The Printed Blog Vol2-Love by The Printed Blog

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ANAL INCONGRUITIES By Neal Boulton | 2/04/11 | Bastard Life

LIFESTYLE

CELEBRATE EVERYTHING By Neal Boulton | 2/04/11| Bastard Life

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The genderless anus. In a BastardLife poll of 8,391 American heterosexual men 73% told us they had either “experienced” or “wanted to experience” anal sex with their girlfriends or wives. Pressed further, 83% said they found anal sex between homosexual men “repulsive.” 11% of these men told us that they had received anal stimulation from their female partners during sex and “loved it.”—G.W. http://bit.ly/9zKs32

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At BastardLife we feel that everyday is an opportunity to deepen your relationship with someone—the one you like, the one you love, the one you want to love. But to do so requires a reflective moment to consider: who you are, what you want, and how to go about the intimacy you crave. Been shy about going for what you really want? We don’t think you should be. Not been open with your peers or your family about who or what you’re really into? We want you to grab the nearest bull horn and tell everyone in your community. The thing is, everyone’s primal need is not the same, and how we differ romantically is what keeps the world full of adventure—the kind of adventure we want you to read and learn about on BastardLife. Where sexuality is concerned, my life creed is to deny nothing—and celebrate everything, especially you. So, be safe, stay hot, and enjoy BastardLife. PHOTOGRAPHY

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

Facundo Garay | http://bit.ly/g2vntB

THE LIES SHE WANTS By Neal Boulton | 2/02/11 | Bastard Life

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Lie to me. In a recent poll of 12,863 BastardLife readers, 61% of you told us that honesty was not always the best policy, especially when it ruins the relationships in your lives. “I never ask Michael anything I don’t want the answer to. It’s just an understanding we have,” Lisa told me after sharing that she suspects her husband is sleeping with a woman they had a threesome with about a month ago. “I wouldn’t be surprised. But I just won’t ask, and if he does tell me, I’ll slap him and ask, ‘Why didn’t you just lie?’” “Most people engage in deception on an almost daily basis,” Richard Urdu, a psychologist from NYU, tells me. “The primary motivation outside of getting away with something is to make the person we are talking to feel good,” he says, “or to make ourselves look better to others.” Lisa was clear: she didn’t want a lie, nor did she want Michael to stray—but more than any of that she definitely did not want the truth. “I know men stray, so there are a handful of lies a man simply has got to master if he is going to keep me around,” she said. Intrigued, we rounded up some of those lies—some from Lisa and some from about ten other women. We decided not to include the woman Michael is doing on his lunch breaks in a nearby hotel. Were you at a strip club last night? Lie. If I died, would you go out with her? Lie. This photograph shows you kissing her in front of a hotel in midtown. Lie, even if there are pictures. Was she good? Were her breasts bigger than mine? Did you make her cum? If yes is the answer to any of these Lisa says, “Take them to the grave.” Some women insisted that men must confess at least one incriminating truth with humility, during a litany of lies, “in order for any of them to be believed.” Most women we spoke to offered us a list of truths that would not be deal breakers. Ok, I did sleep with her. But all it did was make me realize that I can indeed be monogamous with you—and that I am in love with you. She was fun in bed, yes. But there was no intimacy and all I could do was race home to be with you. Yes, I saw her again. But only to make it clear I never wanted to see her again—ever. Before Lisa was through, her husband Michael arrived home from work. He was a tall man with rugged features and elegant clothing. When he leaned in to kiss her hello, she said, “Hey sweetheart how was your day?” while winking at him. He caught the wink, and winked back, grinning, and slyly said, “One of my best days actually, thanks for asking.”—W.T.

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields

THE SEXLESS SUPERBOWL By Neal Boulton | 2/04/11| Bastard Life

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No Score? A Zoosk online survey of more than 1,000 people found that 73% of women would rather watch the Super Bowl than have sex; men, on the other hand were split down the middle regarding their preferred activity. Jerome D., from Dallas, TX told BastardLife, “If she’s cool with just letting me watch the game, I’m cool with that, too. Assuming I’m not too drunk afterwards, sex would be better when the game’s over anyway.” Among other findings, the survey’s men and women agreed that the hottest player on the field will be the Steelers’ Ryan Clark. But BastardLife reader Thomas B., from Brooklyn, NY offered another reason to tune in: “I don’t watch Ryan because he’s a Steeler, I watch Ryan because of his hot ass of steel!” 57% of survey takers said they’re most excited about the game itself, while 20% are looking forward to the commercials.—M.R.

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By Neal Boulton | 10/23/09 | Bastard Life

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“First, I want to write that I miss my boyfriend (and I wrote him that BastardLife would be publishing this letter after you folks got back to me so thanks). I miss him because out here no one knows why we are here anymore. I miss him because I sleep alone and wish he was holding me close on the nights—every night more and more—that I lay awake and stare into the black space of my tent and wonder if I will ever see him again. I miss him because of all of the things I wish I had said to him in person, smelling his breath and scents and feeling the gruff of his face against mine. And I miss him because no one here knows—that I miss him. No one can know. Sometimes when I hurt other people out here on the war path I wonder if they are like me, if they have had to keep a secret like mine—if they love someone like I do... as strongly as I do... that no one can know about. Thing is, I will fight for my country and I will fight for the freedom of these people here, and I will come home and continue to fight for my own rights to be a gay man and marry my ‘one’ as you say so often gloriously. In the meantime, I know what I have to do—and I will. I’ll man up, stay tough, and keep moving forward.” Anonymous, U.S. Marines, Iraq, January 27th, 2009 PHOTOGRAPHY

Bartosz Ludwinski | http://bit.ly/3iEvVr

Boris Ovini | http://bit.ly/9r3C9J

THE DEVIL WEARS DNA By Neal Boulton | 6/06/10| Bastard Life

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BorisBryant Ovini |said http://bit.ly/tylershields Sorry I ruined your life. “Guess it just comes with the territory,” while a giant

Mark Viszlay | http://bit.ly/h3iKD2

YOU SAY HYPOCRISY; WE SAY SEXOCRISY. By Neal Boulton | 1/31/11| Bastard Life

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Half of men in the United States would forgive their female partner’s infidelity, as long as it was with another woman, according to a new study on cheating. Women, however, were less likely to forgive and forget if their boyfriend had been with another man, according to the University of Texas at Austin study published this month in the journal Personality and Individual Differences. Researchers asked 718 college students to imagine being in a long-term relationship and what their reactions would be to several different cheating scenarios. Overall, 50 per cent of men would likely continue a relationship with a woman who had a dalliance with another woman, while only 22 per cent said they could forgive betrayal with another man. For women, 28 per cent said they would stick with their man if he fooled around with another woman but only 21 per cent said they would if he cheated with another man.—Reuters PHOTOGRAPHY

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Manhattan citiscape filled his expansive panoramic office window behind him. He’s referring to the rolodex of women his wife recently found out about—and how she’s leaving him because one of them is pregnant with his child. “You get all of this,” he says gesturing to the Mies van der Rohe leather and chrome furniture surrounding us, and the view, “and you top it off with extra marital sex with women—who want men who have all of this.” Of course Bryant is not alone; hell, a man with a mistress is nothing new. In fact, 72% of married men claim to have had at least one mistress during the course of their marriage. But it’s a pervasiveness that’s odd when you consider the one thing all of these men have in common is the fact that eventually they will get caught, 81% of them will anyway. Over enough time, a species adapts to the changes in its environment so that it can survive— webbed feet to swim, legs to walk, thumbs to grip food—so how is it man has yet to adapt such that his oldest pastime can survive without his wife finding out? BastardLife interviewed seven women who claimed they’d served as extramarital bedfellows to several men and they shared some chilling reasons why men, and Bryant in particular, may never have a fighting chance. God made hotels for a reason. “Bryant needs to know that by coming to my place he’s more likely to leave his DNA behind in either a discarded condom, hair on the pillow, or his lip print on the glass of wine we share. And I keep that stuff—it may be worth something down the road.”— Melinda, Washington, D.C. Learn to love latex. “It’s likely I am not on the pill or practicing any other form of birth control even if I say I am, so if Bryant doesn’t pull out, I’ll probably keep his baby if it comes to that. (Our emails and phone records are proof enough for me to get a court ordered paternity test).”—Sophia, Boston, MA. Don’t email her—ever. “I say I’ve deleted all of your emails—but I probably haven’t. When I click ‘reply’ on an old note of yours in which you’ve gushed about how amazing my pussy is leave it to fate that that’s the one Bryant’s wife discovers while he’s out jogging in Central Park.”— Lauren, New York, NY. Get a second secret Blackberry with a new number. “You’ve made the rules clear, ‘Radio Silence’ means don’t text you on your Blackberry—even if I’m dying, but drunk I do anyway while you’re on vacation with your wife and kids. It’s the one that Bryant’s wife finds because it’s laying on the dinner table while he’s in the shower.”—Kendra, Los Angeles, CA. Play—without getting played. “Sometimes you pull away and it annoys me. Instead of running after you I pull away and withhold sex. It’s a great way of manipulating you. I also see other men but I’m vague when you ask me about it. Another good trick because though I’m pretty much exclusively your mistress, it gets you jealous. After a year of this you’re professing your love for me just to keep me closer. That’s when you get sloppy—and Bryant’s wife finds out because of the credit card he said he’d never use but did anyway hastily for a hotel room because I’d withheld sex from him for a month to drive him mad and it worked.”—Alexa, Houston, TX. Don’t shit where you eat. “It’s always hotter when we’re having an affair in the same city where we both live. And if you’re hot, and rich, and well known, I can’t help but brag about you out at night tipsy to my girlfriends. After enough time doing this, word gets out of course—but it rarely gets back to the wives. Emboldened by this we both get a bit cocky about carrying on right under her nose. Eventually, Bryant’s wife either bumps into us out, or he’s spotted by one of her friends with me when he’s supposed to be out of town on business. If we’re together long enough, I’ll show up wasted at his home after a fight we’ve had. Though fun, same city cheating can really get ugly.”—Clara, New York, NY. No really, learn to love latex. “I’ve had herpes for years but I have never ever passed it along to anyone—so, I don’t tell my men about it even though we never use condoms. I’m very good at knowing when I’m about to have an outbreak so I don’t think there is any reason for worry. I’m equally as good at knowing when I’m ovulating so I let him cum inside of me most of the time because I’ve never been wrong and gotten pregnant. I hate being on the pill so I don’t take it, though I tell my men I do just so they don’t worry madly. I also have HPV but I am asymptomatic so, again, I see no reason to alarm him. In this worst case scenario we’re painting, I could see Bryant being that one guy who either gets me pregnant or passes along HPV or herpes to his wife unknowingly. But like I’ve said, that’s never happened.”—Asha, San Francisco, CA. The phone on Bryant’s desk rings for the third or fourth time since sitting down with him to talk. This time, he lights up and grabs the black receiver with a jolt of electricity, only to dim when he says, “I thought it was Heather,” his wife of 21 years who hasn’t called, or taken his calls, for nearly 8 months. “It was only the nanny, my youngest daughter has a bloody nose. Guess it just comes with the territory.”—C.D.

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A LOVE LETTER

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By Jessica Druck | 09/23/10 | Hello, My Name Is Jessica

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Dear guy who loves himself, You were like a Monet. I totally dug you from afar. Women have this problem when we see an attractive man: we enter a realm of fantasy hoping you will become a wild depiction we foreshadow in our head. It’s a terrible habit and always to no avail. To me, you were the nerdy type. You liked reading and probably listened to all these underground indie bands that were so good yet undiscovered. You were motivated, caring and witty in the most intelligent way possible. You were an outdoors-ey man and maybe part of some Big Brother organization. You weren’t over 30 but not under 25. Perfect. Oh, to dream. Unfortunately, the second we got past “hello,” I was bored. Your glasses were fake—I blame the trendy youth of America shopping at places like Urban Outfitters—and your claim of being a music enthusiast was lost after the mention of Linkin Park and Justin Bieber. The only motivation you had was getting women into bed and renewing your gym membership and you were caring all right; you cared a lot about yourself. As for your intelligent wit? Right. My jokes went over your head. I didn’t care about your expensive automobile you felt that you had to picture text me. Who does that? Even Batman is discreet about his fancy wheels. Get real dude, I was not impressed. I didn’t care about your career that was less a career and more a pickup line. I totally Facebook stalked you after you told me to add you on Facebook (which I never did) and I was totally turned off by your incessant status updates and goofy self-portrait Macbook photos. Go outside, read a book… do something. I blame myself in this situation more than I blame you for defacing the moral of man for women everywhere because I allowed you the privilege of my phone number. When I told you “I will let you know when I have free time,” it wasn’t an invitation to keep bothering me with text messages when I didn’t alert you of my free time. Look, there’s someone for everyone. I am sure you will find your Robin that can under shadow you Bruce Wayne. Keep on keeping on business exec. Yours truly, but not really. PHOTOGRAPHY

LIFESTYLE

ONE WAY TO MAKE A MAN HAPPY, FROM THE NEW RADICAL FEMINIST By Francesca Biller-Safran | 2/3/11 Gloria Steinem once said, “The surest way to be alone is to get married.” While loneliness and “feeling alone” is certainly the case for many married women, the blame cannot be placed entirely on men. And to be completely politically incorrect, married men are lonely too. On the contrary, as my mother always said, “It takes two to tango my dear, and it can be a really good tango or a very bad one, depending upon the effort you put into it.” Ever since I can remember, I watched my very independent and very feminine mother wait on my father, on her own terms, and she made no bones about enjoying it either. Even after working all day in her own business, she managed to whip up some pretty hot dishes for my father every night, without resentment or bitterness, and while looking pretty damn sexy, I might add. Okay feminists, you can email your hate letters now. Keep in mind that my mother was a revolutionary of sorts as the Women’s Liberation Movement was in full swing. I recall friends of hers acted appalled at the way my mother paid so much attention to my father’s needs, as if she should be somehow apologetic when she asked if he would like her to freshen his drink or another helping of brisket. As an outspoken political junkie even as a young teen, I remember debating a much older woman at a dinner party letting her know that daily domestic dalliances by a woman “does not turn back the clock” for women and feminists. On the contrary, I said that if the Feminist agenda looked down upon a woman because it was “her choice” to cook, clean and take care of her family, than the Women’s Movement was just another way of keeping women in their place, albeit just a different one with a new catch phrase. I will never forget the serene look on my mother’s beautiful face when she brought my father his plate of home-cooked food each night, as if it were the most important dinner she ever cooked. He was always served before my siblings and I. These were confusing political social times. Many of my friend’s parents got divorced after I witnessed countless arguments at their homes over seemingly small issues such as who was going to cook dinner or pick up the kids, as most parents were both now working as we were well into the Women’s Movement which heated up in the 1960’s. Many women were angry, men were angry, and most of my friends ended up at my house on the weekends, awaiting my mother’s home cooked meals, as if they were starved not only for the five basic food groups, but for a more grounded and bonded familial setting. Remember the television commercial with the song about how women could bring home the bacon and then fry it up in the pan? That was my mother, and unlike many other mothers I knew, she wasn’t battling inner female demons as to whether or not she was more or less of a woman if she continued to do what made herself and her family happy. My mother taught my two sisters and I how to cook, as well as sew, clean, and most importantly, how to be independent and interdependent women, which meant making our own decisions despite what any status quo had to say about it. With all of this said, there’s almost nothing that makes me happier than cooking for my man. And I am not just saying this for shock value or to piss any other feminists off, even though I know that it will. Many feminists will say that I am turning back the clock for the Women’s Movement, as if touting the importance of taking care of my man’s needs and making him happy could possibly be a bad thing in anyone’s good book. News Announcement: Even though I am an independent, professional woman, I also enjoy bringing my man coffee in the morning, asking him if he’d like a beer at night, dropping his shirts off at the cleaners, and even doing some creative dancing, if you know what I mean. Not only do I not feel like a stronger woman when I indulge myself in such acts, but more womanly than ever, because my man appreciates the uniquely feminine attention I shower upon him, and yes, it is at my discretion, and at his. If anyone has a doubt about the power of femininity, my parents are still married after 53 years, they both still work as artists, and my mother continues to make dinner for my father every night. And oh… she also looks twenty years younger than her age and has 30-year old hotties hit on her. As for me, as an independent politically-active professional woman, I am able to leave my politics at the door each evening, and ask my stud if he’d like a glass of wine and little more hot gravy on his mash potatoes. Seeing that satiated look in his very manly eyes with that wink of his makes me feel even more like a woman that I am, and both us more satisfied in our relationship as a result. If that is called anti-Feminist behavior by anyone, I am now proud to call myself the new anti-Feminist. And as the debate continues to heat up, I’ll be in the kitchen, cooking up something spicy and hot.

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BELLE DE JOUR By Steven Kobrin | 1/06/11 | Movie Reviews

Boris Ovini | http://bit.ly/9r3C9J

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It has never been a problem for me to immerse myself in a type of cinema that is light years away from what one would consider to be mainstream or conventional. I avidly pursue films and directors of this nature because it broadens my own creative horizons while educating me on the history of cinema. The truth of the matter is that there is very rich and artistically diverse history to be discovered in the annals of American Cinema. For the most part, there were titans (Hawks, Ford, Welles), great directors (Walsh, Wise, Losey etc.) and many solid craftsmen. By the way, Hitchcock was a filmmaking titan, and the only reason I don’t mention him is because although we are talking American film, I always perceived him as a British film director who made American pictures. Moving on, I would continue by saying that this is a very impressive group of directors, and they represent the apex of American film artistry. But that is not the final argument in why we shouldn’t be more demanding of our cinema and directors. I am quite aware that many filmgoers and cinephiles want their pictures to be clear, precise and devoid of any sense of narrative or cinematic pretension. I understand that, but I’m not entirely sure that it lends itself to what else world cinema has to offer. Maybe European Cinema is far more interested in notions of character and atmosphere, rather than plot and action which is essential in American movies. But even if that is the case, there are magnificent films and artists to be found in the history of European Cinema. And in my own humble opinion, none has been more vital or important in the way we view films and ourselves than the extraordinary Luis Bunuel. He was the Master of Surrealism. I will address that point more specifically a bit later. But there is so much more depth, meaning and character to his entire body of work. The fact of the matter is Bunuel was a total Spaniard and a committed antagonist of the bourgeoisie. Now, this is of vital importance to consider before even accessing his cinema because all these components play crucial roles in his films. All his movies also repay very close attention. Like Hitchcock, the vast majority of his pictures are not simply great films. They are masterpieces. He was quick and efficient in his style and delivery of films, but make no mistake about it. It is the expressive mastery of his pictures that warrants attention and praise, if only because he was so integral in changing the way we view motion pictures. If ever there was a single film that so stunningly captured the meaning of Bunuel the artist, it was his flawless late-sixties picture, “Belle De Jour” (1967). There is a constant sense of shock and elegance to all of Bunuel’s greatest works , and it occurs to me that these two facets are forever vying to get equal amounts of attention. Now, I must clarify the approach to surrealism Bunuel employs in each and every one of his pictures, and why it not only differs, but is vastly superior to anyone who attempts to emulate his style. Often times, the characters in Bunuel’s films create prisons of the mind. Therefore, they find themsleves needing to find a form of escape from the world in which they live. However, there is no sense of dreams or the existence of a dreamscape in any of his movies. There is only the world in which we live and the surreal extensions of that very recognizable universe. To be certain, “Belle De Jour” finds Catherine Deneuve playing Severine, a chic somewhat frigid housewife who decides its time for a massive change. She moonlights by day as a prostitute unbeknownst to her husband. The irony is that the husband is appealing, attentive and secure in his professional status. Is he boring? Perhaps. But the exploration of that darker world stimulates Severine’s senses as well as her escape into fantasies that begin to blend and eventually subvert our sense of reality. Bunuel’s approach to surrealism is therefore so seamless in the weaving of his cinematic tapestry that within minutes, you don’t know which end is up, and you certainly have no sense of the world in which you are. Is this a fantasy or is it reality? But that is the point to appreciating Bunuel. Being lost is paradise in Bunuel films. I don’t want to know where I am, and I certainly don’t want to get any sense of absolute resolution by the end of the film. There is no Bunuel film that ends with a greater sense of visual beauty, moral ambiguity and enraptured surrealism than “Belle De Jour.” Are we in Severine’s mind? Or has she returned to her bourgeoisie existence? I don’t know. I will never know, and that is the key to Bunuel’s mastery. Catherine Deneuve may very well be the greatest of Bunuel’s actresses. And rest assured, he has worked with some of the best. Maria Felix, Jeanne Moreau, Simone Signoret, Delphine Seyrig, Monica Vitti. But Deneuve seems to me the most closely attuned to his delicate sense of emotional surrender and creative escape. There is nothing “poker-faced” in the way Deneuve plays Severine or her other towering achievement for Bunuel, “Tristana” (1970). On the contrary, her icy demeanor is so perfect to better convey the insecure sense of reality and fantasy that we are never on terra-firma in “Belle De Jour.” That has a great deal to do with Bunuel’s masterful interpretation of Joseph Kessel’s novel. But we can also attribute this to the magnificent performance by the great Deneuve. If ever she looked like a goddess in film, it was in this picture. What a wonderful supporting cast Bunuel gathered for this picture. Michel Piccoli had appeared for him in “Evil Eden” (1956), and he was superb there as well. Here, he is a snide, sarcastic lecher who complains bitterly about being too cold. His primary interest is really in getting his balls off with Deneuve, but he is too narrow minded to find any real merit in what he’s doing. His gloomy demeanor is a perfect counterpoint to the cool fragility of Ms. Deneuve. The rest of the cast are equally impressive, and they include such excellent players as Genevieve Page, Francisco Rabal (also terrific in Bunuel’s “Nazarin” (1958), Jean Sorel, Pierre Clementi and Francoise Fabian. Hypocrisy of society and sexuality, eroticism, anti-religion and surrealism. These are the characteristic hallmarks of the best Bunuel films, and they are passionately on display here in ”Belle De Jour.” I would say that this is his definitive movie as well as his most accessible work. For the uninitiated or the Bunuel purist, this movie is the one that most warrants repeat viewings. The image in Bunuel films is always essential to the greater theme explored in the film. His use of color and the presence of Catherine Deneuve immediately gave his later masterworks a discernible sense of visual ”style.” But I would oppose that argument by saying, where is there an ugly shot or bad sense of composition in any of Bunuel’s previous films? There isn’t. But where the later pictures are concerned, “Belle De Jour” will always reign supreme as the greatest of the final masterpieces. As far as influence on world cinema, Luis Bunuel will always be the most innovative and original director in the history of the medium to be placed alongside Alfred Hitchcock. PHOTOGRAPHY

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B-GIRLS By Stuart Goldman | 9/27/010 | The Man Who Tried To Stop Time

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I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just can’t seem to find a normal girlfriend. I mean, you’d think that by this stage of the game I’d be trying to find a good woman to settle down with. It’s not that I don’t think about it. I do. It’s just that I keep on getting sidetracked. Take right now for instance. I’m head over heels in love with this lady boxer. I’m not talking about some aerobics bimbo, either. I’m talkin’ about a lean, mean, tough as nails, street wise professional fighter! A gal who can kick your butt, my butt, and just about anybody else’s butt I know. Besides that, she just happens to be one incredibly sexy hunk of woman. This is nothing new by the way. Even back in college, I never much went for “normal” girls. You know… girls who lived in the dorms. Girls who studied psychology or English Lit. Girls that bored the pants off you while they blabbered about how many units they were taking or the frog they’d just hacked up in biology class. After awhile it got so that I knew what those girls were going to say before they ever opened their mouths. In fact, in some weird way, when I look back on all those girls (I still have trouble thinking of any of the female species as “women”— and you can make of that what you want), I can see clearly that they were all sort of versions of one another. The Doppelganger Women. The point being that, because of this affliction, over the last decade, I’ve gone through an amazing variety of what I can only term “B-Girls.” Girls whose lives one might tend to think of as, er, sort of shabby. Girls your parents wouldn’t approve of. I’m sure you get the picture. Oh, my poor parents. That their son—their bright, talented, oh-so-well educated son— should be cavorting with such dummies! You’d think he’d have some respect! But what does he do? How does he repay us for all the money we spent putting him through college? Through psychoanalysis? He brings home a topless dancer—that’s how! A topless dancer named Wanda! Yes friends, one cool August evening not all that many years back found Wanda, me, my little sis, and my mom and dad sitting together at the dinner table. My mom was totally cool about the whole thing. She’d made a great dinner, set the table with the finest silver—the whole schmear. In the background, Mozart played on the stereo. The conversation? Well, let’s just say there was a certain ah… lack of communication at the table on that fateful night. Every so often my father would just shoot me one of those looks. To make matters worse, old Wanda indulged a bit too heavily in the dinner wine, which apparently didn’t mix too well with the pot roast. Pretty soon she excused herself to go outside and get some air. It was a few moments before we heard the retching. It was very loud. My mom ran out into the back yard where she found Wanda puking in the swimming pool. Caring soul that she is, my mom tried to help poor Wanda to the bathroom. For her concern she was rewarded with a load of vomit all over the front of her dress. So much for that little dinner party. After the Wanda episode I seemed to cool it for a bit. But then, as if the dry spell had only served to whet my appetite, I began all over again. Over the next months I went through a highly diverse succession of B-Girls. Let’s see… there was a 16-year old runaway from Atlanta who robbed liquor stores and read Proust; an aspiring Negro country-western singer; a nymphomaniac female cantor; three born-again Christian sisters who sang gospel songs and worked as prostitutes to pay the rent. Also, one belly dancer, an Oriental masseuse, a foxy boxer, a mud wrestler, two taxi dancers, and a female bouncer. Plus, an inordinate amount of waitresses (ever since seeing Five Easy Pieces I have had a total-and-complete waitress fixation. Fact is, I even went and married one (but that’s another story). Now mind you, none of these gals were sought out for their physical assets, gifted as they were in those areas. No, I was interested in them—each and every one—as human beings. I wanted to probe their minds, to study their customs, their mores, their habits. I swear this was all I had in mind. I, the budding B-Girl anthropologist. Though serious study often proved difficult, I wasn’t to be dissuaded from my mission. No sir! Besides, it was a million times better than spending an evening with some lame-brained UCLA coed who wanted to babble about her trip to Europe. Or, God forbid, some whacked-out, whalesaving, vegetable eating Scientologist! And as the years slip by, I am forced to admit that I’m hopelessly hooked. I can think of no other possible explanation for the fact that I found myself—just two weeks ago—in the Las Vegas apartment of a stripper named Gee Gee. I mean, sure, I had an assignment from a magazine to do a piece on the “art of striptease,” but that didn’t explain my hanging out after the interview had been completed. So, there I sat in Gee Gee’s one bedroom apartment. As I stared blankly at the tube I could hear through the paper-thin wall, as Gee Gee tried in vain to get her kid to shut up and go to sleep. I continued to stare at the screen, where a gigantic bald-headed man was destroying a town. The giant man was pulling up palm trees by the roots and flinging them at the townspeople, who ran hither and thither, screaming those phony B-movie screams. I recognized the picture. It was The Amazing Colossal Man. Ironically, the town that The Amazing Colossal Man was destroying just happened to be Las Vegas. Somehow the symbolism got to me. When Gee Gee emerged from quieting her kid, I told her I wasn’t feeling so hot and that I’d better get going. Back at my hotel, I sat in the coffee shop. Everybody around me looked like a cartoon. A group of fat women attired in blue bowling league shirts sitting behind me were talking real loud. The sound of their voices made me feel like I was going to vomit. In the booth directly next to mine sat an ancient couple. They were both wearing Mickey Mouse t-shirts. Both of them were talking in monotone voices and chain smoking Pall Malls. They appeared to be totally disinterested in everything except for their cigarettes, which they were sucking on very intently. They sucked them right down to the butts. Neither of them looked at one another as they spoke. Suddenly a voice above me said, “Coffee, sir?” I looked up. She was beautiful. Blonde pony tail, a smattering of freckles. A tiny overbite. The nametag on her uniform read: Suzzy. God... Suzzy. There was no doubt about it: I was in love. “Can I get you anything sir?” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. I could barely get the words out. “Uh, I’ll just have some coffee,” I stammered. Suzzy turned on her heel, but not before giving me a wonderful toothy smile. I watched her walk away, my heart beating a mile-a-minute in my chest. No doubt about it—I’d been smitten. Oh sure, I realized I was engaging in neurotic, fantasy-like behavior again… but it didn’t matter. The magic was back. My hand shaking, I pulled a pen out of my pocket, and began to compose a note on a pad of paper. It would be short, but extremely clever, I knew. The words were already forming themselves in my diseased brain. She was as good as mine. Yes sir, things were looking up. It was going to be a fine night after all.

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LEAVE THE CHILDLESS ALONE By Francesca Biller-Safran | 2/3/11 |

Hannes Caspar | http://bit.ly/11oyIR

Alexandra Cameron | http:/bit.ly/8Uj8g1

Comedian Rita Rudner once said, “My husband and I are either going to buy a dog or have a child. We just can’t decide whether to ruin the carpet or ruin our lives.” Ruining one’s life and a child’s life is easily said and done, given the fact that most people put more thought into deciding what car or home to purchase more than whether or not they should bring a child into the world. I have heard people ask those of a certain age without children questions including, “Are you gay?” “Did you hate your parents?” “Are you afraid of commitment?” and even statements such as “You must be sterile” and “You’re going to really regret this when you are old and all alone.” In Western Society and largely throughout the world, one is presumed to be cold, selfish, immoral and even mentally lacking in some way if they decide they don’t wish to have any children at all, ever. We wonder what could possibly be wrong, as we imagine a multitude of strange skeletons hiding in their closets—perhaps even rudely theorizing if they too have yet to come out of one. Whispers, rumors and opinions are formed as to why this uncle, aunt or childless couple continue in their unwavering stance of simply not wanting kids. We torture them with endless pictures of our own babies, tell them “It’s never too late,” and tell them that they will regret their decision “not to go forth and multiply” for the rest of their lives. While it is understood that men and women have an evolutionary biological need and feel pressure to plant and nurture their seeds before leaving the planet, modern medicine, revolutionary changes in politics and culture has drastically changed people’s ability to choose paths they deem as more important or advantageous than child rearing. Go figure. But we don’t believe them. We think they’re lying, have suffered some horrendous abuse as a child and ultimately, some of us make it our life’s mission to save others from what we think must be an empty, pathetic life. But what if they do know what they are doing? It is clear that few of us have actually considered this possibility. What if these childless people are truly introspective and have thought deliberately and selflessly as they have taken on this unpopular stance. Nothing, after all is more selfish than having children just to keep the status quo. We have all come across parents with no business having children and the children who suffer as a result. We have all seen horrific stories of mothers and fathers who couldn’t handle parenthood. The leading cause of death among children under the age of five is murder by their own parents. This is not to say that all unwilling parents become evil or dangerous, but it does inevitably follow in some cases. But I asked for it with all honesty, and therein resides my ability to be happy despite the hardships. As a little girl I fed baby dolls with bottles and even hand-sewed clothes for them. I also adored my own mother and wanted only to be like her. But what about all the girls and boys who have always known in their hearts they did not want children as much as I have always known that I did? Two successful females in my family have made this decision. I do not know exactly why, but I suspect it is because they are enjoying the heck out of their lives just the way they are and don’t want to rock the cradle. Their decision not to bring children into the world should be as respected and lauded for those who want to have children, as well as for their own self-awareness to make an unpopular choice, as they surely face disapproval on all fronts, especially women. As a modern society, the very idea of choosing to stay childless is perhaps the last taboo allowed to be fiercely judged and frowned upon… that and being a Black Gay Republican, but that’s for a different article. As citizens we are expected to obtain a law degree before practicing law, a medical license before giving Doctorly advice, and a driver’s license before operating a motor vehicle. And yet, getting pregnant and getting and impregnating a woman is a decision often decided upon as a result of expectation and pressure whether or not the prospective parents are happy about the idea or emotionally and financially equipped to have and raise a child. Just for kicks, the next time someone you deem as either mature or immature tells you they are not interested in having children, but would rather travel the world with their lover; would prefer to be married to their jobs, or simply live a simpler life, attempt to listen with an easier and less judgmental mind, and try not to seethe with jealousy. Envy is one of the first signs of bitterness and the beginnings of the deadly void of becoming jaded, a quality nearly impossible to oust once you have become too familiar with it. If you are already a parent and love being one, there are numerous human causes more worthy of getting worked up about; one of which is to appreciate our own children instead of worrying about those who don’t want any of their own. Some of the greatest people you and your children may ever have the pleasure of knowing may not have children of their own; among them some of our best authors, teachers, artists, philanthropists and role models to children, as they often appear magical, free and boasting of imagination and tales of travels and limitless aspirations. Your children will learn a great lesson through your own acceptance that all people have a right to make their own life decisions. Or, you can choose to listen to lamenting ruminations like this one from Phyllis Diller when she said, “Most children threaten to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going.” CONTRIBUTING EDITOR — FRANCESCA BILLER-SAFRAN

Alexandra Cameron | http://bit.ly/ Jonathan Barkat | http://bit.ly/8Uj8g1

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FRANCESCA BILLER-SAFRAN is an award winning investigative journalist and political satirist who has written and reported for CNN, The Wall Street Journal, CBS, The Huffington Post and for many other media institutions. She has received The Edward R. Murrow Award and two Golden Mike Awards and is currently filming a television show and writing a novel about World Ward II.

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FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER — LUIS SANCHIS

LUIS SANCHIS Luis Sanchis has an eye for aesthetics. Born and raised in Spain, Sanchis got his first camera, a Rollei 35 S, at the age of 17. “I took it with me everywhere,” he says, shooting photos of anything that caught his attention. He moved to New York in 1994, and still lives and works out of the city. Using vibrant, contrasting colors and skillfully manipulating light, he creates images that are beautifully startling and unique. “Photography is my life,” Sanchis explains, “a reflection of my emotions and mood,” even though the expression comes through “fashion” photos. Sanchis’ photographs have become an industry staple. His images have appeared in ad campaigns from fashion giants such as Alexander McQueen, Gucci, Richard Tyler, Emilio Pucci, and Cesare Paciotti, as well as Nike Women, H&M, Diesel and Links. He’s shot for Harper’s Bazaar Russia, ESPN Magazine, and Spin, edited for British Vogue and Elle, and exhibited all over the world. Sanchis is also well known for his celebrity photography, capturing breathtaking stills of Courtney Love, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Moss, and Claudia Schiffer, just to name a few. His photos have graced album covers for Madonna, Robbie Williams, and Texas, and he’s supplied images for Daft Punk. It seems there’s no limit to what Luis Sanchis creates, or where he’ll go next. You can find his portfolio online at www.luissanchis.com.

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ONE HAND IN MY POCKET

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By Gareth | 1/19/11 | Pop Vulture

http://bit.ly/gX20uq

Let’s face it—no-one’s particularly proud of their little moments of self-pollution. The moment a man finds himself with time on his hands, it’s not too long before he’s got something else in his hands. And then a few moments after that, a sense of shame and disappointment sets in. Obviously, guilt about the sin of Onan is nothing new. Since the dawn of time, man has been spilling his seed and then berating himself for having such poor impulse control. I might even go so far as to suggest that the reason porn production values are so low, is to ensure that familiar sense of self-loathing after fifteen minutes of exposure. It’s been designed to look bad, so there’s no chance you’ll feel good. But it turns out that maybe it’s not just a knee-jerk reaction to jerking, that leaves us feeling like we’re lying in the mental equivalent of a damp patch. Let’s not forget, after all, that we live in a world of ADD, SAD and OCD. There’s nothing that can’t be diagnosed. So next time you find yourself working from home, before you draw the curtains for a few minutes of contemplation, be aware that you may be suffering from POIS (Post-Orgasmic Illness Syndrome). Seriously, it’s a real thing. And it’s leaving men feeling deflated and sickly after the event. Dutch researchers have conducted an in-depth study (in a darkened room with a big pile of DVDs, presumably) into the phenomenon, in an attempt to understand why some men have developed a “mysterious flu-like illness after they have an ejaculation.” And before you scoff, we’re talking genuine symptoms, not just a clump of sticky tissues—feverishness, runny nose, extreme fatigue and burning eyes have all been noted. Apparently, POIS has been well documented, and reports date back to 2002. Initially, physicians suggested that it was all psychosomatic, but the Dutch study has come to a more troubling conclusion. Many men are allergic to their own spooge. Marcel Waldinger, sexual psychopharmacology professor at Utrecht University, led a study of 45 men who’d been diagnosed with POIS. 33 of them were subjected to a skin-prick test (settle down) using a diluted form of their own semen, and 29 of them showed a positive allergic reaction. This all sounds extremely worrying for any man who occasionally enjoys quality time with himself. But there’s a glimmer of hope. Waldinger has also developed a hyposensitization therapy on two of the subjects, finding that gradually increased exposure to their own man-fat significantly reduced their POIS symptoms. Scientific post-rationalisation aside, only a male doctor could determine that the cure for a masturbation-related illness would be more wanking. But if nothing else, at least you’ve got a great excuse next time your other half catches you knocking one out. Just tell them “A grapple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Tyler Shields | http://bit.ly/tylershields LOVE ISSUE

By Matthew Hancock | 1/2011 | Information Is Beautiful

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LIFESTYLE

“JUDGE NOT, LEST YE BE JUDGED… HYPOCRITES” MATTHEW 7:1-5 By A.R.J. | 6/01/09 | Kill The Messenger

http://bit.ly/eSiRLJ

Working in retail and slinging Powerade and lotto tickets, people judge me all the time. And it’s not always that inevitable awkward conversation that starts off ‘so how’ve you been?’ with a patronizing smirk from one of my former high-school classmates as I sell them cigarettes. But they share this judging characteristic with the randoms pulling up in cars that cost more than my college tuition: it’s in their eyes. It’s how people look at me as I trudge through the motions and wince as trophy wives in their Mercedez’ come in to purchase “Mega Millions” lottery tickets, as if their genetic birthing of stellar body and face and nothing more wasn’t enough of a win. These people judge me, so I judge. And as judge, jury, prosecutor, debtor, debtee, and parking lot doctor, I find you guilty. And by you I mean girls younger than 26 who fell victim to the latest instance of non-conformist conformity: scene girl tattoos. I use the term loosely, but let me explain real quick. Bad tattoos, like all dumb fads, come in swooping waves, and those sheeple who buy into them at said time all share a similarly structured genetic makeup. Take for example: looped barb-wire arm tattoos. Who has these? Insecure, naive, stupid men. Men who participate in same sex interactions are teetering dangerously close to being heterosexual: fraternities, group weightlifting, and nascar viewing. Men who already have or will be incarcerated. Men who will hump the same personality traits into their inbred children and beat their wives. THEN: chinese symbols. Another dumbass idea that freshly turned 18 year old girls/ drunk college students got in Cabo. This is your standard tattoo that both fans and members of O-town would be willing and proud to get done. All the people who get these done know of Chinese culture is how to say lobster or something equally useless, as told to them by deep-fried, sauced, Americanized non-Chinese Chinese restaurants’ fortune cookies. Yet they still feel undeserved cultural awareness somehow, like they know what that shit on them actually says. And it’s not just Britney Spears, although she serves as a fantastic example of this phenomenon. Young girls everywhere got these stupid ass tattoos because they “looked good,” and to show off just how good this foreign nonsense looked, where did they put it? Somewhere it’d be noticed when dressed up like a slut: the small of their back. And that was the birth of the trampstamp. Full circle—so, my brother wakes me up today to regale me with a story from the night before, where he had fooled around with a “scene girl” and she was “really cool.” He went to her house, they messed around, yadda yadda yadda. I said “let me guess: she had tattooed boobs” “Yeah, but she had a sweet tattoo, and sweet boobs.” ‘Scene’ tit tats are the new tattoo trend AND the new tramp stamp. The reasoning for this is that instead of seeing the tattoo in a club when said tramp is wearing lowrise jeans and a small spaghetti strapped shirt, this new breed of tramp has pictures of her tattoo on her myspace page while wearing a handbra in her room taken from her webcam in front of a Nightmare Before Christmas poster. And all her friends are dudes with liprings and are in shitty unsigned bands talking about how hawt she is. The prototype scenario is no different for these “scenesters” than that of any other follower of any other tattoo trend: they buy the majority of their clothes at urban outfitters so they look thrifty but aren’t, 2/3 of their girlfriends have “madonnas”/some other type of pierced “metal shit in their face”, they watch Adult Swim and they’re conversational about it, they drink Silk, they’re at least cool with you doing drugs if not they themselves doing them, and they like to hang out at “cool, underground” places–i.e. places where their aforementioned friends would hang out, along with dudes wearing girls’ pants who pedaled their bike with faggy Asics to get there and called from outside on their iPhone to make sure the gang was all there. Just callin’ em like I see em, hoes.

Boris Ovini | http://bit.ly/9r3C9J

PENISES By Stuart Goldman | 1/30/11 | The Man Who Tried To Stop Time

http://bit.ly/i5XQTk

I really don’t know what to say about penises. I guess I have mixed feelings about them. I mean, I know they have purpose in life and all… yet somehow they always seem like an extra appendage— you know what I mean? Also, you will have to admit that they are extremely silly looking. I don’t understand girls that go on and on about “what a nice cock you have,” and all that sort of stuff. I really don’t. Penises look too much like wrinkled little old men—kind of like little elves or something. I don’t know why, but I’ve always had the idea that penises should be on wheels. They’d just roll on down the street, stopping occasionally to greet each with glad hellos. That would be nice, don’t you think?

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THREESOME WITH A CHANCE OF FROZEN MEATBALLS

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By Melysa Schmitt | 2/04/11 | Sex, Lies, And Bacon

Jens Ingvarsson | http://bit.ly/bs4jlm

Nataliya Peregudova | http://bit.ly/gfhtBO

VAGINAS By Stuart Goldman | 1/30/11 | The Man Who Tried To Stop Time

http://bit.ly/h6FE4T

Ok, now I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t really know what to make of these things. They are odd. Sometimes I think they are swell. Other times I think they are foul, evil, ugly and nasty. I’m sorry, but I do. In fact, they scare me. From various angles, they look like a clam, a piece of beef jerky, a sausage pizza, or a wicked Halloween mask. Also, they often smell like codfish. And yet men of courage go absolutely crazy for them. Often they will lose their lives over them! This is obviously quite silly. I think you ought to seriously consider this the next time you go looking for a piece of pussy.

http://bit.ly/ignkOj

On the night of my thirty-second birthday, my friend found out the guy she’d fallen for was cheating on her. Turned out he’d not only been sleeping with her, but with two other women as well, which would’ve been fine had he been honest with her about his intentions. Alas, he was not. In case you didn’t know, a scorned woman is a fabulously devious creature; especially when her forces are combined with an equally bitter woman’s. During our celebration of drinking, dancing, more drinking, and more drinking, a few hours after my friend had told me the sordid tale of how she came to find out the local Chef she’d been seeing had deceived her, we decided we needed to get even. What better way than a threesome. The Chef happened to work nearby and since it was last call at the bar, I suggested she send him a text so we could stagger our way down the street and pay him a visit. She’d often told me stories about how they’d meet after the restaurant closed and hang out in the kitchen, drinking and talking, so I’d decided that was as good a place as any to carry out our perfectly ridiculous plan. When we arrived there ten minutes later he greeted us at the door. Because it was so late, he and his Mexican cook were the only two left in the building. This worked out perfectly for me. The less witnesses, the better. After a few shots of tequila I was ready to make good on my promise to bring her retribution. I took her hand, and his, and marched us all toward the restaurant’s walk-in freezer. As we stepped inside, the scent of not-so-fresh vegetables and preemptive regret hit me like a freight train. I remember logically questioning what I was getting myself into, even under my Patron haze, but teaching this asshole a lesson seemed worth the indiscretion and possible frostbite. The ten by twenty foot space was a tight fit and not exactly the ideal place for such a tryst, but we pressed on, or rather pressed ourselves against each other between the racks of chilled food. I caught a glimpse of some hickory smoked bacon on a nearby shelf and wondered if I could convince the Mexican in the kitchen to make me a BLT after we were done. We positioned the chef and his semi-erect sous at the end of the freezer, with his back to the wall and both of his imprudent heads facing us. My friend was in the middle and I was closest to the door, one hand near the knob at all times for fear of the three of us getting locked in. He looked at us with hungry eyes, obviously not just for the pork by-products, grinning from ear to ear, as if he’d won the bisexual lottery. I couldn’t blame him. After all, two insanely attractive women stood before him outwardly poised to fulfill his fantasies, and he had no idea what he was in for. I almost felt bad for him until I remembered what a douchecanoe he was and how much he deserved to be a pawn in our deceptive little game. My girlfriend and I proceeded to make out with one another knowing how much it would turn him on. I playfully nibbled on her lip, keeping my eyes open the entire time, watching his reactions while I calculated our next move. As my hands wandered underneath her shirt and towards her breasts, I heard him shudder and gasp for air. I wondered if he’d cum right then and there before we’d had a chance to carry out our evil plan. A glance at his pants revealed he’d either stuck a spring roll in his pocket from the appetizer tray to our right, or that we still had time. “Want in on the action?” my friend asked him coyly, as I stood and seductively licked my lips behind her. “Oh, hell yea.” “Why are you still wearing those then?” I said, as I pointed to his pants. “Here, let us help you,” I whispered with a sly smile. While my friend undid his button and worked on his zipper, I unclasped his belt. Before he knew it, we’d removed his pants and boxers and placed them in a pile next to the freezer door. As he stood before us with his three inch utensil, I stifled my laughter and contemplated over whether or not being the brunt of a lifetime of little dick jokes wasn’t punishment enough for his disrespect of women. I also wondered why my friend had wasted a month talking to a man with such an unimpressive member. Maybe he always kept an extra spatula handy. Still, we proceeded. Since I’d learned my lesson years before that tequila and blowjobs didn’t mix, we already decided she’d be the one taking the shots during our tawdry threesome. Not to mention my parents had taught me from a very young age to never go down on strangers. She enjoyed sucking dick a hell of a lot more than I did anyway, and was probably the only woman I knew who didn’t just use it as a means to an end of multiple orgasms. Bless her ejaculate loving heart. Plus she’d already had a taste of him on their second, third, and fourth dates. As she got down on her knees and took him in her mouth, I leaned over her and started to kiss him. The plan was to get him rock hard and then leave him there before he got off, taking his clothes with us. Nothing says payback like leaving a guy pantless in a freezer/cooler. Unfortunately, for my friend, he got so turned on he came as soon as we both planted our lips on him. As my friend looked up at me with panicked eyes and a mouth full of spunk, I realized I’d have to be the one to turn this around. I wasn’t about to let this guy have a story to brag to his friends about when we were supposed to be the ones leaving with an epic tale of lesbian heroism. “Well that’s not fair,” I said. “I didn’t even get to play with you. How about my friend and I fool around a little more and we’ll see if your little chef perks up again?” Of course he agreed. What self respecting man wouldn’t? “Turn around while we get undressed. The fluorescents in this cooler aren’t very flattering. I’ll tell you when we’re ready.” Because he wasn’t the smartest man, he didn’t see our next move coming. As he stood there bare assed, facing the back of the freezer, I quickly grabbed his clothes, my friend’s hand, and pushed open the cooler door. Once we were outside, I turned the latch and locked him in. It took him a good five minutes before he realized what had happened. Maybe because he was still in an orgasm induced fog, but probably because he was just an idiot. While my friend and I doubled over with laughter, his Mexican counterpart came around the corner to see what was going on. One look at the clothing in my arms and the sound of the Chef, who was now pounding on the door, clued him in on what had just happened. Apparently he found it as funny as we did because he started to chuckle and gave us a wink. But he obviously didn’t find it amusing enough because he started to unlock the cooler. “Wait!” I shouted. How could I convince him to leave the Chef in a little longer? Five minutes in a freezer/cooler wasn’t entertaining enough for me. And then it hit me. Like all previous birthdays, my parents had gifted me with a crisp one hundred dollar bill in a sentimental card that morning. This was as good a time to spend it as any. I took it out of my wallet and held it out towards the Mexican. “If you leave him in there for the rest of the night, this money is yours.” He thought about it a minute and then shook his head in agreement. As I handed it to him I added, “And can you make us a sandwich?” Bitches gotta eat.

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YOU’RE GOING TO DIE (A NONTHREATENING REMINDER) By Brandon Mendelson | 10/1/10 | Bytes of Love

http://bit.ly/cHynOX

The story doesn’t end well for us. You can be doing Wonder Woman while she’s handcuffed and in your favorite position, and next thing you know, you have a massive stroke. You’re dead. The paramedics find you with a giant erection they have to work around. Wonder Woman is left unsatisfied. Nobody is happy. This is actually how I plan to die, and lucky for you, it’ll probably happen when you’re still around to hear about it. I have an uncanny ability to piss people off, and these days you never know who’s packing heat. If I was athletic and had another two hundred pounds on me, I would have been a great heel wrestler. But… since I weigh 160 pounds and have the motor coordination of a gerbil, I won’t be holding the WWE title any time soon. Every decision you make in life is based around the idea, whether you’re aware of it or not, that you’re going to die. And while Louis CK might argue the best case scenario for marriage is that your spouse is going to die first, it’s worth noting there’s a long stretch of time between when you get hitched and when you croak. If you don’t take that stretch of time into consideration, you’re going to be sorry. So hear me mere mortals, regardless of what I say in this wonderful column, and regardless of whatever answers I might give concerning your romantic inquiries, the ultimate responsibility rests with you. If you don’t listen to anything else when it comes to romance, listen to this: Always ask if you want to spend the rest of your life with the person you’re with. The odds are? You won’t see them again when you’re dead, so your time together here is what matters. If you decide you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with that person? Then don’t. Keep moving on until you find the person who is right for you. And don’t compromise. Most people can’t deal with forty years of compromise without snapping and killing someone. Look for someone who is similar to you, but not you. I know it’s popular to believe opposites attract, but that’s bull. Opposites don’t attract forever. You start to grow apart, and then you realize you’ve wasted a lot of your life (and theirs) living the life someone else wants you to live. The clock is ticking. So quit bothering me and do what you’re going to do. Just remember to keep the masturbation sessions to only once or twice per day because anything more is just excessive. PHOTOGRAPHY

Nataliya Peregudova | http://bit.ly/gfhtBO

I’LL BE AVAILABLE FOR HIRE NEXT WEEK IF THE REST OF THE CHUPACABRA BODY GOES UP FOR SALE By The Bloggess | 2/01/11 | The Bloggess

David Stewart | http://bit.ly/GN80J

Perou | http://bit.ly/7Z6pTa

http://bit.ly/g6LLGc

Last week I got an email from a lady named Sarah who founded Juice in the City. You might be asking yourself, “What is Juice in the City and why are they emailing Jenny?” I wondered the same thing but it turns out that they wanted to hire me as their social media consultant for the day. Probably because they were all high. Regardless, I immediately accepted because I wanted to expand my professional portfolio and also because Victor wouldn’t let me have any money to buy a chupacabra foot (more on that later). Here is a slightly paraphrased version of our email thread, which will now serve as a warning to anyone considering hiring me: Sarah: Juice in the City promotes local businesses while giving moms super cheap deals on things they specifically recommend. We’re THE original mom-run, mom-sourced, locally-based deal site and every day it’s a different deal in eleven different markets. It’s cool stuff. Like recently we offered deals on vajazzling and lipo. Me: That sounds like a terrible combination. Your vagina rhinestones (vaginestones?) would be falling off by the time your lipo bruises fade. I suggest not offering those two things as a package deal. Sarah: Um… they weren’t a package deal. Me: Awesome. Then you’ve already taken the first step. Next step would be to offer deals on things that people *really* want. Here are my suggestions: Victorian vampire hunting kits, taxidermied mice wearing small top hats, freelance ninjas (by-the-hour), zombie-defense consultations, time-share ponies… that sort of thing. Also, time-share ponies is totally my idea so if you end up starting that business you need to pay me royalties. In ponies. Sarah: Explain “time-share ponies?” Me: Everyone wants a pony but if you get a pony it’s hard to sleep because you’re thinking about all the pony-time you’re wasting when you’re asleep so instead you buy a time-share pony and when you’re sleeping or eating you let the other people who bought shares in the pony ride it. That way the pony is in use 24/7. Fully-efficient ponies. Except that now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure ponies need to sleep too. God, all my ponies are going to die of exhaustion. Are ponies allergic to amphetamines? I haven’t worked out all the kinks yet. Me again: WAIT. HOLD THE PHONE. Okay, we’ll let people who have pony-phobia have the ponies during pony nap-time so that they can just sit near them and conquer their fears. WE’RE CONQUERING MENTAL ILLNESS WITH PONIES. Sarah: Once, a traveling partner I was with in Istanbul was offered a camel in exchange for me. That is the closest I have come to timeshare ponies and it’s not even close. Me: I don’t know what the exchange rate of camels is but it sounds like you were seriously undervalued. But never mind that because OMG, I FOUND IT. I found the perfect thing for you to offer. Ooooooh. You get a dismembered hand AND three wishes for only $55. IT PRACTICALLY SELLS ITSELF. Except that I don’t know how many hands she has to sell. One would think at least two. Sarah: Huh. They do usually come in pairs. I don’t know if this is quite what we’re looking for but I appreciate your enthusiasm. Let me think about it. And that’s why you should check out Juice in the city. Because they could be offering amazing deals on monkey paws and time-share ponies any fucking day now. But until then you can check out whatever today’s deal is. Like in Houston today they’re offering FIVE DOLLAR BOOZE, which is awesome, but not quite as awesome as time-share ponies. But honestly… what is? Also you should check them out because they actually paid me for that consultation and I’m using that money to buy a chupacabra foot. So technically I just got paid in chupacabra feet. That shit is so going on my resume.

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10 REASONS WHY I CAN’T BE BATMAN (AND 5 THAT I COULD)

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By Brandon Mandelson | Astonishing Tales of Mediokrity

http://bit.ly/dtjjVQ

10 Reasons I Can’t Be Batman 10. Ra’s Al Ghul won’t train me because he’s anti-semitic. 9. I hate children. 8. I exercise by walking around Walmart. There are no Walmarts in Gotham City. 7. Batman fears nothing. I fear my credit card bill. 6. My wife won’t let me have a butler. 5. Batman has a powerful computer he uses to access the Gotham City Police Department’s criminal records. I have an iMac I use to access Facebook. 4.I have enemies, but I’m sure they’re actually nice people and not homicidal maniacs. 3. I own two cats. Where am I going to put a Robin? 2. I cut PE in high school. 1. I fear the night.

Madeline from The Morgana Show, Channel 4 David Stewart | http://bit.ly/GN80J

“WINE MAKES ME TOO SLUTTY FOR GAY BARS.” By Ben Boudreau | 11/28/10 | No Ordinary Rollercoaster

http://bit.ly/ihFVVe

Nothing said to me at work in recent months has caught me so off guard as these uttered by one of my office-mates, introducing her friends who flew in that week from England. Why? Because while I was an active participant in setting these plans in motion, I fully believed that the young, sassy bitches would have forgotten about them entirely (as I did), replacing their Saturday night plans with some that involve more frat boys and fewer drag queens. But no. These bitches weren’t your average harem of party-girls. They were organized, prepared, and committed. By the time I arrived at their townhouse, all six were already dressed and ready to go, looking like Vegas with hair big enough to merit its own social network. That is, they were perfection.

5 Reasons I Could Be Batman* *The Frank Miller version. 5. I want to fuck Wonder Woman. 4. If I could beat up criminals, I would. 3.I think Superman is a tool. 2. I hate clowns. 1. I too can make handicap people follow my orders. PHOTOGRAPHY

Laying Advil and water by the bed, writing notes telling Future Ben to eat something before sleeping. My debauchery takes a lot of work. 2:48 PM Nov 20th via HootSuite My day started early with some business meetings and then a cross-city tour looking for the ingredients to make my precious signature drink, The Sour V. While that adventure had a tragic end which I’ll get into in a future post, it basically meant me driving all over town, overcaffeinated and blitzed out of my mind from too much Girl Talk. By the time I got out of the car, I was out of breath for no reason and had two hours to pull myself together in time to watch the Christmas parade with my parents. Of course this meant that I would need to be dressed for the gay bar by 4pm so I clearly looked like a lost member of a male stripper troupe where it’s more about overdeveloped personalities than overdeveloped torsos. Drinking martinis with my mother #itREALLYgetsbetter 7:15 PM Nov 20th via ÜberTwitter What this also meant is that I had breakfast, lunch, and then moved straight into martinis for dinner. It was not a smart choice but it worked for me at the time. I was drunk by five, hungover by seven, drunk again by eight, enthusiastically performing Nicki Minaj verses by nine, and having slurry heart-to-hearts with young, sassy bitches by ten. Basically, I broke most of my rules by the time I even got to their townhouse. Drunker than I intended to get and I haven’t even made it to the girls’ apartment yet. Soon will be tweeting primarily typos. 7:50 PM Nov 20th via ÜberTwitter

Sacha Goldberg | http://bit.ly/bPTmBH

What happened next? Fuck if I know. I know I left an empty pint of vodka on their counter, I know I was drinking out of a seasonal mug, I know I smoked hookah for the first time in my life, I know I still remember every word to How Many Licks, and I know that there was no drama, no fighting, no complaining, no debating the evening’s plans – basically none of the stuff that makes going out with a group of people so damn painful. Which, to be clear, really freed up our time for dance-offs, sing-offs, and hair-teasing. You should try it! All the hair tonight is big and full of secrets. Sat Nov 20th 2010 21:22:02 (AST) via ÜberTwitter And ohhh sweet Menz Bar. You’re so good to me. From the super sweet guy who takes your cover, to the super hot lesbian who takes your coat, to the super tall drag queen who puts up with slurry conversations you’ll never remember the next day, it’s a place where anything goes and nobody cares. We made best friends with the DJ thus securing a night of Rihanna, Robyn, Britney, Pink, Ke$ha, and any other Top 40 remix that would fuel our three-hour dance party. The best part? Each of the girls had a line-up of homos waiting to worship their outfits, their obnoxious hair height, and anything else that they touched. I know one girl kept being called the Serena van der Woodsen of Halifax and was wearing someone’s fedora every time I saw her. Another, who happens to be a professionally trained dancer, kept randomly bursting into salsa routines with some guy who managed to keep up with her. And another kept encouraging my incessant need to do a low-grind to any and every song up until the point when we both fell over and she tried to “make it work” by busting out a dance routine whilst flat on her back in the middle of the dance floor. Beyond that? I have no idea what happened beyond this: aaaaand I just broke our garbage can. 21st 2010 03:17:16 (AST) via ÜberTwitter

will LOVE this in the morning. Sun Nov Sacha Goldberg | http://bit.ly/bPTmBH

Yeah. Our garbage can doesn’t close anymore. I do appreciate my ability and need to livetweet my at-home debauchery, although you’ll notice that it stops right before the two-day hangover kicked in. Even still, I can’t even be mad at the after effects because I would do it all over again IN A SECOND. 20-year-old Ben is back, bitches, and he’s bringing his a-game. Except in the drunk facial expression area. I’ve just given up on myself there. PHOTOGRAPHY

Sacha Goldberg | http://bit.ly/bPTmBH

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FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER — MARTIN STRANKA

MARTIN STRANKA BY HANNAH FAYE Looking at the work of Czech photographer Martin Stranka, it’s easy to understand why he considers himself more of a daydreamer than an artist. His photographs straddle the space between reality and possibility, existing in the realm of a collective subconscious that allows the images to be both hauntingly familiar and constantly surprising. The desire for an emotional outlet is what sparked

Stranka’s imagination five years ago, like a “bolt from the blue sky.” He says he spent his summer earnings on a camera because he “can’t paint, can’t sing,” and, following the loss of someone close, he felt the need to express himself in some way. The intimacy of the photographs is genuine—Stranka doesn’t work with models, only his friends. “I know the models and the models know me,” he says, explaining that the connection between himself and the model, his mind and the model’s expression, is what lends itself to the “magic of the spontaneity.” Each image starts with a small idea, a feeling, that develops spontaneously yet organically, driven by the “need to feel emotions from photographs.”

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FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER — MARTIN STRANKA

Stranka explains that often, by the time he’s finished with a photograph, it is quite different from the original idea. Though his images are often viewed as being melancholy, in real life Stranka is happy and full of optimism. He’s commercially successful, with clients requesting to use his personal work for commercial purposes, not often commissioning new material. He’s also well respected within the art community, winning awards and exhibiting at museums such as London’s prestigious Saatchi Gallery. This success allows him to govern the organic evolution of his body of work. What does the future hold for Martin Stranka? Perhaps film, a media for Stranka to put his photography in motion

and give it life. Despite his claim that his photos are from the perspective of his inner world, he still manages to connect with his fans—both figuratively and literally. Over 18,000 people follow him on Facebook, and he responds to their questions and comments when he can, appreciating his unique position to inspire others. Stranka’s photography is a window into another world, both hopeful and reverent, representing the truth of human experience at its innermost core. You can find Martin’s work at http://www.martinstranka.com, http://www.flickr.com/photos/martinstranka, and you can follow him through https://www.facebook.com/MartinStrankaPhotography.

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Nataliya Peregudova | http://bit.ly/gfhtBO LIFESTYLE

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IS PORKY THE PIG A SLUT? By The Bitchy Waiter | 3/10/11 | The Bitchy Waiter

http://bit.ly/

As I was walking my dog this morning, I was visually assaulted by an 18-wheeler cruising through my neighborhood. On it was a giant picture of a cartoon pig along with the words “Porky: Servicing the Food Industry.” Now maybe I am just a dirty minded old man, but when I hear the word “servicing” I imagine someone on their knees providing oral stimulation to one of their dear close personal friends or a stranger they met in the bathroom of a Chipotle Mexican Grill. So of course, I went there. My mind conjured up an image of a line of waiters, bus boys, kitchen crew and managers all patiently waiting for their turn with someone named Porky. Now I assume what this Porky company actually does is provide food supplies to restaurants, but to me Porky just presents the wrong image. I can’t help but think of the 1982 classic film, Porky’s. (Since it was released way before I was born, I have only seen it on DVD, by the way.) But if I called Porky Products to enquire about the cost of some frozen chicken fingers and the receptionist answered with a perky, “Thank you for calling Porky, how can I service you?” all I would be able to think about would be that scene from Porky’s the movie when Miss Balbricker is holding onto that guy’s penis through a hole in the girls bathroom. I’d have to stifle a giggle and then hang up, because, yes, I really am that immature. I also wonder how this company has managed to have a big cartoon pig as their logo and not have the fiery breath of Warner Brothers coming down on them for defiling the image of Porky the Pig. I would think they would come down on them so fast that Porky’s ham hock ass would spin. A few years ago I was selling on eBay some painting of various Monopoly cards and I got a cease and desist order from Parker Brothers. I was only selling these things for about twenty bucks, but they had their lawyers all over my ass. But Warner Brothers doesn’t care that there is another Porky the Pig out there? And instead of stuttering, this Porky sells slabs of bacon and ham? And that’s another thing. I don’t want to see a cartoon pig selling me real pig. It’s gross. It’s like the pig is saying, “Hey, I’m a pig, so fry my bacon ass up and serve me with a side of grits and some eggs. Or you can take my rump and put it in a slow cooker for dinner. Or why not slice up my rinds and put them in a bag and eat them the next time you are watching World Class Wrestling or NASCAR? I’m the other white meat!” Okay, enough. I just had to get that out of my system. Th-Th-Th-Th-Th-… That’s all, folks. And speaking of pigs. THE PRINTED BLOG TEAM

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JENNY MONTGOMERY (Photography Editor) is a Chicago-based photographer. She has a strong desire to know, learn and explore things, using her camera as a means to this end. She is currently working on a long term project on the city of Detroit. jennymontgomery.com BEVERLY KIM (Associate Editor) has a taste for variety with a thirst for quality that shows in the dedication to her work. She is an avid writer and painter that also dabbles in modeling. Currently, Beverly promotes for the electro duo, Midnight Conspiracy, while attending DePaul University as an English student. bkeins.wordpress.com HANNAH FAYE (Assistant Publisher) is a writer, an insomniac, a caffeine addict, a bookworm, a music lover, a student, a beach bum, and a collection of other things. A Jersey girl at heart, she moved to Chicago to attend Columbia College to receive a BA in Fiction Writing. ALLISON SIOBHAN BULGER (Assistant Publisher/ not pictured) is about to graduate from the Philosophy and Creative Writing programs at the University of Chicago. Her experience with traveling the world and studying in the big cities has given her a unique ability to view the world through a cultural lens.

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