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Newbullies
Eagle Rock, CA
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Dear Marty, My mother, like many o’ mothers, once said to me: " If you have nothing good to say, then it’s best to say nothing at all." Granted Marty, hard as it was, I truly tried tooth and nail to live by this generic phrase throughout my formative years…yet cut to many years later, I threw in the towel, revamped her little adage and now simply say, “If you have nothing to good to say, it’s okay to say it to yourself.” Case in point: The thought “you used to date a troll,” came across my mind several times Marty...but I kept it to myself…I think that equates to maturity no? PS: Happy friggidity birthday Mr. T and Senor Pac Man! Continue reading
Dear Marty, I am suffering a severe case of writer's block and am starting to stare at the empty pages like this.... Continue reading
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Dear Marty, Just perusing through your seasonal shoes that I can in no way afford and yet once again, you lure me into the land of lust… you see these little ‘getaway numbers,’ pictured above caught my eye… I call them a ‘getaway number’ because it’s the perfect accoutrement to what any girl needs for each and every date. You know the kind of date…it’s a classic…a table reserved in any city by a cute face with wit and charm to back it up. Cut to a few hours before, there you are, staring at the messy abyss that is your small closet, debating what to wear while hating each and every item on the hanger…it’s all wrong…it’s a fashion crisis to the nth degree… Yet if you had this shoe, you would look down at your feet and like a beacon of light, you would grab them and have that ‘aha” (thank you Oprah) moment….you could slip them over skin, fishnets, a pair of skinny jeans, whatever your heart desires… you’ve now dressed a killer outfit around these boots and your off to the races. You arrive, he looks amazing, smells killer, you have a cocktail, you flirt, sit down to dinner…yes, yes, and yes. You then proceed to head to your favorite bar in your hood, it’s pure perfection. You arrive, take in the ambiance and settle in… and then it happens, like an idiot, you or he says the wrong thing… you know it right away. Expressions change, body language becomes cold. It’s time to go. Okay, right. Go to the bathroom gather yourself…and regardless if you were the idiot or the recipient, at least if you had these boots, you could roll them up in the stall and trot out the bathroom like Wonder Woman…these city streets are hard enough to walk alone, especially when you may have just been dumped. Continue reading
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Why? Need I Say More??????? Terry Richardson's photographs always bring a smile and chuckle to my face. www.terrysdiary.com Continue reading
Newbullies is now following The Typepad Team
Mar 15, 2010
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Dear Marty, My mother always has had an abhorrent aversion towards toothpicks. She has always found them offensive and vile and anyone who used them should be found guilty of being raised by a pack of wolves. Strong sentiments? Perhaps. Although I never horded such strong sentiments towards the tiny wooden gizmos, I was never one to stop by a toothpick dispenserer and horde a handful into my back pocket either. So what do I does one do when THIS is given to you: I say put him out as a center piece at every dinner party you throw from now on...he knows just how vile he is, yet makes you feel shameless when reaching for one. Continue reading
A useless endeavor equates to a useless pair of socks Marty...you know the kind...one ever present in the spin cycle and the other, rogue. Continue reading
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Dear Marty, Sorry for the lapse in time but you see I have been caught up in a “Corte Ingles" * and have just recently come up for air. How it happened, god knows, but this Corte* has been anything but ordinary. As a kid, I remember stumbling upon El Corte Ingles years ago and never thinking much of it. Located on the Calle Preciado in Madrid, El Corte Ingles was a department store just like any other filled with all the usual suspects: shirts, suits shoes, makeup, gowns, labels, etc…yet something about the store's name gave it a certain panache, set it apart from the others if you will. Cut to years later, the same kid who once walked the floors of El Corte Ingles, walks smack right into another "Corte Ingles"... but this time it's not a department store, nor is it a type of suit that you have made for you on Savile Row, it's a mate who fits you like your favorite pair of shoes. You know the kind of shoe, the kind that you spot in a window and lures you inside. The kind that costs far beyond what you can afford, the kind that upon trying them on, you know that you cannot part with until you pay tooth and nail for... the kind that makes you ask the clerk to box up your old pair because you are walking out the store with this new pair and upon leaving the store, you continue walking block after block with a smile on your face. So I hope you can forgive me Marty, but I've been on the longest walk of my life and I've never been better. * El Corte Ingles = The English Cut *Corte= Cut Continue reading
Newbullies is now following Deborah Ferguson
Dec 10, 2009
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Dear Marty, There's an old pair of motorcycle boots sitting in the back of my closet. They have been been flirting with the trash can for quite awhile now. You know the type of shoe, the one you can't let go of, the one you wear year after year, dance endless nights in them, spill generous amount of cocktails on them, you resole them, shine them, and no matter how much you try to revive them, the time has come that one must admit that they are simply falling apart and making my feet hurt...so with great melancholy, like a jilted lover, the time has come to say adieu to this shell of a shoe. Continue reading
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Just a few drawings that came across my desk today Marty... My thoughts exactly, considering the day I was having Kind of looks like the "Willie Loman" of the modern day, no? (All drawings courtesy, Michael Girard) Continue reading
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Dear Marty, If you go to the Bella Sera Wines website, you will find the following proclamation about the jugs of Jesus Juice that they are peddling to the masses: "Excellent with foods of all types, perfect for enjoying with friends and family after a long day." What they forget to mention and are in dire need of tagging onto their site, is that not only is this wine pure perfection when looking for fastest route to crazy town, but is also pure perfection for enjoying with friends after a long, long night of debauchery (personally I would opt out of inviting the family to the type of degeneracy this little jug can induces). So why the write up on a horrible bottle of booze ? Well you see, I was lured back once again to the land of the rich and irresponsible (Malibu- of course), celebrating a birthday that had long since expired..my friend constantly tells me that women celebrate their birthdays for weeks on end, in this case, I think he was right. But regardless, this was one of my closest friend, so I had to be present. I had arrived at the location, the sun had almost set, and I was in the presence of my oldest and dearest friends...the type of friends you recant absurd memories with, the type of friends that no matter how much time has passed, all remains the same...we laughed, we cried, we gossiped, we danced....and when the sun came up, I woke up only to find the birthday girl with a bottle of Bella Sera Pinot Grigio still in hand. It was Sunday morning and I knew the weekend would soon be coming to a halting end, so I gathered my things and offered my nearest and dearest celebrant a ride home...she conceded to my offer, and drunkenly packed up her things. As she approached my car, suitcase and bottle of Pinot Grigio in hand...I thought to myself , "No you are not having a Sally Field 'Not Without My Daughter' moment with that jug of wine in my car... I rolled down my window and said "Honey, love ya, but NOOOOO." Her reply? "SINCE WHEN DID YOU BECOME SO POLITICAL???" Who knew I'd be running for Mayor on a Sunday afternoon... Continue reading
Today kind of feels like that first day of school Marty....Think back and I know you will remember being 10 years old, the night before the first day of school, staring at your closet, fretting over what the hell you were going to wear...you wanted that perfect look that said, "Piss Off Sixth Grade! This is the new me this year." You tossed and turned and slept like shit while your subconscious anxiously awaited for the sun to rise. Well that is exactly how I felt publishing this post tonight. So here it is in all it's glory, my blog... I hope you like the new design. Continue reading
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Dear Marty, Sorry I've been so incommunicado recently, but I've been stuck on Jury Duty. Although I am unable to talk about the case at the present moment, what I can relay is that it brings back horrible memories of being stuck in after school detention...day after day, sitting under garish florescent lights in a room with no windows...believe me, it would even test the Dalai Lama's patience. It is in times like these that I wish I could simply say "Beam Me Up Scotty, "and I would be whisked off far far away from my civic duty... Continue reading
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No portrays tough biker chic with soul on film like Cher. No one. She will forever be "Rusty Dennis” -the hard living, leather wearing, biker mother with a heart of gold in "The Mask." So why am I reminiscing about "Rusty" Marty? Well, you see if you take the Surf Liner train and head South from Union Station in Los Angeles, about an hour and a half into the ride, the train pulls into a little town by the name of San Juan Capistrano...where there is a little dive bar by the name of the “Swallows Inn." With its dirty bras and old underwear hanging from the rafters, the decor is nothing short of fabulous... So it's kitschy to say the least...but the best thing about this bar, the DANCE FLOOR. Every biker and cowboy on that floor was full on dancing with either their chic or themselves...it was like I had walked into a Honky Tonk rave in the middle of this sleepy town. I don't know why, but as I stood there watching this biker dance with his chic, that I couldn't stop thinking about "Rusty Dennis". It's exactly the type of place she would have gone to dance her problems away...every girl needs a place like that...pure magic. Continue reading
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Dear Marty, Forgive the rough sketch, but I was too enraptured by what stood next to me last night, that I forgot to whip out my trusty phone in time…but here it is, the thing standing next to me at the bar.... Could that possibly be his hair??????? Due to the long line of drunks waiting in line for a drink at the same moment in time, I can without a doubt, tell you that NO, it was no It was a mullet. It was spiked. It had with frosted tips…it was, a WIG. As the wait for a drink dragged on, I thought to myself, “had the wig left him any hairline, would I have believed it, yes? No???? The bartender appeared in my line of vision and with Peaches to go on any minute, I left the question and the periwig far behind with drink my in tow. Lights down, music up… sorry kids, it’s not Peaches just yet…it’s DRUMS OF DEATH. The crowd quickly becomes territorial. Looks are cut, drunk beeline samba lines are attempted to cut through the crowd…a queen yells “Back OFF,” to a drunk girl trying to creep her mess up into his fabulous space and from behind me, a wave of desperadoes begin to push in. I look behind, the leader of the parade, Monsieur Periwig himself. Let it go, he’s harmless I tell myself, we are all here to receive the teaches of Peaches. Drums of Death mesmerizes about ninety percent of the crowd with his complex drum and bass...pretty amazing to think so much sound can from one man dressed like Jack Skellington. But enough about my favorite ghoulish mix master. UP NEXT: You know it, you love it...Ms.Peaches herself. (Photos,Dan Locke) Lights down, drama up, way up... Once again the bad wig makes another appearance. Look star fucker, I get it, you want to be seen by the performer, but seriously, there’s nowhere else for you to go… where do you think you’re really going to go? Up front? I think not. Where is my fabulous queen bee when I need him to yell back off? I am missing moments of brilliance thanks to Monsieur Periwig and his crew of clowns. The lyrics, "I take you on, I'll take you on, I'll take you on, I take you on..." become the theme song of the moment and without loosing a beat, we successfully block Monsieur Periwig from going any further. Tempting as it was to rip the wig right off his head, I figure it's not worth it. Close your eyes and dance to the beat and rhyme I tell myself, which is exactly what I did for the next 3 hours that Peaches shared her brilliance with us. Continue reading
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My Birthday is looming around the corner Marty and to tell you the truth, I'm about as about excited for it as the day my boyfriend left me alone to entertain is born again brother. So where do you go to when feeling a bit of the birthday malaise? No, it's not at the bottom of a bottle...you go back, back to the 80's. You see, there's this little place on the corner of Western and 6th, or as my friend Dino puts it, "right across the street from the Blade Runner KFC," by the name of BARCADE. From the outside it doesn't look like much but upon entering this little watering hole, around the corner from the bar, are two rooms filled with videos games from the 80's. Asteroids. Spy Hunter. Galaga. Joust. Donkey Kong. Centipede. I could go on and on, but the best part of it all, every game, 25 cents. So there I was with a fist full of quarters and a Mickey in my hand. NWA "Straight Out Of Compton" came over the sound system and suddenly I was transported back being the 12 year old dork version of myself, at the skating rink on a Saturday night. No date, no life, but with a pocket full of quarters, the world was my oyster.It was pure bliss I highly recommend it to anyone feeling the birthday blues. PS: If you're still feeling a bit down in the dumps even after several rounds of Galaga, you can always cross the street and cry your sorrows to the Kernel at the KFC. Continue reading
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Ah Marty, Where do I begin? Well for starters it was Friday afternoon and I was on my way up the PCH to stay in the house that was supposedly formerly owned by Dr. Albert Hoffman..the man and wizard behind LSD. Tucked away deep within Decker Canyon, as I drove up to the house, I thought to myself if there is a fire tonight up in this canyon, we are all going to die. But regardless, I arrived at the house and made myself at home. Being the city mouse that I am, cabin fever hit me hard about three hours into my stay, so I convince my mates to pack into my car and head down the hill towards civilization. So where to in the land of the rich and irresponsible? Upon passing a lush being taken into the pokey for being a mess behind the wheel, we decided that the less we had to drive the better... the cops in Malibu seem to have an insatiable appetite for DUIs these days and I was already driving down the canyon with a glass of wine in the system. Don't worry Marty, I am a lush but not an irresponsible one, except perhaps when it comes to shopping after a glass of red or two. But anyways, I digress...We ended up at some watering hole, where cougars and dirty old men zigzagged around the place like caged animals at the zoo. We nestled ourselves onto some sort of makeshift chaise when I noticed that over to my right, there they were, your gorgeous cowboy boots from last season on the unconscious mess in the corner. As a balding man tried to lure my girlfriend with the ever chivalrous phrase of, "LET'S FUCK!" I looked over at the mess with your shoes and thought to myself, "If only I could be her right now." Continue reading