Fergie's Glamorous Is Flossy Flossy

The first time I heard Fergie's Glamorous I was wearing a tuxedo with the bowtie in my pocket and ordering a Red Bull and vodka at the gentleman's club across from The Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway that goes by the clever name of Flashdancers.

At the time, I didn't know it was Fergie. I wouldn't have expected it to be her. When I was last in L.A., the valley girls were using the term "Fergie Bad" to describe gross faux paus in vernacular and/or attire. And then my friend Ralph saw her on Lexington and 53rd and said she was short and had bad acne.

The short thing doesn't bother me and the acne usually befalls pretty girls after a night of clubbing, dancing ... which brings me back to the strip club and the stunning silhouette of a girl shaking her hips to the Glamorous, the flossy, flossy and my friend buying me a lap dance so I am ensconced in wickedly divisive perfume.

It was during American Idol, the one where Fergie appeared on the undercard with Prince. She was great, whatever she sang, but before she took the stage the girls in the room where I was watching the show were speculating that she might sing Glamorous and I asked them to sing the chorus and one of them did and I recognized the song and my nose filled with perfume.

I heard it on a narrow road in the misty Ring of Kerry and I heard it on Chambers Street when cutting crosstown from the Brooklyn Bridge to West Street. The same stretch where I heard My Humps the first time. Fergie made that track, but I still think of it as a Black Eyed Peas thing and there ain't nothing better than sipping a fantastic Bloody Mary on a golf course in Santa Barbara while the guy about to tee-off starts humming that song to relax and pepper ends up in your nose from a spontaneous guffaw.

I watch the video via the Web 2.0 and listen to it on my gaming speakers and not only enjoy it, I get it. "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home" ain't a mantra for a gold digger, it's her dad's message that she'll always have a roof over her head, so she can go for it.

I wonder if the stripper on the pole at Flashdancers got that message or if after the four millionth time she released the hook on her bra while that song was on it has become white noise. Perhaps she too knows the evil nature of money is you can always add ... That's why I hate math, books have a conclusion. Blessedly, so does subtraction.

Thank you, Fergie! Thank you for making me look up the word flossy. Oh yeah, nice lady lumps, too.

Trip to Ireland

Our spacious coach.


Dead cat on Dingle sidewalk.


Music is woven in Irish culture.


Ring of Kerry shrouded in mist.


My Irish lass on the shores of Lahinch.


We averaged one photo per 10 kilometers.


Cliffs of Moher.


Couldn't drag me away ...


Johnny Cash's home away from home, Markree Castle in Sligo.


A moment with Yeats.


Pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.


Giant's Causeway.


The head of Saint Oliver Plunkett, on display in Drogheda.


Glendalough.


Tis himself in Wicklow.


Henry Street in Dublin and the "Stiletto in the Ghetto."


Happy to travel abroad (From left: Jackie, Sophie, Fiona and Hester).


The Ha'penny Bridge over the River Liffey.


Erin Go Bragh!

Lindsay Campbell: The Maria Bartiromo of Web 2.0

Last week, enthralled by the short squeeze on Jones Soda (Nasdaq: JSDA), I came across a clip on Wallstrip where its host, Lindsay Campbell, conducted a taste test of the company's carbonated beverages on the streets of New York.

Lindsay looked exquisite and her dalliance enhanced a poignant piece. It seems the producers of Wallstrip took a page from CNBC by casting an alluring brunette to sex up content which can often be convoluted and boring much the way Maria Bartiromo has done throughout her career. Bartiromo's stardom has CNBC committed to replicating her success with the likes of Erin Burnett and Rebecca Jarvis, while other innovators eagerly seek to do the same.

Makes sense. Casting attractive women to relay business news plays to the primal lust associated with Gordon Gekko's idea of greed being good. And what better way to placate the ego of the rich and powerful and often hideously unattractive financiers, who dance among these beauties like marionettes with their emotions in check, which may be why the Naked News format hasn't taken over, yet.

Maria Bartiromo is in a class by herself with an impressive background in business and financial journalism. In fact, New York Magazine once described her as the doyenne of the New York Stock Exchange. Haughty praise, but well earned and validated by her continued eloquence.

Enter Lindsay Campbell, an accomplished actress and dancer with no financial background, who brings a theatrical quality to Wallstrip that is sorely missing from CNBC, FOX and Bloomberg. Her platform, a three minute video often shot in front of a green screen, allows for more creativity, is cheaper to produce, and has a greater shelf life.

As news seekers jump the pond of traditional print and broadcast media to the Googlicious ocean of the InterWeb, they are less inclined to come back. And why should they? They get what they want, when they want it and the content magnates can monetize it a click at a time. In this period of expansion, new media personalities such as Lindsay will continue to emerge, but there will be plenty of room for our old favorites, too.

Hunter S. Thompson Interviews Keith Richards

Check it out ... There's about ten seconds of choppy film in the beginning, then Keith Richards and Hunter S. Thompson mumble through memories of the sixties beside some healthy looking cannabis sativa. The actual interview runs about five minutes then segues into "Eileen" by Keith Richards and The Expensive Winos. Kudos to 88medicine88 for the post.

Liz Cho Is Pregnant

Had it not been for HDTV, I would still be oblivious to the fact that Liz Cho is pregnant. While I did think her boobs seemed a bit bigger of late, it was a natural progression, not like the overnight, in-your-face Ivanka Trump implants, but during the intro to last night's broadcast, her form fitting black dress seemed to hug the little bun in her oven as warmly as she no doubt will one day. Of course it was only for a moment and then that super blue Channel 7 banner was thrown over her, cloaking her secret like da Vinci. She also seems to be seated somewhat higher in her chair these days. Perhaps her rotund belly would push her too far back from the desk for the producer's comfort.

Wikipedia says that she is due in June. For nearly eight months, my fiancee and I were blind to this story, even though we watch Eyewitness News each night. How did it get by us? How come this hasn't been widely reported? One of People's 50 Most Beautiful is spawning and it's a secret! I deduce that while her bust is shown in segues sometimes, often the camera focuses on her porcelain face, which remains a mask of professionalism despite the little bundle of joy incubating beneath the studio lights.

Her look of late has been a bit matronly, far from the fashion forward styles she usually flaunts. Then again, Nancy O'Dell didn't let her bulge get in the way of her evening wear during the Miss Universe pageant.

Liz Cho and Nancy O'Dell, pregnant at the same time. What can I say, it's been a busy year.

Miles From Wicklow

Damp spirits from damp weather, then sunshine appears like the shamrock at St. Patrick's feet. Sad pipers at funeral procession for fallen brothers march down Fifth Avenue's invisible green line, sure-footed like the Fightin' 69th. Somber mood venerated by Nancy O'Dell's propagation of our proud species.

In Brooklyn, blond hair like gold at the bottom of a prospector's pan shines upon a milky wool sweater beside red hair battling a green scarf for supremacy in the glare of almighty Farrell's. My Ireland wells up ... writers, fighters, igniters of warmth beneath the threatening clouds.

Bills and cigar reviews take precedence, put off from exhausting travel through the Tuscon desert to the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame where The Clash speak to me as do the broad shoulders of Jimi Hendrix and the sublime philosophy of Roger Waters.

Years past spent on parade route and Emerald Society pier party, but this year brings a slow start til U2 rattles and hums the reminder that we are poets and scoundrels, salt of the earth conquerors in ancient taverns with quick wit and welcoming smiles beneath the glow of melancholy eyes. The world is on loan and we Irish thank you, Jesus, in the name of our intrepid saint.

Write, right to the bar, hoist, hoist a cigar and whiskey, whiskey in my jar-o, two, two pints of brew before the day is through, through with these words, I love you.

Weird Long Beard Press, Brooklyn.

Sushi Cooked in Brooklyn Blaze

Sushi Yama in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn caught fire this frost bit February morning.

It happened around 2 a.m., sirens, one after the other, blared down Prospect Park West to the block between where Al Pacino screamed "Attica!" in Dog Day Afternoon and Jack Nicholson took Helen Hunt for rolls in As Good As It Gets.

The hot flames seemed inviting to those gathered outside in the frigid air as NYC's Bravest contained them as quickly as a Mario Batali flambe. But the choking smoke was a harsh rebuke as it filled the street seeping into one's clothes like an offensive department store spray.







At least five engine and ladder companies responded to the alarm with a swarm of EMTs in tow. The street shined like Times Square with search beams and flashing lights ricocheting off the buildings in the cold, dark night. A start contrast to this afternoon, where the broken glass and ashes were all that was left of the proprietor's hopes and dreams.





As far as I know, no one was hurt.

Happy Birthday Danny Boy

I am officially an uncle.

My nephew Daniel came into the world this afternoon and according to my sister, he was screaming and peeing all over the place. Well done, young man, well done. I can see you and I already have a lot in common.

Big ups to Dee, Marty and Grandma and Grandpa since this uncle won't be changing any dirty diapers.

Milk Crates

A writer doomed by his lack of memory must resort to fiction or the testimony of an eyewitness.

This is no fiction, dear reader.

Sure my recollection is hazy, but I can still sense the emotions, the smearing lights, and the raving madness I inspired in the Village one night.

On the approach to my lady's abode, after a considerable amount of carousing, I stopped at the corner store that we affectionately refer to as The Korean.

I'm not sure of my motive, but judging from the angle at which I conversed with the merchant, I believe I was withdrawing money from the ATM to purchase more beer.

The pressure on my kidneys was volcanic. I asked the merchant if I could use his restroom and he snarled at me and said he didn't have one.

In the background, my lady said, “let's go home, you can use the bathroom there,” but I was vexed.

"Criminal! Savage! To refuse your restroom is against the law! I shall call the police!”

The merchant took this as an idle threat even though I dialed 911 on my cell phone. He was right. I knew better than to send the call, the bugger had called my bluff.

I exited the store and nearly fell over a milk crate lying by its entrance. It sputtered onto the street. I snatched the thing and without a moment’s hesitation, I fired it at the storefront with all my might.

The empty box ricocheted off the window and bounced back toward me as if the glass was armor. Hysterically, the merchant flew out of the door, screeching like a spoiled child who’s mother has told him no.

He drew forth another milk crate and charged me with wrath in his eyes. I retrieved mine off the pavement and faced him head on.

We were within striking distance. He rattled his crate and I rattled mine back, but we never came to blows. I could feel his momentum ebb as I, too, had called his bluff.

My girlfriend, amused by the absurdity of it all, offered a quid pro quo where I drop my shabby bludgeon in return for a slice of Joe’s Pizza at her expense. Drawn to the brighter flame, I flicked the box aside and came to a gushing realization that I still had to piss.



And piss I did, good reader.

Let Freedom Reign

Donald Trump and Miss USA

Rumors that Miss USA, Tara Elizabeth Conner, may bequeath her crown due to disreputable conduct have been spattered in the tabloids from NYC to Sydney, Australia. Apparently, The Donald will deliberate this week with George and Ivanka to decide whether or not to fire her like some schmuck on The Apprentice or stand behind her like a true patriot.

So what if she's not a priss. That's not why our blessed grunts are spilling their precious blood over seas. If we wanted our women to tow the line and sacrifice their souls for some bullshit Leave It to Beaver ideal, then why bother with the Taliban and those holy warriors in Iraq.

Miss USA Tara Conner

So what if Miss USA has taken the term "bottle whore" to a new level by consuming vast amounts of blow while distributing the same to every club owner in the Meat Packing District. And so what if she drinks alcohol like a failed writer on the dole, even if she is underage, she's been able to comport herself more maturely than our other anointed southern belle.

Is anyone truly surprised that Miss USA is a coke snorting, cock smoking socialite? Did we honestly believe Paris Hilton was unique? This is America. If a gorgeous, successful 20-year-old can't live a little, what have we become?

Alas, the great bastion of morality that is Trump will seize back the crown to preserve the austerity of his franchise and America's perverse infatuation with beauty pageants less he condone this image for Miss Teen USA to follow. (Like it ain't too late.)

Miss USA Tara Conner

Perhaps it's best. Once Tara is dethroned, our patron saint of freedom and the American Dream will come to her rescue. If only Hef had a cape, but I suppose a private jet and the Girls Next Door are close enough. Our fallen angel can cash in with a spread in Playboy and do her country proud.

Let the grunts plaster her centerfold in their dust filled barracks to remember what they're fighting for while they scoop beans out of a can. Or better yet, let's superimpose our naked beauty queen on the front of every charging tank and swooping Blackhawk as a refutation to those who treat women as subjects and fear what freedom will bring -- equality, a lust for life, and a plethora of amusing gossip columns.

To the Left, to the Left

Everything you own in the box to the left.

I played Beyonce's Irreplaceable video on Yahoo! Launch a half dozen times this evening. Perhaps it's my impending departure from PR Newswire that makes it relevant, not that the corporation is a sugar mama who caught me driving another girl around in the car that it bought me, but more like I'm the scorned lover and you must not know bout me.

It's hard for me not to gush over everything Beyonce does, but this song is immensely beautiful, so much so that I am convinced Victoria's Secret should have had its models parade down the runway in a bra and hot curlers, but I don't think any of them are ready for this jelly.

Speaking of which, last night I sat on the couch and watched Gisele run to and from the catwalk in high definition, a brave new world even Huxley would enjoy. While it's true there is not a trace of cellulite on any of these ethereal specimens, there is only so long one can stare at Karolina Kurkova's cameltoe before feeling imbecilic, or gaze in wonder at Justin Timberlake's head, which is as perfectly round as a bowling ball. Not that I want to hurt him in anyway, but I can't shake the image of his head spinning in the ball return at Chelsea Piers; bringing sexy back, I guess.

Nor could I shake the image of Al Sharpton prancing down the catwalk wearing those angel wings, no doubt an amalgamation of the local news tease and effervescent eye candy. I neglected to mention I was smoking a fine Cohiba cigar and sipping a chilled Winterfest, which enhanced the juxtaposition of NYC outlawing trans fat, the Dunkin Donut's Fritalian jingle, and the filler of Gisele saying she wanted to wrap it up cause she was hungry. Naturally, I imagined her and the other models hitting up the drive thru at Taco Bell followed by the lipstick smirk of Channel 7's Bill Ritter saying with a simultaneous air of incredulity and twinkle in his eye that they all became sick due to the E. coli outbreak. Poor Adriana Lima, shown spitting up green onions with ripped hot sauce packs in her lap, but I digress. Has anyone seen Liz Cho?

To the left, to the left, everything you own in the box to the left.

So don't you ever for a second get to thinkin you're irreplaceable.

LAst night

Had a few martinis before going over to the Staples Center to watch the Kings game. Ended up back at the hotel lounge. There was a guy at the bar talking football with the bartender, saying he liked the Pats this week with the points. For some reason, I volunteered that I liked the Colts and we went on from there. He had tinted glasses and the look of a man who fancied himself a professional gambler. He was armed with the sports sections from the previous four days to study how the lines moved.

I asked him what he thought about the upcoming Giants vs. Bears match up and he jumped all over it, saying he'd take the G-Men and he was certain they'd be favored. I told him I thought so, too, then went on a riff about how Rex Grossman was due to blow up because he played for Steve Spurrier and Spurrier's a jinx. Drunken blather, no doubt, but it made for lively conversation.

The gent finished his drink and gathered up his papers and I overheard the bartender say, "Have a good night, Mr. Z," before coming over to see if I knew who he was. Of course I hadn't a clue.

Turns out Mr. Z is Anthony E. Zuiker, creator of CSI.

CSI Creator Anthony Zuiker.

I had another drink at the bar before it closed then went back to the room and delved into the mini bar, which was not a good idea.

Ended up puking in the sink this morning while reading the Hilton Earthquake Safety guide, which for some reason was nearby. It happens to apply to hangovers, too.

1. Stay calm.

2. Stand in an open doorway with your back to the door, or crouch under a heavy piece of furniture such as a couch or heavy table. Hold onto the furniture and be prepared to move with it.

3. Stay clear of windows and pictures.

4. Avoid standing near shelves, armoires, book cases or other top-heavy items.

5. If in a crowded area, do not rush to the door. The chances of being trampled are greater than the chances of being injured by the earthquake.

6. Since emergency and disaster agencies require first priority to the public telephone system, please do not use the phone except in an emergency.

7. If outside, stand away from the building, trees, power lines and other suspended objects.

8. DO NOT USE THE ELEVATORS!
In the rare event that an evacuation is requested, please lock your room and exit via stairwells 8 and 9, which are located next to the guest elevators.

9. Proceed to the lobby. Our Emergency Response Team will direct you from there.

Day 7

Crystal clear
in my Sunday beer
and second Bloody Mary,

I stare down indecision
with sun-protected vision
as Hollyween turns scary,

Universal CityWalk,
engage in see-through PR talk,
then off to where my lair be.

Universal CityWalk, Los Angeles

Downtown LA

There's a film shoot in Pershing Square, a PA replete in urban cowboy garb checks her list as she hustles to Starbucks; meanwhile, a block away on Olive Street, there's a platoon of LAPD surrounding a shackled vagrant who is shouting, "I'm going back to the jailhouse, gonna eat three meals and a hot cock," between fits of maniacal laughter.

Serendipity

Prior to my flight from NY to LA, I scavenged an assortment of pharmaceuticals necessary for smooth travel. I popped a Xanax while waiting to board and once in my seat, I chased it with a vike. The girl next to me was young and attractive, which is contrary to the odd-smelling geriatric I usually get. I found the cabin temperature to be cool, but she stripped down to a skimpy tank-top and gently brushed my side as she shifted her position. Any attempt at speech on my part would have played out like a tranquilized Will Farrell in Old School. I drifted off, eyes closed and neurons dancing gaily to the iPod shuffle.

I arrived at LAX in a proper frame of mind. My luggage spit out promptly and my dear friend Janine was waiting outside the terminal. We whisked off in her sporty convertible to a Mexican restaurant, where I immediately ordered a margarita.

Day two in the downtown office and a colleague suggested I check out the Dresden, which was featured in the movie Swingers. As it was on the way back to the hotel, I decided to give it a shot.

I emerged from the train station at Vermont and Sunset, confronted by a busy intersection. I had no idea which direction to go, so I phoned the office. After I relayed my bearings, they confirmed I was headed the right way.

There was a film crew across the street from the Dresden with blinding lights. I eagerly took refuge inside. The place was familiar, whether from Swingers or my imagination, I'm not sure. I took a seat at the bar beside a cast of characters straight out of a Bukowski novel, but there was no bartender. I had a message on my phone from Janine, so I went outside to answer it and scout my options. The sidewalk was empty and then there was a lone passerby ... my friend, Hoda! The odds were impossible! Random! Absurd!

We crossed the street to the Tiger Lilly Lounge and ordered drinks and I was delighted to have company in a strange place. To think we lived in the same neighborhood in Brooklyn for years and never had occasion to bump into each other.

We hopped over to The Vermont for mojitos and afterward Hoda had to ask a patron for directions to the highway and I had to ask the bartender about the train schedule.

I went back to the hotel and it was still early, so I headed over to the City Walk where I heard music thundering down from a place called Howl at the Moon. Behold, dueling pianos complete with a house band and patrons lined up to perform a song of their choosing. I ordered a beer and this guy operating under the name of Fat Navajo worked the crowd into a frenzy with a bluesy rendition of Stormy Monday. To my left, two women were dancing like nobody's business while their friends fed them shots of tequila. Finally, they jumped on stage and shook their moneymakers to the delight of the crowd and the boys in the band.





The End.