Tranny Simpson

This was taken at the recent MET Costume Gala, where everyone aparently arrives with ill fitting or just plain ugly clothing.

I've seen pre-op transsexuals more feminine than this lady (?).

Let's Talk Embarassment

On any trip involving an airplane ride's distance, I have inevitably met the gods of embarrassment (further proof that there is indeed such a thing as Karma, and I have a very small amount of the "good" kind).

• In Costa Rica, we boarded a puddle-jumper to get to our resort (eco-friendly, thanks). Puddle-jumpers don't have bathrooms I noticed, a little too late. So I held shut the flood gates for 45 minutes through choppy air, finally descending upon a dirt airstrip. Airstrips, it seems, also do not have bathrooms. I did what any person doing the pee-pee dance would: I high-tailed it into the rain forest and dropped trou. No big deal, you might think, but Cynic has always had difficulty with the squatting method: urine will always find a way to trickle down my leg. Not wanting to get any on my pretty new capris, I decided to just take them off completely. So, to recap, the story finds Cynic naked from the waste down in a rain forest, watching her bodily fluids puddle in the dirt at her feet. Besides pondering what do to if I came face to face with a large snake while I was relieving myself, I found myself eyeing the large leaves growing everywhere, wondering if Costa Rica had an exotic relative of poison sumac, and just how bad it would be to have it growing out of my crotch. Luckily, there was a swift westerly wind so I just took the air-drying option.


• We had checked into our hotel in Mexico, and since our room was not yet ready, we decided to grab a drink on the patio overlooking the beautiful aqua water. As most of you know, I am about a half-shade darker than an Albino; I forgot to apply sunscreen. For two days, my forehead was swollen from sunburn and locals took to calling me "cabeza gorda", or "fat head".


• Descending the rather steep steps at Skellig Michael in Ireland I failed to grasp the concept that rain/drizzle + moss on rock stairs = long way to bottom. Though, in retrospect, I got down a lot more quickly than the people behind me.

My point is, besides the many social faux pas I am sure to make while in Japan, I find myself wondering what the gods have in store for me this time. Perhaps something along the lines of finding a pair of pants that actually fit my American body and then ripping said pants while bending down for something. Or the one time I'm drunk enough on sake to actually do karaoke I'll fall flat on my face after trying to attempt an acrobatic kick while singing "Everyone Was Kung Fu Fighting".

In Three, Two, One...

Our departure date of June 3rd is fast approaching. This weekend is a "Sayonara Sale" to try to get rid of the stuff we can't bring to Nagoya - own your own little piece of Min! - next weekend is our going-away party, the following weekend finds us in Rhode Island for a wedding, and the next Sunday we're gone.

I vacillate between feeling prepared and thinking "Yes, it's terrific I know how to ask 'do you understand English' in Japanese".

I've also been doing virtually nothing at work and feel strangely justified in doing it. It works to counter-act the stress pimples that keep surfacing.

But I think a dream I had last night sums up how I really feel about the move: I'm walking down a street in Nagoya, arm-in-arm with my bodyguard, when I point up to my left and say 'look at that' and giggle. That's all I remember about the dream. It's rather simple, and nonchalant, and...natural.

Cloe Sevigny: The Ugly Barbie

Brace yourselves...I'm about to compliment Chloe Sevigny, the woman whom I was certain was sent to Earth to become my mortal sartorial enemy.

She still looks like shit, to be sure...but look at those legs! If you just don't look at her from about the waist up, she looks tolerable.

Go Nagoya!

Most of my readers already know, but for those of you who fell through the cracks of my e-mail address book - this post is for you.

I'm leaving on a jetplane.
I don't know when I'll be back again.
Those are the only words to the song I know.
So I guess now I'll make up my own.
I'm moving to Nagoya, Japan.
On June 3rd.
To teach English.
To cute little Japanese children.

There you have it. Once I get there, I might continue this blog. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll start a new one about actually living in Japan. Who knows?

For now, all I'm focused on is selling my crap, getting rid of my apartment and spending as much time with friends and family as possible.

Dear People Magazine:

If you continue to write articles titled "Get The Look! Courtney's Beachwear" while showing actual pictures of Courtney Love in bathingsuits, I am going to have to do something drastic. Like cut myself. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?

A Pox On Chloe Sevigny

Why? Why, Chloe? Why do you insist on showing up in public places looking like a Korean mail order bride, circa 1983?

In fact, why do you insist on showing up in public places at all?

Britney On The Loose

Glad to see that stint in rehab helped you compose yourself, baldy. What the Hell did you dribble over your right boob? It looks like chucky, slightly opaque, liquid cocaine.

Easter: Not As Cool As Christmas

I can respect the ancient tradition of a Spring festival, chock full of fertility rites and sexual innuendo. But then the Christians embraced the holiday and made it into some ridiculous ghost story about the Son of God coming back to life. How can parents possibly reassure little Johnny that zombies aren't real, while telling him that their savior rose from the dead? They should make it more believable by saying to Johnny that unless he's good during the year, Jesus will come back and feed on his flesh while he's sleeping.

So terrific; I get boiled eggs handed to me in a basket with fake, shiny, plastic, green grass that is almost as bad as tinsel: you find a strand of it three months later while you're sweeping. And why the Hell does Easter have to be on a Sunday? I always have Sundays off. The only difference with this Sunday is that I'm obligated to have dinner with my family.

Easter sucks.

Paris Mantis Struts Her Tranny Stuff

What up, bitches?! It's me, your favorite wookie-eyed tranny! In ski goggles! And yellow pants that actually have the ability to make my malnourished, Red Bull fueled corpse look fat and show off a raging case of camel toe!

But seriously you guys, I'm here for the message. 2 B Free wants its fans to know that they have the freedom to wear clothing. And not just any clothing, because some clothing isn't as hot as other clothing. And then sometimes when I'm hot I don't like wearing any clothing, but not "hot" as in "oh my God, Nicole, those ski goggles look hot on you", but more like, "oh my God, Nicole, it's so hot outside that if I wear clothing I'm going to start sweating and it will majorly start streaking my Mystic Tan".

Umm...what was I saying?

I wonder if Baby Luv will think my hair is trying to attack him and he'll bite me again...

Bag-Lady Olsen

What is up with this chick? Why does she think the "street-walking crack-whore" look is in?

Ohhh, but you are a sneeky one, aren't you? Grocery shopping, MK? You nearly had me believe you were planning on eating food. Well played. Well played, indeed.

Mardi Gras Is Everyday

I returned from New Orleans on Sunday after a three day conference in the drunken city. Seriously, it's one gigantic bar. People wake up, go to Cafe du Monde to get a few beignets, then head to a bar for a bloody mary. And once it's 11:30 am, they switch to beer. This continues until about the time they pass out in Jackson Square, only to be roused by the gypsies or any of the busking musicians.

I stayed at the W Hotel on Poydras, which was probably very nice when it first opened. However, by now its walls are scuffed, its air stale, and not even the mini bar (complete with "Intimacy Kit For 2") or our neighbor who blasted the porn channel at 3 a.m. could make me smile. The W Hotel claims the tagline "Whatever, Whenever". I would like to change that to "Whatever, Whenever...we get around to it".

Apart from the slowness of the city, the people are generally friendly and mostly toothless. The creole people - the real ones - are some of the most gorgeous people I've ever seen in my life. It must be that Haitian and French DNA meld perfectly together.

Being a relatively small city with a surprising amount of stuff to do, I've compiled a list of to do's for the wary traveler heading to New Orleans:

• Do go to Canal Street and find the mall because you forget to pack hosiery for your morning meeting.
• Do NOT ask the Saks Fifth Avenue saleswoman where the hosiery is located; it's pantyhose.
• Do expect to find meat in all food prepared in or near New Orleans.
• Do let the waiter know you are a vegetarian and would like the meat left out of the entree.
• Do expect the meat-free entree you requested to come back with shrimp.
• Do NOT expect the waiter to care that your request for no meat was disregarded.
• Do NOT expect a discounted meal after seeing a cockroach skitter across your table, nor after your entree was sent back to the kitchen only to wait over a half hour before it finally gets to you, sans meat (Rotolo's Ristorante on Decature).
• Do go on the Haunted City Tour (and request Ernie as your guide).
• Do get your palm read by Lola in Jackson Square. She's scarily accurate.
• Do buy a can of coffee with chickory from Cafe du Monde to bring back to your co-workers so they think you care about them.
• Do check that said coffee is Regular, and not Decaf before you land at LaGuardia.

I did have an overall great time in the city, but I think it's a once-in-a-lifetime trek. I am too used to the pace of New York to be completely comfortable with the South.

Happy V Day

V as in Vagina. Let's face it, this is a "holiday" created for people either with one, or pretty much looking for one (male mo's excluded from wanting one, while some still might as well have one).

So fellas (female mo's excluded from the designation of 'fella', while some still might as well be one), keep that V happy, and remember: the only true path to what you're looking for is diamonds. Because, in the immortal words of Family Guy, she'll pretty much have to.

Anna Nicole Smith Dead At 39

Former Playmate of the year, Anna Nicole Smith, was allegedly rushed to the hospital suffering from a heart attack and never regained consciousness; an autopsy is scheduled. Her son Daniel died with multiple drugs in his system in September. Anna Nicole is survived by her infant daughter, Daniellyn Hope, who's paternity is still in question.

The shock of this situation reminds me of when Steve Irwin died. You know playing with poisonous snakes or snorting cocaine after breastfeeding your baby is a little dangerous, but for some reason their deaths come as complete surprises.

Update: Witnesses are claiming Anna Nicole choked on her own vomit, after she passed out in the lobby of the hotel she was staying at. There are supposedly photos, but I'm not posting them. Look them up yourselves if you're into that kind of thing. But then I'll tell everyone you're a necrophiliac. Sicko.

MK Olsen Eats The Living

Of course I'm only joking. I doubt she eats anything at all, but if she did...total flesh eating zombie. Are you with me?!

This Just In

Terri Hatcher of Desperate Housewives infamy (a show I have not once sat down to watch) claims she doesn't use Botox.

That's like saying I'm not an international spy/supermodel and a tiger in bed. Because I totally am. Rowwrrr, baby!

NYC Fashion Week

Puffins got to go; I didn't. Chloe Sevigny also got to attend, although I'm not quite sure why. Because, as I may have mentioned before, she obviously can't dress herself, and she has no real acting credits to her name. Yet there she is, oily hair and smug smile thinking, "my coat is so bitchin'. I'm so glad I stopped through Connecticut and happened to come across that barn. The horse doesn't need this blanket; it has like...fur. And besides, it totally looks better on me."

Jessica Simpson Is A Mouth Breather

Going out the other night, Jessica Simpson was snapped by photographers at least 100 times, and each time, she looked like the picture to the left. She looks like she should be cheuffered around in a minivan with pillows taped to the passenger window so when she beats her head against it her helmet doesn't cause any damage, but instead she's banging John Mayer in the back of his tourbus. Wait...that's pretty much the same thing.

All Nighter

It's 10:30 p.m. and I'm still at work, working on a presentation due tomorrow morning for a billion dollar project. No pressure.

My left eye is twitching.

I think my temporal lobes are starting to melt.

Forgive me if I just nod...aaaaaaaaadkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkajjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj;;;dsacjsajiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

...off.

F U, Phil

We live in a magical world in which a meteorologist can base their predictions of weather patterns on a rodent (that, on one day each year, is wrestled out of a cage in front of junior reporters at dawn and expected to divine whether or not six more weeks of winter is in store) and still receive a paycheck.

Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow this morning, heralding an early Spring. Well guess what? It was fucking cloudy today. Phil didn't see his shadow? Well it must be because Spring is on it's way, because no way does the fact that the sun wasn't out have any bearing on the mind-blowing capabilities of a buck-tooth, ground-dwelling rat to let our civilized culture in on the confusing and undocumented secrets that are cold fronts and barometric pressure.

In an ideal world, the local weatherman would leave work in a 1987 Nissan Stanza to go to the Motel 6 he calls home, eat a couple of ham & cheese Hot Pockets, then drown himself in a bottle of cheap whiskey, listening old Willie Nelson tunes and drunk dialing his ex-wife and her precious new husband, Derek.

And Punxsutawney Phil would be some family's dinner in Mississippi.