butt" (2007) - Begins with Tolstoy and ends with a bang: again, literally! 9/11. 9/11. Never forget.

"I'm Not So Incredible" (2004) - Ummmmmmmmmmmm...I beg to differ! But seriously: when Tom Berenger sinks his teeth into a role? You. Try. To. Take. That. Role. A. Way. At. Your. Own. Peril. Seriously! You'd have better luck skimming moonlight off the surface of a pond. And then selling that shit to the summer breeze. "M'lady." Fuck that. Fuck you.

Brief Interview With Delta Burke

Q: What are your plans for the future?

A: I'm'a sell myself into slav'ry. Make myself a pretty penny. Buy myself a li'l slave. Then I'm'n'a let that slave go to sleep on a li'l pincushion. Then I'm'n'a wake 'im up, put 'im in mah vaginah.

carousel!

build a cat. make it from wood. burn that down; blame the mouse. wait til dark. remember the cat; tell tales of it; believe those. call up the mouse. ask how he is. as you do: build a cat. (not wood this time.) describe it, over the phone. kill that mouse. leave it be. take a picture, or don't: your call.

a new day: wake up the cat. fill him in. cut him open; retrieve the mouse. bury them both, but separately.

dream of a dog. build a cat instead. & next: the mouse. make them get married. become a tiger. jerk off.

nature, redux.

Like everybody else, I'd wondered how I would know my raccoon when I saw him. And I imagine my face was the same as all of theirs, when the moment came, like that of someone who has been looking for the remote control, only to realize that the television is already tuned to the channel they want, and that their program is starting right then. I know exactly what my face looked like because my raccoon was holding a mirror, in his right paw, when he popped up from behind the car.

He was dressed to the nines: tux and tails, stovepipe hat, spats: the works. His monocle caught the light like a facet on a diamond watch. He stuck out his tongue at me, and I mine, back at him. It seemed like the right thing to do.

THE BIG DAY

Deep breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. For today is the big day. You’ve been waiting for this day your whole life and now it’s here. Goddamnit, it’s about time! Ever since you were a little mouse, living in a boot, you’ve known that one day you were going to make your name on the cheese stage. You would rock back and forth in your empty chestnut shell and dream of the day when all of the mice in mousedom would perk up their ears and sway in time to the sound of your voice. No more pushing toothpicks for Rat Clancy! The curtain is about to rise. Did you memorize the words? Check. Did you wash your tail? Check. The moment has come to heal the world with your voice. The lights are blinding! Just do it! Okay…here goes…COME M’LADY! COME, COME M’LADY! YOU’RE MY BUTTERFLY! SUGAR! BABY! SUCH A SEXY PRETTY LITTLE THING! YOU GOT ME SPRUNG WITCHA NIPPLE PIERCE AND YA TOUNGUE RING!!

nature

there's a raccoon out there with your name on it. literally: your name is scrawled on his belly, in mud. he has functioning dupes of your housekeys, carved out of bark, by a deer. and some nights--not all, or even most, but some--when you're asleep, he comes into your house, and he uses your toothbrush.

My Actual Conversation, More or Less, With Metro-North Train Conductor on Christmas Eve

"I'm sorry, sir - I have to buy my ticket on the train."

"OHHHH! Oh, you're a BAD girl, aren't you?!?! Ha ha! Where you going today, you bad girl?"

"I'm going to Pawling."

"Pawling, huh? Well! Hoo-boy! That'll be ninety-five thousand dollars! Ha ha!"

"Ha ha."

"Ninety-five thousand dollars, please!"

"Um - how much is it?"

"Ha ha! Ninety-five thousand dollars, for the bad, bad girl who didn't buy her ticket at the station! Running late, were ya? Didn't realize there'd be such long lines on a holiday weekend? Day before Christmas, if I'm not mistaken! Didn't think about that ahead of time, didja, you naughty chickenhead! Ha ha! You slut! You ho bag! You sexy little amateur porn star! Oh, this situation is so hilarious! Why don't you pay me twenty bucks and give me a blow job and we'll call it a merry Christmas! Ha ha! Oh, I love my job! Whoo-whoo!"

Neytiri's Blog: Skin Care

Kaltxì. Ngaru lu fpom srak? Oh - I'm sorry! I totally forgot that the readers of this blog are on Earth, not Pandora. (By the way, did you know that my planet was named after the website where you can create your own radio station? I just found this out when I sexually bonded with the Tree of Knowledge the other day and heard the voice of my god Eywa say, check out this website, it's actually the origin of your ancestors and your homeland and all the holy energy that creates you! So I logged on immediately and speaking of creation, I created a Sean Paul station because I love dance hall!) Anyway, the subject of my blog post today is something dear to the hearts of all female humanoids, and that is, skin care. Eywa has blessed us with this gorgeous shiny cat-like fish-like kinda-striped and kinda-sparkly epidermis, so how are WE gonna protect it? You have to see skin care as being like a war: you and your skin are the innocent, indigenous people, and the light from our multi-solar system is like the crass, rape-y American Military of the Future, determined to destroy your natural beauty. So obviously you already know the range of organic products available on our planet that can help keep you looking radiantly bioluminescent: hometree juice, thanator seed, glow-in-the-dark banana blossoms, the list goes on and on. But what you DIDN'T know is that there's something you can do that's even more effective than using all these extraneous materials - something you can do with your very own Na'vi body. The power is within YOU, right now, right here, to add that special shiny blue glow to your exterior layer. I'm talking, of course, about masturbation. And not just any kind of masturbation - I mean the kind of mind-blowing frond-sucking yet uber-casual masturbation that is achieved just by spending the day riding around on the plasticky back of your own ... Banshee. Yes! Banshees are not just for transportation anymore! The next time you hop on the back of your specially bonded flying dinosaur horse creature, I want to you hold on extra tight. And kind of rock yourself back and forth a little. MAKE THE BOND. And I promise you, on the underwater graves of all the dead Na'vi, you WILL see a difference. You'll look younger, fresher, blue-er, and more creepily racialized in no time! Beauty comes from within... Skxawng!

on newstands now

Possible Titles For Our New Blog

World of Koontz
Nothin' But Koontz
In It For The Koontz
Koontz Musings
Does It Get Any Better Than Koontz?
Don't Hate Tha Playa, Hate Tha Koontz
Koontz 'N' Friends
Everybody But Dean Koontz Stand Back
Ramblings On A Master
Koontzeanera

American Second Acts, or, Fuck You Fitzgerald

Peter Weller, best known as the eponymous Robo-Cop from the 1986 motion picture, "Gimme That!" completed a Master's degree in Roman and Renaissance Art at Syracuse University, where he now teaches.

Michael Crichton, author of such acclaimed science-fiction novels as "These Dinosaurs" and "Til We Meet Again at the Sleepaway Camp," died in 2009 to become a supernatural being. He manifests most commonly as an unexplained noise, but also occasionally as a glowing skeleton.

Cindy Sheehan, who rose to prominence as an anti-war activist after her son's death in 2004, ran unsuccessfully for Congress in 2008, and then transformed into an owl, through processes which remain obscure. She is now believed to reside in a forest, in a tiny house.

Mike Piazza, celebrated Major League Baseball catcher, killed and subsequently assumed the name, skin and familial duties of New York-area welder Dale Rogers in 2007.

My Greatest Regrets

That I spent most of today in bed, on Facebook.

That my computer is now almost out of batteries.

That I didn't come up with a zingier idea for this blog post.

That I never walked barefoot under a pale prairie moon.

That I once "pantsed" a kid at a pool party who didn't deserve it.

That I did not develop any marketable skills in my first 30 years of life.

Questions raised during the process of packing up my apartment and moving to a new apartment

Where did this Yoga matt come from?
How long am I supposed to keep this shrink-wrapped cd that came with my laptop three years ago? Forever?
When did my third desk drawer become a black hole of tax forms smudged with pizza fingerprints?
How majestic—I just found a pellet-like marshmallow in my hair.
Since when did I own this heavy marble pen?
Why am I suddenly wearing a piano key tie?
Why are there raisins in tuxedos playing the saxophone behind me?
Why am I sashaying down this glowing staircase?
Why am I clenching a rose in my teeth and sitting down at the piano to play a jazzy duet with a dapper cat?
Why am I turning over this huge hourglass so I can do it all over again?