Markie Posts

Two visual muses = literary brilliance!

This poem, inspired by the fashion icon that is Mariah Carey, is very close to my heart. Her siren songs ignite feelings of nostalgia from my childhood. It is a sentiment I feel I have captured in this poem’s title:

A Haiku:
"Mariah, Your Christmas Album Reminds Me of Having Braces Scraped off My Teeth in Middle School"




Raccoon-Face Carey
Your nips can crack glass, just like
Your deafening voice

* * *

This poem for Britney is also very special. Not only was I moved by this recent and beautiful photograph of her, but I was also inspired by the sweet ballad “Lucky” off her Oops!... I Did It Again album. This poem mirrors the lyrical melody of the song’s chorus:

A Poem:
“Good Thing you Had a C-Section, Because if You Actually Squeezed Those Puppies Out of Your Girly Hole, It Could’ve Swallowed Lindsay Lohan Like a Snake Devours A Rat”



She’s so lucky
She’s a star
But her thighs, thighs, thighs
Have swallowed her va – gi – na
And if no babies stretched out her snatch, then
Paris fists like a drunk caaaaaaaaaaaaat

This is my new kitten Cornelius. He was found in a parking lot. His hobbies include sitting on my face while I sleep, scratching my hand, meowing, chasing a jingle ball, and having six toes on each front paw. He also got a shot in his ass today. He's great!

3) 11/22/06 - "I don’t know if it was because I shaved my back yesterday, but it was cold last night"

So, I’m aware that T.V. is nothing more than a device that keeps us from thinking too much, fucking too much, causing too much trouble (sort of like how the Romans used Gladiator fights to keep the masses off the streets) and I should just trash my second-hand big screen and read books, and use my mind, and be a genius, and yada, yada, dada (total Elaine from Seinfeld reference, those of you who got it – high-five, sex crime!), but I am a product of my generation (I want my MTV!), an innocent victim of latchkey-kid-ness, and El Diablo de procrastination has been sort of influential for me lately, even inspiring.

Below is a clip from this super-edited repeat of Sex and the City I watched last night on TBS. It’s a great episode, the one when Carrie tries to win back Aiden after she dumps his ass the first time (yes, she does it not once, but twice). The greatest thing about this episode is the underlying theme that all these modern advances in communication are doing nothing more than handicapping our natural ability to communicate with one another, a problem I think is overwhelmingly present in not only my own generation, but also the emerging and younger generations.

I remember before I left for my freshman year of college in the summer of 2000, my parents bought me (and insisted I use) a bulky cell phone. I was not only annoyed by the thought of having a portable leash where anyone at any time could contact me and infringe on my personal time and space, I was embarrassed to use one. Back in the olden times of the double zeros cell phones were used mostly by busy professionals – doctors, lawyers, stock brokers – and yuppie terds who wanted to look and act like they were important, i.e. Cher from Clueless and Zack Morris with his early 90’s dinosaur model that looks more like a modern-day portable home phone than a cell. So, imagine my shock when I took my first stroll down Landis Green at Florida State and saw more people yapping away on cell phones than students interacting with one another. I was shocked, and saddened, and disgusted when four years later a guy I was dating at the time preferred text messaging me intimate thoughts rather than whispering them in my ear.

Don’t get me wrong, I know these modern devices – email, My Space, two-ways – are great ways of keeping in touch, but really, how many of us have friends who live in Paris or Tokyo (I used these two cities, because I actually do have close friends living in both, AND I’M STILL making an argument against all this communication silliness) that so many feel that they have a serious need for a Blackberry? I mean, what is all this technology turning us into? A species that is so unskilled at thinking cleverly on our feet that we need to edit ourselves through the usage of texting? I just feel like all this overpriced junk – which is ultimately just material symbols of status – is making us socially retarded.

Don’t even get me started on World of WarCraft(although, I’ll admit that if I ever played, I’d probably become super-addicted)…..

Anyway, back to the episode. Carrie, a clever conversationalist with a well-developed personality, is technologically retarded and sets up an email account on AOL solely to passively communicate with her ex, Aiden, in hopes of slowly winning him back. After a deleted email from Carrie to Aiden (he had no idea who Shoegal@aol.com was), an accusatory phone call, and an awkward yet honest double date in which Carrie bluntly confesses she wants to get back together (with no avail) Aiden’s first instinct is to IM Carrie online. This shielded attempt at communication in which Carrie hysterically responds to the IM conversation box that pops up on her screen with a freaked-out “Oh my God! Can he see me?!”(directed to her friend Miranda who is on the phone with her during this incident) literally causes Carrie to put on her coat and march over to Aiden’s apartment to talk to him face to face, which leads us to my first clip.

So, watch the below clip, if you’re not unbelievably bored already.



The human interaction in this clip is bold, harsh, scary, possibly even scarring, and would’ve never occurred in a virtual environment. It probably would’ve been safer online, it would’ve polite. Yet because Carrie is not afraid of reality or natural communication the following clip occurs.




…but then again I am trying to make a point with a television show, which is a huge source of modern communication...haha...

Broken Social Scene @ The Culture Room in Ft. Lauderdale on 11/1/06 - Sorry the pic's kinda crappy, but I'm legally blind, so that's what you get

The maximum-capacity audience present at Broken Social Scene’s November 1st show at the Culture Room in Ft. Lauderdale was so revved-up by the Toronto-based band’s mere act of flat, eight-hour, and severely boring travel down to South Florida that some inspired few squirmed their way up above sardine-packed bodies in order to crowd surf. A sighting, unless you frequent hardcore or punk rock shows, as common as a Texas red fox (extinct) humping a sea mink (also extinct) and was immediately extinguished by the bands disapproving words of “Don’t do that. There’s a certain age you reach where that shit isn’t cool anymore, so stop.”

Yet, for some reason or another, I did not share this unbridled enthusiasm. Maybe it was the weather (rainy, rainy, rainy), Sir Stink-a-Lot who slid in front of me mid-show, the combination of my small bladder, beer, and the horrendous placement of the club’s bathroom, or maybe, just maybe, I was slightly disappointed. The thing I like most about Broken Social Scene is that their music sounds like a wild animal, howling, fleeting, and breaking conventional rules. They rarely use hooks and “Fire Eye Boy” is one of the only repeating choruses I can think of off the top of my head. Their sound is layered with guitars, bass, drums, beat, voices, strings, keys, and horns that are all running in a pack individually, but essentially joined as a stampede.

Yet the sound didn’t seem to translate as strongly live. After the show, in the venue’s parking lot when asked what I thought of the show, my initial opinion was musically strong (plenty of flawless guitar solos and jam-band-ness that endured an hour’s worth of show in horrible S. FL humidity) but vocally weak.

Two of the band’s female vocalists, Emily Haines (Metric) and Leslie Feist (Feist), were off doing individual tours, and were replaced by the pretty, puffy-haired Lisa Lobsinger. Although Lobsinger, undoubtedly can sing, her voice wasn’t nearly as vocally stunning as Haines or Feist, leaving me, at one point, wanting to jump up on stage, grab the mic from Ms. Lobsinger, and belt out some of my favorite tunes drama-club-auditions-for-Grease-style; bursting with pure zeal. Lobsinger lacked luster, her frail voice flicked up and shot into oblivion like a tiny pebble in the midst of galloping hoofs.

Regardless, I still love the band and have been rocking a medium purple BSS T-shirt I bought at the show for the past thirteen days...and it stinks…like yo’ momma’s pootang….ewe, not really, just like a dirty shirt…that needs to be cleaned…badly….okay, this needs to end now.

2) 11/09/06 - Listened to the theme from the chicken dance in his cubicle and hummed along joyfully

Britney ice skating at Rockefeller Center earlier this week

So, I guess it's time for me to jump on the blogging bandwagon and say something about Britney Spear's divorce to Kevin Federline, especially after watching the Colbert Report last night and his emphasizing that it was the MOST IMPORTANT thing that occurred on November 7th.....thing is, I really don't know if I believe it or not.

It would be a wise decision for Mrs. Spears to cut that freeloading, delusional, sneaker pimp loose but Britney also drove a car with her newborn son on her lap, made the movie Crossroads, and married a cheating father of two who made about $30k a year.....so she obviously doesn't have the best decision-making skills, y'all.

Plus, PR stunts, not her musical talent (although, she is a very talented stripper) have made her entire career - i.e. milking her Lolita/jail-bait image while claiming she's a virgin, coy competition with Christina Aguilera, whether or not her boobs are real, lying about getting it on with Fred Durst, public breakup with Justin Timberlake, making out with Madonna, marrying her background dancer, having a white trash wedding, making the silly reality show "Chaotic", etc., etc., etc.

Besides, apparently she's still rocking the wedding ring. I think she just wants some publicity, positive media support (a cue I'm sure she took from the Whitney Houston-Bobby Brown divorce), and public sympathy. Also, I think she just wants an excuse to show off her new trim body c/o Dr. 90210 (I'm sorry; no one loses weight THAT fast). She'll be giving head to Kevin on the balcony of hotel any day now.

Oh yeah, and what's up with the hat?

Janet Reno and Barbara Bush! Imagine if it was real, it would be so sizzling-spicy, just like this picture.

Those are supposed to be boas around their necks. They were placed in the picture to add a touch of additional femininity, but it’s not like these two dainty gals really need it.

p.s. This post has absolutely no hidden politcal agenda or statement attached to it.. It was just that the thought of Barbara Bush and Janet Reno dyking it out makes me laugh.

There’s a guy at my work (who I will refer to as “Miso Soup” being that it closely resembles his real name) who has a tendency to say pretty retarded things. So retarded, in fact, it makes a three-year-old autistic girl named Kelly - a client of my friend Nydia's – who likes to lick the piss off of public toilet seats look like a genius.

As a way of venting my frustration, I’ve decided to compile a list of stupid things that he says, starting with:

1) 11/08/06 - Instead of pronouncing the word “condolences” correctly, he pronounced it cond-lense…no one corrected him either, which is great, because he’ll probably continue pronouncing it this way for years to come!

Stayed tuned for more, because there will definitely be more….much, much more.

...so, does this mean she'll die?

Or in the visual form of this title:

= ?


On Sunday I saw Elusive Signs: Bruce Nauman Works with Light at the MOCA and I am still blinking blurry purple and blue splotches from the demanding neon light exhibit complete with anagrams, humor (My Name As Though It Were Written on the Surface of Moon (1968) in which the artist just wrote bbbbrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuccccccccceeeeeee in neon lights was pretty funny), social commentary, and disorientation.

I mean, who needs mushrooms or non-drowsy Nightquil to feel like they're tripping when Corridor with Mirror and White Lights (1971)



or another large fluorescent light environment (the name totally escapes me) in which you walk down a narrowing walkway and squeeze into a large white room lit by a buzzing green florescent light - that makes you feel like you just crawled out of a bomb shelter post-atomic explosion - is available for the mere admission price of five bucks (three with my old student ID).

My personal favorite was Hanged Man (1985)



the most morbid of the bunch. I liked the idea of juxtaposing a children's game with Saddam Hussein’s fate. Plus the hard-on added an element of realism, humanity, and just blatant wrongness to the overall effect.

Also if you live in Miami and just happen to go to this museum, check out the most ridiculous fountain sculpture ever. In the fountain outside of the building is this cartoonish looking "snake" that's supposed to grant wishes if you throw a coin into the water, but the wish will only come true if the wish isn't selfish, which is totally lame because the whole point of making a wish is to commit an act of selfishness guilt-free. Isn't it? On top of this suck'n'blowness the story behind this magical wish-giving sculpture was completely fabricated by the artist.

I'm sorry, but modern artists can't just bust folklore out of their asses just so they can have a story to slap behind some silly piece they're trying to add meaning to, it's just too easy. It's cheating. That artist needs a swift kick in the face.

Funeral by Arcade Fire



I Am Not Afriad Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass by Yo La Tango

Both these albums of insanely good, if you don't own them, resolve this problem immediately

Lead by the same hand that lead me straight to the front row of my first and only Good Charlotte show---which, coincidentally enough, was the first and only show I actually spent leaning on the warm hood of my roommate’s car while surrounded by mothers and hardback copies of the Davinci Code in the venue’s parking lot --I was hesitant when dragged to some Yay-yeah or Yeah-Yeah, or whatever-their-stupid-name-was show.

A show I had only agreed to attend because admission was free with the flash of a student ID and drinks were cheap as long as your hand was stamped, which was the case for my roommate and I, her eyes quickly popping at the sight of a stumbling girl in a Spandex mini-dress and ripped mismatched stockings.

“That’s Karen O,” she told me, as the object of our attention chugged a can of Paps Blue Ribbon, “she’s the lead singer of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs.” I took a swig of my New Castle and shrugged with disinterest, the same reaction I had when my Yeah-Yeah virginity was deflowered a week earlier through the squealing ear-rape of “Date with the Night” during an MTV promotional commercial.

I really didn't get them, especially looking at Karen O. and her overtly silly ensemble, all style no substance I thought.

Then the show started, the music prefaced by a poster boy for indie threads who yelled "Karen, I want to have your baby!" through the anticipated silence.

Standard show lights, green and purple beams, licked the stage as guitarist Nick Zinner strummed out some prelude chords and Karen O.’s naturally sweet Asian-girl voice snarled. Their sound was definitely original; simplistic, hard, and unpredictable, embodying the soul of the NYC music scene. While I listened to their songs images of leather pants, thrift shops, drunken fist fights, dirty hole-in-the-wall bars with graffiti embellished bathrooms, Call Kate for a good time, and kids making out in the gutter roundhouse-kicked their way into my brain. Their sound, experimental screeching rock with a twist of yearning love, shook me and the rest of the audience, our bodies moving, mouths yelling, fist flying symbolizing a desire for more. And more. And more.

After an effective show that everyone in the audience clearly felt, highlighted by Karen’s disgraceful yet punk-rockish jumping-Stevie-Nicks-inspired-twirls, somersaults, and plenty of microphone deep-throating, I absolutely loved them as a live band.

But after purchasing their first album Fever to Tell and MTV’s burn-out of “Maps” I felt the band’s strengths lied in live performance.

Still I bought their sophomore album, Show Your Bones and after a few listens I decided the album was boring.

Refusing to let their efforts fade, I gave the album a couple more spins, allowing the music to slowly creep up on me as I caught myself constantly replaying “Cheated Hearts” and “The Sweets”.

I recently saw them in Orlando at the Hard Rock Live on October 13th, a much larger venue then my alma mater’s dinky student union club. Of course they kicked ass, the quality of their live performance equal to the polished sound of their recorded album, but alas, I had sort of a hard time seeing everything. I was behind a group of tall boys and the fact that I’m legally blind didn’t help the situation. Karen O., from what I could see, was wearing a typically insane outfit, but I didn’t get a good look at her head-gear, which my boyfriend described to me as looking like this:



Being that I lack any kind of artistic talent or three-dimensional drawing skills, let me explain. It’s supposed to be a skintight cap, kind of like a swimming cap, but shiny green, and then there were two ruffles coming down both sides of the cap. Then there were helmet straps, which all matched her body suit and cape. Yes cape.

The description amused me so much it inspired me to come up with my own proposals for future Karen O. head gear.

Such as:

A leopard print fez


A yamika (or what I like to call the Jewish-bald spot concealer) turned around and placed on the front of the face rather than behind the head.


A shrunken turquoise sombero



A baby’s puppy-dog skully


A sunflower-inspired Kentucky Derby hat

...fuck is this?

Honestly, what is this? This has to be one of the ugliest dresses I have ever seen, and the shoes, ugh. Where’d she find this pick-up? In a Salvation Army that’s conveniently located next to a Baptist Church? Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Should today be a new National Holiday??? We shall see as soon as I check this movie out. Sex-Crime-high-five!

Looks like Paris is examining the fur for her new winter coat. Who let this septic tank near these adorable little kittens? Isn’t Pamela Anderson all buddy-buddy with this vaginal cesspool? I love Pam, especially since she refers to her breasts as “so 1999”, but wasn’t big-booby-McGee ready to picket the state of Kentucky after they decided to memorialize Colonel Saunders in their capitol, or some shizz like that? Why isn’t Pam going all barbed-wire on Paris’ ass? Maybe I’m wrong, maybe they’re not friends.

But that might just be wishful thinking.

This picture of Paris is apparently from Seventeen Magazine’s latest issue. What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK! Paris a great role-model for young girls…….fabulous……let’s just give the entitlement generation a little less to work for…

Oh, and one last Paris-bash, because they're oh-so-much fun. Thank you CityRag for this BRILLIANT observation, Paris' resemblance to an emu:



...and now I will conclude with: HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!!!!!!!!

I don't know for sure, but it sure looks like someone took a que from Ashlee Simpson and got herself a nose job.

Instead of witnessing the live kickassness (this is the word of the street) that is the Sounds for free at an all-age show last night - because I'd rather sit at home and unhinge my jaw in order to dump a metric ton of candy, Garfield-style, into my mouth than being crammed in a trendy indie club, sipping an overpriced plastic cup filled with well-gin, and have sixteen-year-old girls in "whore" costumes crash into me as they attempt to start a mosh pit to "Song with a Mission" - I opted to give out treats to a bunch of tricks.

And if I look up the word "trick" in the nifty "Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia" the third or fourth definition down defines the word as "something done for money by a prostitute; 'turning tricks' is a euphemism for prostitution, " which is what most of these kids were, a bunch of little selfish hookers. Or weird kids with social anxiety problems that I wouldn't want to poke at with a 10" pole. Or jaded teenage assholes in minimum effort costumes (i.e. this one chick who wore a "Vote for Pedro" T-Shirt she probably picked up at Macy's and nothing else, claiming she was Napoleon Dynamite) giving me attitude because I had the audacity to mutter the phrase "Take one".

So, in response I've complied a list of ways to torture children that will take effect next Halloween. That's right, Halloween's no longer a holiday for kids and queens, now it's now my #1 day to be a megatron bitch.

1) Flash the kids a King-Size candy bars and then tell them that I'm a Jehovah's Witness and before I can allow them to partake in this heathenistic holiday they must listen to me read from the scripture as a way to purify their souls. Then I read for an awkwardly long amount of time and as soon as one gets squirmy or complains I slam the book shut and say "Great...now you're all going to burn in hell".

2) Come to the door, appearing pregnant, then right before I hand out candy, grab my stomach, groan, and let a fully clothed baby doll covered with blood fall from between my legs (maybe add some dyed red wet corn starch fall as well, for an afterbirth effect) kick it out of the way, smile, and proceed to hand out candy. (This was my boyfriend's brilliant idea)

3) Answer the door dressed up as a cat and hand out dead mice, cat nip, and cans of sardines and Fancy Feast.

4) Give the kids with shitty costumes condiments - Soy Sauce, ketchup, relish packets - instead of candy.

5) Answer the door in full costume and an empty pillow case. When the kids yell "Trick or Treat!" I yell back "Trick or Treat!" We'll then stare at each other confused for a few minutes and then I'll say "Where's my candy?" When they inform me that I'm the one who traditionally gives them candy, I say "OoooHhH, okay, hold on", leave, return with rolls of toilet paper and eggs and throw it at the kids while yelling "Cheap asses!"

6) When the door bell rings shove a bunch of candy into my mouth, open the door, pretend to puke it out onto my porch, and then shut the door.

7) Give all the fat kids Slim Fast bars

8) Take Polaroids of all the kids who have original or creative costumes, tape their pictures to my front door with a sign that reads "If you're costume isn't as good as these, don't bother"

9) Answer the door dressed as death, point to one kid, and say "You're next". Then give all the other children candy.

10) Cough excessively without covering my mouth while handing out candy, then right before I give candy to the last kid, break into tears, and say "I'm so sorry, I'm just so sad! This is going to be my last Halloween being that I contracted the Ebola virus" Cough some more and then shut the door.