Friday, May 30, 2008

Memo To Hef: You're Not The Only One Who Can Create A Pornographic Magazine

Ah, pornography. Is there any sick and twisted fetish you don't embrace? Enjoy seeing midgets fuck? Check. Interested in Eastern European women shitting on each other? Yep, that exists. Eastern European women shitting on midgets your thing? No problem.

With all that's out there, it surprises me—nay, it pains me—to realize there's a gaping hole. (And, no, I'm not referring to Gaping Hole Magazine.) There is no publication representing a simpler time, a nod to where it all began: A glorious time when women had big bushes and real titties and wore full-back panties. That's right. Full-back panties. After all, in today's world, wouldn't the innocence and tameness of such a publication be considered shocking and downright deviant?

That's why I'm starting my own magazine. More on that later.

You see, I'm as old school as it gets when it comes to the ladies. No shaved bush for me. Fake titties? No thanks. And don't even get me started on thongs.

I believe it all goes back to being a child of the 70s.
(I'm sure the startling sight of my mother's sizable bush when I was four years old—forever seared into my brain—has absolutely nothing to do with it. "My Mother's Sizable Bush"—now that's a band name.) Remember those Playboys mentioned in the earlier Indy post? Well, think of the women featured in those priceless publications. Beautiful, all-natural women. Some skinny, some not-so-skinny. Some with large melon-like breasts; others, more apple-sized. All stunning. All wonderful. All natural. Today's pin-ups are predominantly trashy, preposterously-proportioned, fake-looking knock-offs. Women you would never actually want to meet, let alone spend some time with. The women in those 70s Playboys were truly the girls next door (unlike the women in Hef's similarly named reality series). The hot, alluring girls next door. And yes, you wanted to bang them, but you also wanted hang out with them. The fact that they seemed real and attainable is what made them so alluring. They could've been your teacher or maybe your best friend's older sister or mom. (No, I don't have clear Oedipal issues.) Unlike today's pin-ups—who seem more like cartoon characters or Barbie dolls than real people. Where's the appeal in that? (See HBO's Bunny Ranch reality series for a prime example of what I'm talking about—yes, that is the same series in which a father had sex with a prostitute while his son had sex with a different prostitute next to him on the same bed. Classy. Afterward they said it was an incredible bonding experience and they were closer than ever. Um, classy. Did I already say that?)

Okay, back to something far more tasteful. The whole reason for writing this post. And maybe, just maybe, the sole reason for my existence. Back to a little something I like to call FBP. What's FBP? you ask. FBP stands for Full-Back Panty and it's not just something to be worn or occasionally placed over your head and inhaled, it's a philosophy. A way of life. A mantra, if you will.
Out with the fake and the photoshopped. In with the real and the all-natural. FBP is the anti-thong. It's built upon the glory and majesty of full-backed panties. Satin. Cotton. Burlap. (Okay, maybe not burlap.) The kind that subtly cover and complement all the curves, piquing your curiosity, instead of giving you the whole show.

I always thought FBP would make a great magazine. And I still do—and yes, I'm talking a physical magazine that you can hold in your hand(s). Such a throwback idea should not be relegated to the web.

This magazine will happen. Oh, you can be sure of that. And my parents, God bless 'em, will one day be walking by a newsstand, where they will see the latest issue of FBP sitting there humbly next to The Economist or Us Weekly. And they will say to the foreign guy behind the counter, "You see that filthy, disgusting magazine featuring women with big bushes, real titties and full-back panties? My son's responsible for that."

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Skinny Jeans Make You Look Like A Girl

I will never, ever understand this trend. Nor do I want to. It just shows that the world (or at least the world I inhabit, NYC) is filled with a bunch of followers. Because no sane male can possibly think these jeans look good on him. I hate to break it to you, "guys," (and I use that term liberally) but you're wearing women's jeans. And they look fucking terrible on you. Just God-awful. Unless you're the keyboardist or bass player for an 80s hair metal band currently touring on one of those triple-bills featuring two other washed-up 80s hair metal bands where half the audience worships you and the other half is there solely for the irony (which is even lamer than wearing skinny jeans), you have no right to wear jeans like this. I imagine if the next trend was wearing shirts made of human flesh, these guys would be lining up at the Flesh Store. Fuck these guys. Seriously—go find these guys and actually have intercourse with them, because certainly no female in her right mind will.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Why Am I Not Excited About Indy 4?

I love Indiana Jones. Easily, one of my favorite characters of all time. And yes, I was Indy for Halloween in fourth grade. And yes, that makes me old. But, how many other fourth graders had an actual bull whip as part of their costume? That's right. Now who's old? I guess, technically, that's still me. Anyways, my best friend's grandfather—the same guy who kept stacks of Playboys scattered through his house and took us to the local police range to fire handguns (were my parents asleep at the wheel or what?)—lent me an actual bona fide whip. One of my best costumes ever. (Much better than my lame Han Solo costume consisting mainly of the black vest from my father's three-piece wool suit. Look out, stormtroopers!) Thanks to the whip, I cleaned up that Halloween, the year America was in a great frenzy over some lunatic allegedly poisoning candy and/or putting razor blades into apples. "Pixie Stix? Why don't you just inject the cyanide directly into my veins?" Crack! "An apple? You think I don't watch the news!?!" Crack! "A mini Snickers?" Crack! Seriously, how cool was that grandfather? Unless... You don't think he was he trying to molest me, was he? It sure would answer a lot of questions. You know what? So what if he was? It would've totally been worth it. Come to think of it, he also had a Nintendo before anyone else had one. Yeah, he was definitely trying to molest me. Good for him.

So back to Indy 4. This project has been kicking around Hollywood for over 10 years. Back in the 90s, George Lucas apparently proposed an idea called Indiana Jones and the Saucer Men from Mars. By George, you suck! What the fuck happened to that guy? He already ruined one incredible franchise, is he trying to ruin another? (Both of which he created, mind you—seriously, how can the guy responsible for Star Wars also be responsible for Attack of the Clones?) Now, I've yet to see the new Indy, but rumor has it those saucer men made it into the film. Ugh.

The thing is, something about the trailers just doesn't add up. It all feels forced and looks fake. And the fact that Steven Spielberg has said something to the effect of, "This film is for the fans, not the critics," has me very concerned. Um, I'm not a filmmaker, but why can't the film be for both fans and critics? After all, isn't that the sign of a good film? And talk about insulting and underestimating your fan base. Wow.

Still, not only will I see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, (remind me never to ask George Lucas to title anything for me) I've actually been preparing for it by watching the original trilogy. Raiders of the Lost Ark is phenomenal. A+. Every bit of it holds up to this day. It's a serious film that also entertains. The same can't be said for Temple of Doom. Considered violent and inappropriate for kids upon its 1984 release (it was actually responsible for the creation of the PG-13 rating), it appears childish and goofy today. (Confession: I absolutely loved this movie as a 12-year old; thus the kick-ass Indy Halloween costume.) Incredible Shanghai opening sequence, but the middle third of the film looks like it was shot on a soundstage. Which, of course, it was. And Spielberg's future wife, Kate Capshaw, while easy on the eyes, is an annoying distraction, to say the least. Last Crusade is actually pretty solid. Fun intro with River Phoenix (if not a little silly and forced—Indy gets his fedora, whip, chin scar, fear of snakes and love of leather jackets all in one 15-minute span) and, overall, quite entertaining, though certainly not in the same league as Raiders.

Of course, after all this ranting and raving, guess what movie I'm going to see this weekend? That's right: Sex and the City—welcome back, girls!

Just kidding.

I Had A Dream

A weird, creepy, beautiful dream. I drove up to Boston, went to the Copley Mall and walked into J. Crew—which inexplicably had a large swimming pool in the back of the store. The pool was filled with half-dressed people splashing about. I saw a woman in the back bobbing her head up and down and thought, good lord, it can't be, and sure enough she was fellating (not to be confused with filleting) some guy. Interesting turn of events. I looked around and then noticed everyone in the pool was engaging in some form of sexual depravity. Fucking and sucking everywhere. I wanted to stay and watch, but felt like I'd get in trouble so I left.

To quote a dear friend of mine, "Why must we be pussies even in our dreams?"