The Hills Are Alive...With the Sound of Octuplets

I've seen quite a few musicals in my life--from The Music Man, Fiddler On the Roof and The Sound of Music to A Chorus Line, Chicago, Annie--even Jekyll & Hyde. But I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like this

I can only imagine the songs it will include. I'm sure there's a catchy "Embryos (Put Them In Me)" number being written right now...

Random iPhone Apps I Think They Should Make

The Nonconfrontational App— When you’re trying to avoid calling someone, it automatically sends out the obligatory, seemingly genuine, text message: “Sorry I haven’t been able to call. Things have been nuts at work.”

The Levitra App—Increases the size of your iPhone by up to three inches. Note: If phone remains enlarged for longer than four hours, consult iPhone support.

The “Man Plunging To His Death” Ring Tone—Begins with a loud, dramatic Ahhhh!, then fades to an unpleasant Thunk!, followed by morbid silence.

The WOPR App—Transposes your voice to emulate the robotic speech pattern of the War Games’ super computer “Joshua.”

The Biological Clock App—[For women who wish to bear children] Ticks away the time that remains until your womb is barren of its fertile eggs. (Ominous warning signals when you’re within final hours of “drying up.”)

Horseshoes

To Hell and Back

One of our wine clients has teamed up with Hell’s Kitchen and Gordon Ramsay for a yearlong promotion featuring wine pairings with the infamous chef’s recipes. In order to generate awareness and excitement amongst wholesalers and consumers, I had to write a few scripts for Mr. Ramsey. (Needless to say, I sprinkled enough f-bombs in these scripts to put the FCC’s knickers in a twist.) The outcome of this was that, a couple of weeks ago, some coworkers and I got to visit the set of Hell’s Kitchen to record Gordon Ramsay saying these very Ramsay-esque things.

When we arrived at the set, the first thing I noticed about it was how much it looked like a real restaurant. It was stunning! An epic crystal chandelier hung over the translucent, blue-lit HK double-door entryway—much like something you would see at the Bellagio in Vegas. There were a series of curved booths with padded seats along both sides. All of the tables on one half of the “restaurant” had red plates while the other half had blue, to represent each of the teams on the show. The enormous kitchen was located at the front, with one portion red, and the other blue.

We set our purses and coats aside so as to be out of the peripheral view of the camera. I wasn’t sure if we could affect the set design, so I set my coat, sweater and purse on the floor—unbeknownst to me, over a hot light. About 10 minutes later, I suddenly started to feel the early stages of a headache. I returned to my purse and knelt down to dig some Advil out of it when I detected a powerful burning smell. I looked over and saw that my coat was smoking! Immediately, I picked my coat up to discover that the hot light had ignited my gray, wool sweater. The nearby teleprompter girl and I shared a nervous laugh over it. (Later on, I learned that it had actually burned a perfectly, round, floorlight-sized hole in my sweater.) Yes, I almost started a fire in Hell’s Kitchen.

Ramsay arrived over a half-hour late. He apologized with the excuse that he was sick with something vile—‘yellow fever, typhoid fever…some kind of fucking flu.’ We knew right away that he was in sour spirits.

He danced around, on-edge and rattled off the first of four scripts that I wrote—which were scrolling through the teleprompter.

“Bloody hell! Who wrote this?” He spouted.

Immediately, I wanted to hide underneath one of the Hell’s Kitchen tables.

After a few more reads, he ranted again, “Fucking who wrote this?”

“He hates me,” I whispered to his rep, Monica, as I cowered behind the scripts in my hand.

“This tastes like poodle shit!” Ramsey said to the camera. Then he turned to us, “Do I fucking say this? Really?”

“He’s just shocked to realize that he cusses so much,” Katrina, one of his other agency reps, assured me.

As Ramsay bounced around on his feet like a highly caffeinated white-clothed demon, he finally made it through both wholesaler scripts, one of which featured all of the expletives. (Hey, nothing gets sales guys fired up like a good old-fashioned f-bomb or two delivered by the ornery King of Criticism.) After that, Ramsay read the consumer script, which was pleasantly ‘fuck’-free, so as to not offend Mom in the grocery store. Lastly, he breezed through the website sound bites. In my favorite one, he said, “Do me a favor: Fuck off!”

Several more times through the recording of the scripts, he cursed to himself and the teleprompter. Then he commented dryly, “Whoever fucking wrote this must be a fucking HUGE fan of the show.” (Note: I’ve never actually seen the show. But I watched a lot of YouTube clips and read several interviews in order to accurately capture Ramsay’s speaking manner and persona.)

Once the taping was finished, each of us got our photos taken with him. When I asked if he would pose in a picture with me, he warmly put his arm around me, squeezed my waist tightly, and beamed, “Look at this tall, beautiful woman beside me!” Whether he truly meant it or he simply felt bad because of his earlier remarks, I blushed, and immediately, forgot all of his insults. That Ramsay, he’s a charmer!


* * *

After all of our photos were taken, Gordon Ramsay thanked us heartily, commended us on our brilliant promotion, and then headed out the door with fire at his heels to start prepping the kitchen for that night’s episode of Hell’s Kitchen.

It's Business Time

This past Saturday, I came home at 3:30 a.m. to find the dumpster and a black motorcycle in my parking spot. Shit. Why did this have to happen at this time? I was tired and frustrated. And I couldn’t exactly honk my horn so the perpetrator would come outside. Hell, it was 3:30 in the morning! I wanted to go to sleep…

Fuck it, I thought. I’ll just move the dumpster and motorcycle myself.

As soon as I put my Mazda into park and opened the door, a rotund African-American guy trudged down the stairs towards me. “Is that your spot?” He asked coolly.

“Yeah,” I said. “And somebody needs to move their shit,” I muttered, with a bit of irritation in my voice.

“I’m movin’ it,” he responded, shuffling towards his bike.

“You need to help me move the dumpster, too.” I told him.

Just then, my 40-something, female upstairs neighbor yelled out over the balcony angrily. She shook her fist at me, and in some sort of thick Slavic accent, she screamed, “You don’t talk to my customers like that!”

What? Customers? Does that mean what I THINK it means?

Yes folks, a hooker lives above me.

“Listen, I’m tired. I just want to park my car and go to bed,” I responded as calmly I could, thinking she would follow suit. But for some reason, this made her even more infuriated. Maybe she didn’t understand me.

“Fuck you, bitch! Go the fuck home!”

Keep your pants on, sister. (Well, at least until you get back to work.) I just wanted to pull into my parking spot. After all, it’s my spot.

“Fuck you, shit-cunt! Go home, bitch!” she screamed at me. Jeez. It was as if I was being verbally assaulted by a Russian hooker with Tourette’s. She kept screaming curse words at me maniacally. I was beginning to get scared. What if she unleashed holy hooker hellfire on me or did something crazy to my car—like slashed the tires?

Her customer moved his motorcycle behind someone else’s vehicle, and I backed my Mazda into my spot. When I got out of my car, my upstairs neighbor was still hanging over the balcony screaming, “Fuck you, bitch!” I walked towards her, and replied as pleasantly as I could, “Hey, all I wanted to do was park my car in my spot. I’ve had a really long day…”

She cut me off and screeched, “Don’t fucking talk to me like that! Fucking cunt! Bitch, go the fuck home!” She was enraged—like she wanted to claw my eyes out. Jesus, it was the middle of the night. I really didn’t give a shit what she was up to at this hour, as long it didn’t involve my parking space.

I gave up trying to reason with her. As I silently passed her on the way to my apartment, she hung over the balcony and yelled smugly, “That’s right, bitch! Go home! Have a good night!”

I unlocked my door and stepped inside, completely baffled by what just took place. Based on the incidents at hand, here’s what I concluded:

1) My upstairs neighbor is a hooker.

2) She has little grasp of the English language—except for a few choice curse words. “Bitch” and “cunt” appear to be her favorites.

3) It’s clear that she doesn’t like me. (Note: Before this incident, I’ve tried to say, “Hi” to her on several occasions, and she completely ignored me and/or gave me a dirty look. Does she think I’m going to steal her customers? Or maybe she thinks “Hi” means “rancid crotch.” I should discreetly slip a list of useful English greetings and phrases at her door. Yeah, that would help.)

4) She lets her “customers” park wherever they damn well please. What is this…Whore Depot?

5) Apparently, it doesn’t take much to make her fly off the handle.

And lastly...
6) she struck me as being psychotic. I am now somewhat scared of her.

Smells Like Dinosaurs

You’ve always been one to say what’s on your mind.

You speak freely about things like ice-skating, Martha Stewart, robots, teddy bears, salad tossing, Satan. Hey, you’re in a safe, comfortable environment. Why the hell not?

Little did you know, your little love-muffin-sugar-dumpling-honey-pie-sweetie-cakes was listening to your every word, documenting your deliberate responses, noting each sarcastic nugget of brilliance…

only to later, post it on a website.

Well, folks, it’s true. There is, indeed, such a site. And I stumbled upon it. (I swear, you could google “Mother Teresa” and discover a page dedicated to Himalayan goat porn.)

While somewhat offensive, these gems are pretty funny. But I’m not sure how each comment was remembered so clearly. Was her Victoria’s Secret Biofit® Bra tapped?

Regardless, you can check it out here.

Why Listen to Anything Else When You Can Listen To This?

“The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules…”

--Rob Gordon from Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity”



My love of the mix tape began when I was nine years old. My dad gave me a blank Memorex cassette and told me to record songs off Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 Countdown that he’d like. Toto’s “Africa,” Styx’s “Mr. Roboto,” and Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ “Come On Eileen” (his favorite) all made the cut. This became a Sunday morning ritual.

A couple of years later, I got a radio/tape player for Christmas and started making my own compilations. Adam Ant, Culture Club and Prince were among my playlist regulars. To balance out their eyeliner and pirate shirt androgyny, I’d sprinkle in a few balls-out dirty boys from K-SHE 95’s “Monday Night Metal” show—AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne and Scorpions.

In high school, I graduated to indie and modern rock mixes—primarily created from Les Aaron’s “New Music Sunday.” Oh, there were always a couple of radio hits mingling with them. At any given moment, songs like “Under the Milky Way” and “A Question of Lust” might be followed by “Push It” and “The Humpty Dance.”

Since then, I’ve created a multitude of mix tapes. These evolved to mix CDs—LOTS of ‘em—for birthdays, holidays, barbecues, bachelorette parties, etc. And in recent years, I’ve become somewhat known for my eclectic mixes (at least amongst my friends).

When it comes to the collection of particular tracks, I rarely follow a theme. Usually, I just burn a bunch of songs onto a CD that I’ve been digging lately (and that I think the person I’m making it for would like). I always throw a few wild cards in the mix—say, Nazareth or Nenah Cherry. No matter what makes the cut, though, I have to agree with Mr. Gordon. The making of a great compilation is all about creating a flow—one that allows you to go from Pixies to The Go! Team to The Game to Dilated Peoples to Beck to Michael Jackson to T. Rex—as if these artists were all meant to hang together in the same space.

At this point, you’re probably asking yourself, why is she going on and on about mix tapes? Who gives a shit? Why am I reading this? Where’s my bong?

Well, all of this is leading up to a kick-ass website that I discovered yesterday. If you like mix tapes as much as I do, then you need to check this out IMMEDIATELY. The site is muxtape.com. And its reason for being is the same simple reason you make a mix tape: To share your music with someone else. Only, in this case, you can share it with many people. Granted, this site is pretty bare-bones. No cool graphics or cutting-edge flash intros. No catchy links running along the side or smart-ass comments from satisfied or unsatisfied users. Regardless, I thought it was pretty cool. After all, it’s all about the music, right?

And of course, I made a mix tape on it—which you can check out here*.

*NOTE: My songs might not currently play due to technical errors. They played yesterday. But today, there seems to be a bit of difficulty. I assure you, though, when the über-geniuses at the muxtape.com help desk get the glitch figured out and fixed, be prepared to fill up on MAJOR ear candy. In the meantime, make your own sweet mix.

I Love a Parade

While watching the film version of “Oliver” the other day, I pondered this question: What if LIFE was one, big musical? Frustration could be expressed through a string of melodic expletives. Awkward silences would be filled with beguiling lyrics. Getting a root canal or waiting in line for the bathroom might be more bearable. And at a routine stop at the gas station, if you saw a bum grab his junk while you pumped, you could probably make a pretty catchy song out of it.

No doubt, every day would be entertaining, and you could overcome just about any obstacle. For instance…

1. You’re trying to explain something to someone, and they’re STILL not getting it. Did they ride the freakin’ short bus to school? You put it in a happy, little tune and…FINALLY, it sinks in. NOTE: Sometimes you need to spell it out, as in “Doe. A deer. A female deer. Bitch. A dog. A female dog.”

2. You’re trying to trick a crowd into buying into your crap, and they’re not falling for it. But when you turn it into all-group sing-along, suddenly, you have ‘em eating out of the palm of your hand. (It’s a little creepy, though, if you’re a grown man trying to start an all-boys marching band in a small town. Just sayin’…)

3. You are at a drinking establishment and trying to avoid a previous hook-up: “Shit! He/she saw me!” Now what? Engage the crowd in song, and while everyone is dancing their asses off all Pappy McSlappy with a pint o’ Paulaner in their grimy mitts, you cut out through the side door, easy-peasy.

4. People are much more willing to accept your deep, dark secrets—no matter how embarrassing or controversial—when expressed through song. Like if you’re a [sweet] transvestite. Share it in a splashy, garter belt ‘n’ feather boa-wearin’ number, and…instant moral support!

5. You can sing about anything—even whores—and somehow, it manages to sound somewhat sugary and innocent.

6. Drinking naturally lends itself to singing—which means after you've sucked down a few cocktails, it would be perfectly acceptable—if not ENCOURAGED—to break into robust song so as to share your happiness, albeit temporary, with everyone else around you.

7. You can openly express how you feel about someone without fear of ridicule. Granted, this usually works best if the feeling is mutual. Of course, there’s still a slight risk that you could make an ass out of yourself—in which case, you may find yourself in situation #6, ultimately leading to #11.

8. You can share the salacious details of a liason (without really sharing TOO much) through a series of clever rhyming euphemisms.

9. You can openly discuss plastic surgery you’ve had—from the breast augmentation that’s changed your life to the “angry inch” that remains from your botched penile removal.

10. The most ordinary activities—from bowling to cleaning the chimney sweep—are suddenly injected with a little excitement.

11. You can invite someone to engage in a bit of questionable behavior without sounding like a complete ‘ho. (Okay, you MIGHT sound like a ‘ho.)

12. It’s an effective way to remember someone’s name—although it might be a LITTLE obvious if you immediately break into a song with his/her name in it upon first meeting. (I’d wait until they were out of hearing range.)

13. If you don’t have a GPS in your car, it’s a simple way to remember directions—even if you take same road all the way to your destination. (Like if it’s yellow and brick.)

14. Jazz hands and fan kicks would be just as common as high-fives and flippin’ the bird.

15. Lastly, if something truly excites you, there’s no greater way to express your affection than through song. (Honestly, though, I can’t imagine singing about a parade. They get old after a while. I mean…Shriners and clog dancers and baton twirlers? After the first 10 floats, I’m ready for the after-party. But that’s just me.)