Tag: utter waste of time

Pony Party: Mortified, Part Deux

     Welcome to the Second Super Tuesday, Valentine’s Day Pump Priming Pony Party du jour. Show us those purple thumbs (oh, wait – sorry, wrong country). Okay, how about show us your “I Voted!” sticker or a receipt for a Pony Party-approved Valentine’s Day gift (those would be the ones that are NOT from Wal-Mart, Home Depot or Sears) and help yourself to a shot of the Ponies’ 80 proof Primary Antidote!

    Tonight’s special Obamary (or is it Hillama?) edition is brought to you by Bum Wine, for reasons that will become clear later. (We were going to go with the same sponsor as last week – David Nadelberg’s latest book, Mortified: Love is a Battlefield. But when you discover an entire website devoted to wine that the FDA could reclassify as an incredibly bad headache in a bottle, well, there’s just no turning back.)  

    Speaking of our sponsor, you can learn more about such delightful, love-quenching beverages as Thunderbird, MadDog 20/20 and Cisco Red at the website (www.bumwine.com).

    Here’s a tasty little sample: Photobucket


Our research shows that Cisco is actually the second best tasting of the five great bum wines, especially if you’re having one of those hankerings for cheap Vodka, Jello and Robitussin.  We must also note that Cisco is the best of all 5 bum wines at putting the darkest and puffiest bags under your eyes.  The nuclear-tinted color of “Cisco RED” is reminiscent of diesel fuel.  Most Cisco flavors are named by the fruit flavor that they are trying to emulate, but one is simply called “RED.”  This chemical disaster will get your head spinning in no time.  

    The sticky, sickeningly sweet taste with a hint of antifreeze really comes through in the repellant taste of Cisco.  Available in various flavors, 375 mL and 750mL sizes.  Down a whole 750 mL and you had better be ready to clear your calendar as you suffer through Cisco’s legendary 2 day hangover.

    Bottom line: Take one (or more!) of these babies home and discover the satisfaction that comes from drinking “wine” that costs less than bottled water and, in  a pinch, can double as paint thinner, lighter fluid or nail polish remover. Think of it as an economic stimulus package in a screw-top bottle!  

Anyway, back to Mortified, with a quick recap from last week: David’s book revisits first loves with diary entries, letters and songs composed by heartsick adolescents caught in the headlights of love’s hormone-blinding glare. At the end of every chapter, in the “Adult Me says” section, the actual authors have a chance to make peace with the past, achieve closure or whatever the current jargon is for “wrap it up.” It was the “Adult Me” blurbs that inspired my own revelation, below.

    And by the way, considering that there are two versions of Mortified – one about adolescence in general and one looking at first loves — I have to hand it to David. Anybody who can claim authorship of two cult favorites that are both mostly written by other people has totally got this writing thing figured out! Way to go, Dave!!    

    But enough about him. Just reading this book made me think about high school and that made me start looking for the Dramamine. As far as I can tell, there are two kinds of people – the ones who loved high school and the rest of us. I hated it. If water-boarding had been an option back then, I would have seriously considered a brief session if it meant no more high school.

What was the problem? Well, first, I was taller than nearly everyone except the guys on the basketball team. Second, as a professional late-bloomer, I spent most of high school known as the person most likely to be Olive Oyl’s stand-in.

    There were about four of us who were girlfriends mainly because we had no choice. First, we were united by our group crush on the dreamy 11th grade math teacher (seriously – what is it about a man who can do quadratic equations in his head?). Plus, there was our shared disdain for the mainstream “cheerleader today, Junior League tomorrow” look – blue eye shadow, pink lipstick and one demure strand of mock pearls.

    We had our own make-up “statement” — red lipstick and neo-Cleopatra-style black ring-around-the-eyeliner. In one photograph, we look like a pack of raccoons that had just ransacked a cosmetic counter. (In fact, looking back at the old photos, I am no longer surprised that my sister got a huge cedar hope chest with all kinds of linens and who knows what, while I was handed a cigar box with a pair of salt and pepper shakers. It was a nice cigar box, but still….)    

    Obviously, my girlfriends and I didn’t have to worry about our phones ringing off the hook. I can’t recall how many Saturday nights the four of us spent together, painting our toenails and writing stunningly bad poetry. But it’s safe to say it happened pretty often.  

Then, one day toward the end of our junior year, Terry appeared. His parents were getting a divorce and he was staying with a relative while the dust settled. Terry was tall enough not to be intimidated by my 5′ 8,” and he didn’t seem to care about the late-blooming deal.

    And there was another BIG plus:  Terry was actually funny and smart, a pretty rare combination in that town. We became such good friends that I even got him to join the Latin Club (talk about hours of fun!) and we spent all our free time at school together. Mostly with me wishing we could be more than friends but pretty much clueless about how all that worked.

 Since the prom was coming up, I thought Terry would be a good date, and figured that the best way to make that happen was to impress him with something unbelievably wonderful and exotic. So one day at lunch, when we were talking about summer and heat and humidity, I casually mentioned that I really didn’t mind because we had a swimming pool.

Just for context, you should know that in this little town, indoor plumbing was not something you could take for granted. Two bathrooms under the same roof catapulted you into the upper echelons of society. A swimming pool — unheard of! So, of course, Terry was impressed.

    Since we lived way out in the country and most kids were too poor to have cars, it never crossed my mind that he might find out the swimming pool didn’t exist. But, of course, he did. A couple days later, somebody drove him and a few other guys out to our house. A half dozen high school boys on the front porch wearing swimming trunks was nothing short of scandalous. To say my parents totally freaked out would put me in the running for the Understatement Hall of Fame. I can’t remember how long I was grounded for – eternity maybe?

    The only good thing was that the school year was almost over, so the mortification was brief. The summer passed in a long, slow agony of groundedness. In the fall, when school started again, Terry was a no-show.  He probably went to live with one of his parents. Although I prefer to think that he was so crushed by our “break-up” that he packed his bindle and hopped a freight, preferring to drown his sorrows in Thunderbird, Cisco or one of our sponsor’s other memorable liquid refreshments, rather than face a lifetime without me and my imaginary swimming pool.

    ADULT ME SAYS: Terry (if that’s your name, I honestly can’t remember for certain), you’ll never believe this, but I have a swimming pool now!! For real. It’s made of blue plastic and has Sesame Street characters on it. The dogs love it!! Hey — don’t laugh. Okay, fine, be a jerk. Hope you’re enjoying the Thunderbird, loser.

    The ponies have class in a few hours and are pretty distracted, so don’t expect any coherent replies. (And if that’s what you came here for, you’ve obviously never been to a Tuesday night PP.)  Giddy-up on over to the amazing Front Page and Recent & Recommended Diaries, where there are no teen-age boys in swim trunks and the wine bottles have corks and there’s even synapses between the brain cells. Oh … there’s not?  Well, in that case, just stay here, be excellent to each other and try not to break anything.    


Pony Party: Mortified!

     Welcome to an intensely romantic, tingly all over, pre-Valentine’s Day edition of Pony Party, during which we gaze deeply into each other’s eyes — and whoever blinks first buys the next round. That’s fair, isn’t it? Especially since we’re exploring that vast, uncharted, explosive-laden territory called “love.” (Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s where the “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” sign was supposed to go. Shouldn’t it at least be displayed at both places?)  

    Tonight, Pony Party is brought to you by Mortified: Love is a Battlefield by David Nadelberg. David’s earlier book, Mortified: Real People. Real Words. Real Pathetic., dredged up the pain of adolescence with actual quotes from diaries, essays and letters.


    Love is a Battlefield narrows that perspective. The book is an ode to love gone bad, a celebration of defeat, disgrace and dashed hopes that are the essence of first love. (In fact, recalling those disastrous days just makes me wonder – why are we so dogged in our pursuit of an emotion that never fails to turn around and bite us where it hurts most?  Isn’t this like insisting on repeatedly flying in an airplane that was specifically designed to crash and burn? But I digress….)

    Based again on diary entries and love letters, Mortified covers “the boundlessly embarrassing topic of childhood love … unrequited crushes, awkward hookups, odd celebrity infatuations and all manner of romantic catastrophes.”

    Hilarious doesn’t do this book justice – here’s just a teeny tiny little copyright-infringement-free sample:


“Introducing Live Evil: Laurent Martini

              Least Likely to … Roll with His Safety On

I was launched to sink. I was short and fat and had braces and huge glasses. My desperate desire to be cool was most likely only surpassed by my extreme desire to have a girlfriend. Knowing that my looks put me at an insurmountable disadvantage, I decided that the only way to achieve my goal was to become a rock star and form the greatest metal band ever: LIVE EVIL.”

Fueled by a fixation on Motley Crue, and with inhibitions smothered in Jack Daniels and Bailey’s Irish Crème (gak!), Laurent created more than 100 songs, including: “Blame it on the Booze,” “Shot of Jack,” and “Shit for Brains.” Yet, mysteriously, both love and rock stardom remained elusive. Now older and wiser, Laurent has at least come to terms with the failure of his bad-boy rocker dream:    

“The only drawbacks? My upper-middle class upbringing in the San Francisco Marina District, elite private French schooling, and the fact that I was too lazy to actually form the band.”

Of course, all good things come to those who wait, and Laurent demonstrated that some old adages are not complete crocks. He did find a woman and get married. And although that proved to be a short-lived state of bliss, he also got around to the rock band part of his dream. Sadly, it’s … well, I’m going to refrain from commenting. You can experience it for yourself at www.lifeevilrocks.com.  

Laurent’s Live Evil saga is just one of many heart-throbbing tales in Love is a Battlefield. It would be remiss not to mention chapters like Marnie Pomerantz’s “Hot for Teacher,” “My Life as a Biker Babe” by Jane Cantillon and Johanna Stein’s priceless tribute to Led Zeppelin, “Stairway to Winnipeg.” In fact, other than a couple of truly weird ones, the entire book is a hoot.  

    Please, do your Valentine a favor and buy Love is a Battlefield, or at least get it from the library. But do not rec the Pony Party. The ponies are all weepy and their mascara is running from remembering their own adolescent heartbreaks, so get off their backs, okay? Record your own lovesick childhood foolishness in the comments (we won’t laugh, promise! ha ha ha). Then be excellent to yourself and giddy-up on over to the esteemed Front Page and Recent and Recommended Diaries, where there are serious people discussing important issues without bursting into tears and wondering how that bottle could be empty already and if the package store delivery service is still available. Pass me a tissue, would you please?  

UPDATE: The ponies are dragging me off the class. Be back later. Don’t make a mess while I’m gone, you hear? Love you!    

Pony Party: Coming Up Lame!

     A great big Hollywood-style, cleavage-flashing welcome, Pony Party People, from both me and my very newest BFF, the legendary Miss Carmen Electra (save the snide remarks, okay? Without her there’s not going to be a whole lot of cleavage going on, so just be nice, you hear?). Tonight’s very special pre-Valentine’s Day edition of the Pony Party is brought to you by Carmen’s latest venture, the “Electra-Pole Professional Pole Kit,” which combines just two of her many talents — dancer and an “expert in seduction” – in one exciting product!  

    Right about now, you’re probably wondering, “Just how exciting is it?” Well, according to the press release:


“It’s the first professional dance pole designed for use in the home.”

    Pretty great, huh? In fact, they could stop the sales pitch right there, if you ask me, right after the words “professional dance pole.” Because here’s something we can probably all agree on – those amateur poles are just not happening. And now, thankfully, those days are over!  

    So far, so good. But wait … there’s more! Just in case you’re not convinced yet, the British distributor, Peekaboo Palace, has come up with the Five Big Reasons to Buy.  

1.   “Ready to unleash your inner sexiness?”   (Oh, hell, yeah — who isn’t?)

2.   “Perform any kind of move, like spins and flips and even inverts.”  (Excellent, I been waiting to cross those off the To Do list.)

3.  It “goes up and down” in a mere five minutes.  (A personal favorite — no more time wasted on account of pesky set-up problems with those amateur poles.)

4.    Perfect for experts and beginners, too, the Electra-Pole will have you “dancing and spinning around with more basic moves as you find your pole dancing feet.” (Feet? Pole dancing is about feet? Okay, if you say so.)

5.    “It will help you get the body of your dreams today!” (First thought – somebody’s been hitting the hyperbole bottle pretty hard. But who knows? Maybe it really depends on what body you’re dreaming about.)  


Pony Party: You Want to What???

     Welcome to a very special edition of Pony Party, brought to you by the losers at the Hollywood Foreign Press Association (HFPA), who currently have nothing better to do than hang around a horse barn. Normally, we would still be basking in the reflected glow of the overdressed ordeal celebrating professional incest known as the Golden Globe Awards. But nooooo – the HFPA had to cave in to a bunch of writers!  

    Seriously, HFPA members, have you ever met a writer — or even seen one in person?  They’re a bunch of weirdos who spend all their time thinking about serial commas, gerund phrases and reflexive pronouns. What are you afraid of – that they might give you a paper cut? Throw a pencil at you? Spell your name wrong? Here’s a clue: the word “writer” comes from the Old Norse “haukur dorgeirsson guðlaugsson” which translates loosely as “spends all day in pajamas pretending to work.”

     Anyways, we’re not intimidated by a bunch of good-for-nothing writers around here, so on with the show! This week’s topic: Necessity really is the mother of invention. Out of necessity, I have decided to invent something that makes it impossible for the human brain to recognize specific phrases. Example: Mine will be programmed not to hear “blind date” or its euphemisms — “There’s someone you should meet,” “I think you’ll really like him,” or the kiss of death — “You two are perfect for each other!” When these phrases are spoken, my brain will just go blank, not that that’s unusual, but lately hearing people speak these words has made my hair stand on end, and to be honest, it’s just not a good look for me.

    Back story: I’m at home, quietly minding my own business (probably staring at the wall or something equally exciting), when my friend Casey calls and says there’s someone she wants me to meet (down, hair, get down!). First of all, Casey is on husband number four, and these two could teach Whitney and Bobby a few things about domestic disputes, so clearly this part of her “Operation Misery Loves Company” effort. Plus, having been down Blind Date Street a few times before – and having gotten car-sick every single time — I go all girly on her and burst into tears.

    “Oh, come on!” she says. “He’s different!” (Note: “different” in this context should not be interpreted to mean anything. It’s just a distraction designed to keep the listener from crying even harder.)

    “He’s sophisticated, great sense of humor, and I’m pretty sure he’s not an axe murderer.” That Casey — what a wit! Well, okay, but could we talk on the phone first?


Pony Party: Now Who Looks Like a Dope?

     Welcome to the Pony Party Special Hands-Free Edition, brought to you tonight by Dr.  Phil, for so astutely diagnosing Britney Spears as being “in dire need of help.” Thank you, Dr. Obvious. The guys down at the tractor pull were saying this last year, and the four-year-old next door phoned it in way before you did. But the good news is you’re now a leading contender for the first annual Bill “Diagnosis by Video” Frist Award for practicing medicine without any apparent medical knowledge.

    And now, without further ado, we present a very special Pony Party segment — “Now Who Looks Like a Dope?” complete with re-creations from the Los Angeles Chapter of the Archives of Overhead Cell Phone Conversations.      

Pony Party: How Low Can You Go?

Greetings from the land that substance completely forgot (Southern California!) and welcome to the Pony Party Special “How Low Can You Go?” New Year’s Day edition. Brought to you tonight by DoodyDude (www.doodydude.com), because – given the subject matter and the author — it just seems fitting to link to a company devoted to shoveling sh*t. (Have to admit, though, it seems that I can still be shocked – there’s an Association of Professional Animal Waste Specialists — WTF??? Would it be redundant to say “holy crap” at this point?)

Pony Party: Let’s Get It On!


Greetings from Ground Zero for all things silly and superficial (aka, Hollywood), and welcome to the Pony Party Totally Augmented Edition, brought to you by the “30 Minute!! Breast Enlargement” (Great Financing Available!), which I am so not making up.  (Note to doctor: thanks for the bulk mail postcard offering your services, but I’m gonna pass. Small quibble: not sure how many anatomy classes you missed in medical school, but re: the “scarless, soft, natural” breasts you’re offering – those are already standard equipment on all the Double X chromosome models. Just thought you should know…)  

Burning Pony Party Question du Jour – forget that time’s running out on the annual epidemic of madness, honoring the holy trinity of Visa, MasterCard and American Express, during which otherwise sane people part with way, WAY more money than they should and spend the next eleven months looking for a country that has no extradition treaty with the U.S. regarding consumer debt.  

Let’s get right to the good stuff – New Year’s Eve, baby! This entire year has pretty much sucked big time. Just like many of those before it. So how about something different? Something – hmm, what’s that word? Starts with an “FU”-no, not that one, the one you never hear anymore. Oh, yeah, FUN!

You know you want it! Even if you can’t remember what it feels like to laissez les bon temps roulez! So let’s get busy, party people. Let’s put aside our pathetic pleas for justice and begging for an end to torture and wiretaps. Take a deeeeeeeep breath, and exhale. Good! Now visualize the Republicans (and a pretty good chunk of Democrats) where they belong — featured on “America’s Most Wanted: Multiple Felonies with No Plea Bargains Allowed Special Edition”! Feel the tension fall away as your jaw finally unclenches and your hair stops standing on end. Very nice!

Now let’s keep it going by indulging in a little fantasy: If you could spend New Year’s Eve partying — guilt-free, with no regrets and no need to hire a good defense attorney afterward — with anyone on the planet, who would be the lucky person?

Giddyup! And remember: Do not rec the Pony Party (Seriously, you were going to rec this??? How drunk are you? Give me the car keys right now, okay?) Just divulge your innermost fantasies for December 31 and begone with you, while I snicker over your choices stand in awe of your outstanding taste. The critically acclaimed Front Page awaits, with late-breaking news, insightful analysis and actual substance, none of which you’re in danger of finding here