Archive for January, 2011

Yarn Bombing? Are you fucking serious? Renegade kozy making? Guerilla knitting? I don’t care what sort of aggressive adjective you use it’s still wrapping yarn around street poles. FUCKING YARN! The shit grannies use to make you warm sweaters, comforting blankets, warm scarves and socks. The only way this would be considered “hard” is if it was a movement led by ballsy little old ladies shimmying up poles or stacked one on top of each other like they’re about to engage in some sort of landlocked chicken fight. Only at night, dressed in all hand-knitted ninja suits, blasting “We Care A Lot” on a shitty over modulated ghetto blaster.

It’s was bad enough when every girl in her late 20s in the early 2000s was in some sassily named knitting circle – Bitches ‘n’ Stitches, Knit Pickers, Knitty Gritty, Chicks with Sticks, Ballsy Knits, Kiss My Stitch, Knit Knot Patty Wack I’ve Never Touched A Bone,  Fancy Hookers Crotcheters, Serious Hookers, Knitch Knitters, Darn Yarners….You ‘member. I can’t tell you how many uneven scarves and raggedy ass shawls  I had to accidently “leave” at bars and on Muni trains. Every time I lost one someone else would say “Oh I’ll make you a new one.”

Now these bitches are out in the streets wrapping their bullshit after school girls club crafts around every god damn erect pole in their line of sight. Disgusting.

But Lydia, it’s all about taking something soft and juxtaposing it against the cold hard abrasive environment we all live in. It’s a little inspired moment of color and beauty. Blech…I get it. I’m not a dumb ass, I just don’t give a shit. This is exactly the kind of fuckery that makes me hate street art. It’s all so fucking precious. I hate precious.

Have you ever worn knit gloves in the rain? Fucking gross right? Whaddaya think is gonna happen to these “installations”? Germ magnets. I pity the city employee that’s tasked with cutting this unsanitary bullshit off public property. Someone is gonna catch giardia and trust me, there is NO beauty in diarrhea and vomiting. Well, unless you are Rowlf the dog.

How She Got Good Calves, Though?

I went to a fancy restaurant my friend manages on New Year’s Eve. That night the restaurant was closed for a private event that had yet to officially start. The restaurant was empty save for myself, my homegirl and our girlfriend who managed the restaurant having dinner along with a handful of people setting up the evening’s event. I excused myself after dinner so that I could visit the restroom. As I open the door to the bathroom I heard a loud voice shout, “LOOK OUT GIRL, THAT DOOR BE SWANGIN’. On the other side of the door stood two women and an impressive array of full sized toiletries including a pump bottle of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter, Victoria’s Secret Body Spray and Oil, at least 3 types of hair products and what appeared to be the entire Wet and Wild Holiday make-up collection. They also had two flat irons plugged in. I shimmied past them into the open stall to handle my business. I stepped out of the stall and stood behind the two women who were totally in their own world. They were talking loudly about the men in their lives while they applied lotions, straightened chunks of hair and put dabs of color to their faces,

“Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirl, fuck that nigga Anton. He ain’t shit. You know who’s fine tho?”


“OOOOOooooh yes girl. You know he fine. I don’t know how they be cousins.”

I waited patiently for a few moments with my hands awkwardly dangling from my sides waiting to wash my hands. Despite the flushing sound of the toilet and my reflection in the mirror in front of them, my presence went unnoticed. I finally said, “Excuse me, I just need to wash my hands.”

The two women stepped back from the sink without making eye contact or saying a word, they continued on with their conversation as I washed my hands in the sink.

“I KNOW, Darrell is fine, he takes care of his kids, he got that job…”

Then I heard one of them abruptly change the subject, “How she got good calves, though?”

I didn’t think anything of it until the other one parroted it back, “How she got good calves, though?”

The two exchanged at least 3- 4 more, “How she got good calves, though?” at alternating pitches and intonations as if saying it more would incite a revelation.

I realized at this point that they were talking about me, my calves.

“She big but she DO got good calves.”

“Girl, yo ain’t got no calves. You got them cankles”

“Biiiiiiitch, shut up. I’d rather have cankles than them long ass bird legs”

“Shut up, you crazy. Them shoes is cute too.”

Mind you all of this was being said in regular volume less than 3 feet from me but never TO me. It was as if I wasn’t even there or far enough away to not hear their musings. I finished washing my hands reached for a towel to dry my hands and turned to the two women. I wadded up the paper towel turned to them and said, “You GOT to do them squats girls, got to do them SQUATS.” I did a squat, tossed the towel in the trashcan beside them, then opened the door and walked out.

The look on their faces was priceless, I head them cackle uncontrollably as the door swang shut and then back open again.

If that’s not a great way to start a New Year then I don’t know what is.

Ladies and Gentlemen, It’s Mutherfucking Hater Tuesday!

A Chipped Up Manicure: Ask any female, she will tell you that one of life’s great tragedies is looking down only to find you’ve got one chipped nail and it’s only been 3 days since your last visit to the nail salon. It’s fucked. You already spent about $20 and an hour of your life with a strange Asian woman asking you probing and inappropriate questions.

“You married?”


“How old are you?”


“You are too old to not be married… Lesbian? ”

Librarian? No, I’m not a librarian.


Oh. Lesbian. No, I’m not a lesbian.

I actually had a woman ask me once if my boyfriend was a white man. I was dating a white man at that time so I told her yes. Her face lit up and she said in the most earnest third world voice ever, “Ohhh that’s good. White man is good man. I tell all my daughters to marry white man. No black man. Black man go to jail, cost you money. White mango to work, brings home money.”

Anyhoo, where was I yes, chipped manicures fucking suck because you have to either take all the polish off that you just paid to have put on OR you have to go fucking back and pay $6 to get the whole shit fixed and sit through a speech about how you must be “clumsy”, “washing too many dishes”, “not be careful.” Those bitched never admit that they did a shitty job with the top coat or that they are thinning out the polish to make it last longer… But ladies, I’m here to let you know that you don’t have to take that shit any longer. I’m spreading the word for the awesome new polish called Gelish. The shit is chip proof and lasts about 2 weeks. For reals. The fucking future is here in the form of a gel polish applied in careful layers baked with a UV light for a minute or two between coats. The result is this super shiny and bright nail that is resistant to chipping. It doesn’t feel any different than regular polish and there are lots of colors. My nails look like sparkly ruby slippers right now and they will continue to look this way for like 2 more weeks. Cost $25!!! Total deal. Only bummer – it has to be soaked in acetone to be removed.

Pantless BART ride Day: Do. Not. Want. I am not a fan of exhibitionism. Not because I’m a prude, but because I have pride in myself. I’m not a 10 but I know I’m not a 3. I also know that I look my best with my pants on…well my dress on. Some people as evidenced in this photo do NOT know this. They actually left the house, waited in line and got on to a public transit train with no pants. Then they SAT DOWN on a FABRIC covered seat in their underthings. THEY SAT DOWN ON THE SAME VERY FABRIC SEATS THAT I HAVE TO SIT ON. BART is NOT paying for deep cleaning on those upholstered trains. That’s why they smell like urine, barf, doodie  and now like sweaty underpants. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ladies and Gentlemen, It’s Mutherfucking Hater Tuesday!

Enrique Iglesias – Tonight (I\’m Fucking You)

This song would be so much better if it was written and performed by RKelly. This kind of braggadocio can’t be pulled off by just anyone…especially a man who couldn’t handle the sexiness of his own mole.

Know It All White Women With Unsolicited Opinions On Hip-Hop

I met one this week. She got upset with me because I refused to agree that the world would be a better place if all hip-hop returned to it’s “political” roots. I spent about 15 minutes trying to explain that hip-hop is just a genre of music and like all genres there are various sub-genres. Political hip-hop is just one tiny (and boring) sub-genre of hip-hop. I also defended the proliferation misogyny and violence in mainstream rap lyrics. You heard me right, DEFENDED.  I also explained to her that hip-hop was different from rap music and that neither had uniquely political roots. I championed the importance of a good party song and stressed that music is meant to be an escape not always an educator.  I told her that until she read Can’t Stop Won’t Stop she really should refrain from discussing hip-hop with strangers. Especially strangers who have spent the better part of their adult lives working, breathing and living in hip-hop. Also, I’m pretty sure she’s never been thanked by an award winning writer and hip-hop commentator, so I think it’s safe to say I’m right and she’s wrong.

“Being a rapper is a hard job, so I decided to stand up comedy,” Positive K. told

You know because doing stand up is so fucking easy. He’s about to find out the hard way that being an old ass rapper is still easier than being an old ass rapper turned old ass fledgling comedian. Starting your set with double chorus of your hit from the 90s is not a good look.