Via Boing Boing
Via Boing Boing
A few months ago DM brought you the expensive service guys could hire to fool their loved ones into thinking that they are involved in a relationship. Now, in another bold step in the process of getting professional help to minimize the stress that women inevitably bring—women, amirite fellas?—there’s now an Android app that automates the little chit-chat texts from your loved one that make the day a little easier to get through.
Appropriately enough, it’s called BroApp, and it appears to have been invented just as much to elicit piqued thinkpieces like this very one as it is to generate cash revenue. (The price tag is $1.99.) Men’s Health, of all magazines, nailed it: “Congratulations, you’ve just outsourced your relationship.” That line comes from BroApp’s own page on Google Play! They’re proud of that quote!
Here’s a little more of that app description:
BroApp is your clever relationship wingman. It automatically messages your girlfriend sweet things so you can spend more time with the Bros. Select your girlfriend’s number, add some sweet messages, and set the time of day when you want those messages sent. BroApp takes care of the rest.
BroApp is smart, taking all possible steps to safeguard the BroApp secret. BroApp’s unique detectors integrate advanced Android technologies that ensure your girlfriend never becomes suspicious of your relationship wingman.
The messages are brilliantly semi-literate, including such syntactical puzzlers as “Hi darl, how did you go today?” and “Hey babe, whats doing with you today?” (“Darl?” Who says, “Darl?”) One question I have is, why can’t the messages incorporate the young lady’s own name?
And another thing: Where’s the female version of this app, to help busy women reassure their sensitive beaux that everything’s OK?
(Memo to the BroApp powers-that-be: Reviewers and journalists can get a comped copy of the app, right?)
Of all the Venn diagrams in the world, I suspect I can forgo the one showing Hello Kitty/Playboy demographic overlap. I’m guessing it would consist mainly of creepy guys as well as cooler women who don’t give a damn what people think of them. I’m OK with the second group…...
French retailer Colette recently announced a new line of products mashing up two of the most recognizable (if oddly matched) brands on earth.
Here’s RocketNews24’s report:
French clothing and accessories retailer Colette is introducing a line of Hello Kitty x Playboy items, including candy, mirrors, memo notes, lighters, mugs, Leica cameras, iPhone cases, socks, bowties, boxers, shirts, and more. Naturally, the items sport one of two perfect logo mashups—Kitty wearing bunny ears, and the Playboy bunny with a bow on one ear.
The collaboration was celebrated last Friday at Paris’ Crazy Horse cabaret, with Hello Kitty designer Yuko Yamaguchi in attendance, who said the new design was “really sexy cool.” Also in attendance was Colette creative director and purchasing manager Sarah Andelman, who spear-headed the campaign.
Although the club typically includes a variety of topless acts, all of that night’s entertainment was PG. After all, it’s still Hello Kitty.
That the event was held at a strip club that had to be made “PG” for the evening might have been a warning sign that went unheeded.
Having said that, if you want to wear a $274 Hello Kitty/Playboy-branded bowtie, I’m not going to judge you for it. (Well, I probably will judge you for it, but here’s to hoping you have other fine qualities.) And actually, context is everything, if you’re a super cool hipster librarian lady, you really can buy and display any and all of these products, go for it!
Portable speaker, €40 ($54.94)
iPhone case 5/5S, €25 ($34.34)
Bowtie, €200 ($274.72)
Lighter, €5 ($6.87)
Lollipops, €5 ($6.87)
Temporary tattoos, €6 ($8.24)
Bonbons, €1 ($1.37)
Coffee mug, €12 ($16.48)
Dice game, €10 ($13.74)
Multicolored ballpoint pens, €4 ($5.49)
Among the surreal imagery, Lewis Carroll references, and fanciful wordplay in The Beatles’ “I Am the Walrus” is the mention of the Eggman. This has long been known to refer to The Animals’ singer Eric Burdon, who was given the nickname by John Lennon. According to Bob Spitz in The Beatles: The Biography Lennon bestowed the nickname in “a reference to a 1966 orgy he attended with Eric Burdon, who earned the nickname for breaking raw eggs on girls during sex.”
However, it turns out that the commonly told tale is actually 180 degrees off. The fabled egger Burdon was actually the eggee. (There is a technical term for the raw egg paraphilia, but I can’t find it and can’t face another list of fetishes.)
Burdon set the record straight in his 2002 autobiography, Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood, co-written with Jeff Marshall Craig:
It may have been one of my more dubious distinctions, but I was the Eggman - or, as some of my pals called me, ‘Eggs’.
The nickname stuck after a wild experience I’d had at the time with a Jamaican girlfriend called Sylvia. I was up early one morning cooking breakfast, naked except for my socks, and she slid up beside me and slipped an amyl nitrate capsule under my nose. As the fumes set my brain alight and I slid to the kitchen floor, she reached to the counter and grabbed an egg, which she cracked into the pit of my belly. The white and yellow of the egg ran down my naked front and Sylvia slipped my egg-bathed cock into her mouth and began to show me one Jamaican trick after another. I shared the story with John at a party at a Mayfair flat one night with a handful of blondes and a little Asian girl.
“Go on, go get it, Eggman,” Lennon laughed over the little round glasses perched on the end of his hook-like nose as we tried the all-too-willing girls on for size.
John Lennon standing in for Burdon as the Eggman:
Some smartass/genius has procured a sign-language video, evidently produced by Jehovah’s Witnesses, meant to instruct the deaf on why it’s important to avoid the evils of masturbation, and set it to the music of rapper/actor 50 Cent (that’s pronounced “FIDDY Cent,” in case you didn’t know, he said, whitely), of Get Rich Or Die Tryin’ fame.
I really wish there was something… anything I could add to this, but the sign language gestures for tossing one off turn out to be pretty much what you’d expect.
The original “Happy Hooker,” Xaviera Hollander, looking happy as ever
From the dominatrix to the stripper, from the escort to the women who perform services I’ve probably never even heard of, sex workers are often the recipients of pity, disdain, and sometimes outright animosity—not even to mention the criminalization of their profession. On the one hand, you have the camp that can’t wrap their brains around the idea that many woman choose to enter the industry. On the other hand, you have lovely characters like self-described “militant feminist” Julie Burchill, who once said, “When the sex war is won prostitutes should be shot as collaborators for their terrible betrayal of all women.”
Well, that sounds pretty pro-women, doesn’t it?
And if that kind of abuse isn’t bad enough, these ladies have to contend with being the subjects of some truly awful poetry. Luckily for us, the brilliant Lori Adorable has taken on the arduous task of curating the genre on the Tumblr, “Bad Poems About Sad Sex Workers.” Let’s take a sampling, shall we?
Lick your lips
Flutter those eyes
Shake them hips
Please all the guys
Work it harder you stupid whore
Pay these bills or you’re out the door
Don’t complain you have it easy
If you don’t mind a job that’s sleazy
Shake your ass
Make it wobble
Please these men
Make them oggle[sic]
I admire the stringent commitment to the rhyme scheme, but I simply cannot abide a spelling error in literary misogyny. Let’s try another.
what you feel
with eyes shut
a pretty slut
a wicked rose
the goddess of love
yet she lived not above
but deep below the dust
what you feel
her mother would
always tell her
to live a life without a man
is always better
— to the only whore i loved
Overwrought use of repetition, for when you can’t think of any more words. But let’s try one more.
Put those fairytales on the shelf,
No one can save you but yourself,
There’s no golden brick road,
Or somewhere over the rainbow,
Instead of ruby slippers,
She wears cheap stilettos,
Works the streets, she’s a keeper,
Of all the secrets we’re not suppose to know,
About the senators in their office,
About the representatives in the bathroom stalls,
I had to stop reading early because I was too annoyed by the third line to complete it. It’s “yellow brick road, you wistful idiot! Familiarize yourself with an American movie classic and the musical canon of Sir Elton John at once! Regardless, you went political (sort of), and that’s a risk I want to encourage.
Congratulations! You won the award I just made up for “Most Entertaining Terrible Poem About a Sad Sex Worker!”
Flavored condoms have been around forever, so why not weed-flavored condoms, right?
Green in colour, and smells and tastes like the real thing!
I think the formative literary experiences of adolescence are far less uniform than we sometimes (condescendingly) assume. For example, Catcher in the Rye left me flat, Slaughter House Five didn’t really “hit” me until after my second reading in college, and no, I never had an Ayn Rand phase. No, I was a fourteen-year-old midwestern girl who was really into Spalding Gray.
My mother had his monologue collections, Swimming to Cambodia, Sex and Death to the Age 14 and Monster in a Box, which I devoured after seeing a recorded performance of Gray’s Anatomy on TV. Although hearing and watching Gray deliver a monologue is absolutely essential, his intimate, honest, and endearingly neurotic storytelling translates beautifully to the written word as well. (One wonders how much his acute dyslexia is responsible for his craft; reading was incredibly difficult for him, not to mention writing, and he attributed his strength in monologue to an adept, discursive auditory memory.)
But of course, Spalding Gray was not always the Spalding Gray, and in the early days of his career, in addition to summer stock and experimental theater, he had a little bit of a side career in skin flicks—two or three, depending on the source. Of course, given Gray’s avant-garde-ish background (and the fact that this was 1976), it’s entirely possible that this was all done in the spirit of radicalism and testing the boundaries of “acting”—the director of Farmer’s Daughters, Zebedy Colt was an early, outspoken gay arts pioneer and activist.
Or maybe Gray was just broke and needed the money
The clip below, from Farmer’s Daughters, is totally safe for work, and you get to hear Gray’s trademark Rhode Island accent on stilted, vintage, naughty dialogue! However, although it’s apparently possible to view the notorious Farmer’s Daughters in its entirety, it is not the sort of cheesy, novel smut people tend to watch for a retro laugh. It is fucked up. So fucked up, in fact, that I’m just going to link the plot here. Even if you do want the perverse details—imagine Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left remade for a “raincoater”-crowd—I wouldn’t want to spring them on you before you’ve had your morning coffee…
Did Gray ever do a monologue about the making of Farmer’s Daughters I wonder? Probably not!
I almost never post TED talks here because a) they’re already so ubiquitous online and b) I think the whole TED thing has become a bit smug and elitist. (TED well deserved the takedown Benjamin Bratton recently delivered so eloquently on their own stage, I thought.)
Even if I do enjoy some of the talks individually—I’m a sucker for dolphin intelligence stuff—the whole TED gestalt makes me uneasy, AND YET I can still whole-heartedly recommend this talk by my pal Dr. Christopher Ryan, co-author of the fascinating NY Times best-seller, Sex at Dawn: How We Mate, Why We Stray, and What It Means for Modern Relationships.
I especially liked his conclusion. In a sense Ryan’s urging for a sort of “sexual literacy” mirrors the message of Bill Nye’s advocacy of scientific literacy. The more you know, the better off all society will be. The planet’s becoming too small of a place for ignorance to flourish.
Below, a 2011 interview I conducted with Christopher Ryan:
Sex appeal, according to Jayne Mansfield, is a wonderfully warm, healthy feeling that isn’t manufactured, or has anything to do with measurements or lipstick color, rather:
“An effervescent desire to enjoy life, that’s what sex appeal is to me.”
Though Mansfield regularly played-up to her vital statistics, she was no dummy. Jayne allegedly had a genius IQ, spoke five languages, and was smart enough to buck the Hollywood system—breaking away to achieve international success as an actress, singer, burlesque and cabaret entertainer starring in sell-out shows on both sides of the Atlantic
In 1965, Jayne cut two tracks in New York with a young session musician named Jimi Hendrix on guitar. Apparently this strange combo happened as Jayne and Jimi shared the same manager.
A-Side: As Clouds Drift By—Jayne Mansfield with Jimi Hendrix on guitar and bass.
B-Side: Suey—Jayne Mansfield with Jimi Hendrix on guitar and bass.
Below, Mansfield speaks from a bed on the set of Brit flick The Challenge (aka It Takes A Thief) to comb-over interviewer, Robert Robinson, in 1960: