Seriously. That's my ex-GF right there, you guys. I know, I know, super classy, plunging neckline, jewelry eating. Admit your raging jealousy. It's the only way to heal the wound.

I met her back in '79. I was 4. She was "a secret," which is like 35. I was leaning up against my red dresser the first time I saw her. The way she bantered with Kermit, that lilting giggle. She was all, "Oh, Kermie!" and he was all tugging at his bowtie and clearing his throat. Miss Piggy was all kinds of steamed, and I was in seven kinds of disarray, devastated by this angel they called Ms. Dyan Cannon.

By the time we met, she'd already been married and had a daughter with Cary Grant, the man so dashing they said he was gay. I think he was just kinda British. It's easy to see how the disappointment of having loved and lost the greatest leading man in history might have thrown her into spinster status for a decade or two. Hence, the palpable tension in the room when our eyes met.

Me, a fresh-faced teeballer with a penchant for
Macho Ducking in my Easter suit; Her, hot as effing hell and coming out of a romantic drought of biblical proportions. I could taste the passion and milk and cookies. Hot fires burn fast, they say, and this was as hot and fast as they come.

Sadly, we grew apart soon after my mom turned the TV off and made me go to bed, but I cried that night. I cried for a love unrequited. I cried for innocence lost. I cried because my brother spit in my ear. I cried until my mother came to my bedside to comfort me. She said, "What's wrong, Peter? Did you make a poopie in your boopies?"

She never understood me. I told her I wished Dyan Cannon was my mommy.

I don't recall her reaction- I was a total narcissist in preschool- but, I imagine it was a befuddled mix of Jocastan heartbreak and rejoice in the proof of her dancing queen of a toddler's interest in pretty ladies.

I was trying to hurt her, I admit. She'd made me eat tuna casserole the night before, and now, here she was, with the flick of her wrist, severing the volcanic attraction between D and me. You. YOU! YOU'RE NO DYAN CANNON, MOTHER!

Of course, as is usually the case, her judgement was peerless. Dyan Cannon proceeded to, uh, I have no idea, and my mom went on to become the loveliest woman in the whole wide world.

Can someone link me to that whisper song by Ying Yang Twins?

I feel like I have to ask people a lot why they sleep on Ratatat. I say, "Why you sleepin', Matt? Matt, Matt? You're being glib. Don't sleep."

They're like, "Duder, what's real?"

I tug on my eyelid and VVVVVVVWWWOONNNGG. Directed by one of Ratatat's brother, the video is a flashmation kaleidoscopic retina exercise until it breaks into the footage that's stilled in the pic above. The whole thing prolly cost $0, so I feel a little better about posting the big-budget Missy thing-thing feat. Tommy-Fucking-Lee.

Too lazy to wax pathetic about the music, but here's a couple pennies.

Other niceness from E*Rock, especially homie Y.A.C.H.T., who's a giant peach.

Love Y'all.

What Have We Got To Lose But The Stars And Each Other

D.J., fuck these oppressors, man. It's me, Garanimal.
Originally uploaded by macyuh.

Learning to lose=Liberation

Osama Is Something Like Asshole

Semper Badonkulous
Originally uploaded by macyuh.

In lieu of actual socializing, I stayed in to watch T-Bro's report on the war on global terrorism. Gist? Shit sucks, and we're in cahoots with some trife dudes.

Mise en scenes straight from Platoon:

-GI's in small units raiding mudhuts, interrogating horrified families in the middle of nowhere, "winning over the people."

-Local children navigating for American soldiers with a panoramic view of the beautiful countryside behind them.

-An anonymous Mormon Special Forces soldier equating, with the help of Brokaw, that his assignment in Afghanistan is not dissimilar from his two-year Mormon mission in Brazil.

-T-Bro sitting in on a Afghani village counsel in which it was decided, again through T's suggestion, that women would one day be village elders, Americans should remain in Afghanistan at present troop levels, and Osama is referred to by most people in a word that is "something like asshole." No bleep. FCC on the clock.

In what amounted to little more than shilling for the cause, Brokaw hop-knobbed with Musharraf, Porter Goss, the Cam'Ron of Saudi A., and a couple NBC correspondents. T-Bro gettin' laze in retirement. I was fully expecting Bob Costas to pop in for a sitdown on the Iraqi World Cup team.

Fear-mongering at its finest from the Dapper Dan of pro-aggression media elite. And I miss dude, seriously.

Of course, not one mention of ceasing to blow people the fuck up. That would be a naive solution.

After that, I watched Missy. As much as I swoon for Maya Arulpragasam, Missy is heatrock embodied. Yuen Wo Ping krumping and some kind of Porgy & Bess Ciara bidness just pushed The Cook Book to most anticipated status. V... A...

Male Numbness

Spot the black dude in this pic.
Originally uploaded by macyuh.

It's what I got due to a fortnight+3 of commuting via U.S.S. Pearl Buck. Los Angeles, patch the pots, homie. That shit is a jackhammer to my potential fatherhood.

For anyone suffering from this peculiar affliction, may I suggest the miracle cure, direct from the Florence Nightingale of The Vocabulon. Bell Hooks' Will To Change is all Iron Mike bullrush at your ideals. She comes on with an intellectual ferocity that is meant more to knock you on your heels and think twice about your gameplan than inflict pain and suffering. BTW, can we make a Love Connection between Hooks and dude pic'd above? Mike wants out of the bigtop.

If you're a dude reading this, your first instinct might be flight at the mere mention of the term 'feminist masculinity,' the lynchpin of Hooks' theory. The word 'feminism' has a connotation of bra-burning maneaters, but this ain't yr Mom's shit. Hooks profers liberation for all of humanity from the cyclical emotional slavery of patriarchal domination. Basically, men have been conditioned to believe that their worth lies in their ability to control, possess, and provide-and do it with a clenched jaw, at least, and stoic steadfastness. The resulting emotional detachment from themselves and loved ones totes fucks shit up.

Sound familiar? Example Numero Uno, not from Hooks though, is George W. Bush. Immediately following 9/11, guy was tearing on the regular and the rest of America with him. The entire world, excepting a small yet vociferous minority, sympathized with our sudden, overwhelming grief and extended for reals Benetton love. Y'already know that, though.

It's often trauma that shakes men to question their belief system, and President Bush was visibly shook. It was nearly impossible NOT to find him absolutely captivating during this period, his homespun rhetoric, strength tempered with tenderness, and, most of all, unmitigated vulnerability transformed him from president to human being.

But of course, fear is the patriarchy's lead pipe, and they flash that shit whenever someone steps out of line. Be a man, George. Cowboy Up, George. What would your father say, George? What would The Father say, George?

Afghanistan, Iraq, TBD.

George doesn't resemble dude from September 12th anymore, and someone needs to send him some Hooks to the dome like a Tyson windmill.

Read the book. Read about the book here.

Cutting Edge

At the behest of a publishing magnate, I'm dipping my infantine pink toes into the pool. If you don't hear from me for a week or so, I'm sitting at the bottom waiting for someone to notice I haven't been at the supper table recently.

By the way, thanks for pulling me out of Grandma's pool when I was a toddler, Mom. Where would I be without you?