New Blog Site

Hey--

Annoying Deadbeat Townie has been officially wed to  Glasstire Texas Arts Online and has changed its name to "I'm With Stupid".

You may also follow posting updates by friending me on Facebook.

See you on the other side.


ADTEnt., LTD

10

You, Annoying Deadbeat, have little to say lately. The usual inappropriate internet come-on does not bring you much joy these days--O, you know how these usually brighten your existence like the veritable smutty rays of sunshine that they truly are--so you've decided to do something different: talk about something that doesn't annoy you. 

"Buffalo" Sean Carroll, previously a staff writer for Glasstire and Free Press Houston (Hell, he may still be writing for FPH, but you're too lazy to find out, and you know that any reader thinking he or she will find a factual verification department on any ranting  blog post you spit out has another think coming) has recently opened "Melange Creperie" on the corner of Taft & Westheimer in the parking lot of Mango's cafe/hipster hang.

Crepes from a cart in a parking lot? O, you can hear people scoff, but you will not be fazed. It's not just you bowing to the fabulous French pancake, much like Ricky Bobby did in Talladega Nights--

renowned local food critic Alison Green, in her blog, has also given Melange Creperie the pouces up. 


On your trip, you had the fresh cherries, Nutella, and fresh whipped cream number, which just about put you in a coma--this is a good thing. There are also savory items on the menu, replete with protein. The sweet crepes are $5 each, and the savory ones are $6. Bargain! 


He's there every day: 7 a.m. to 1 p.m. weekdays, 9-2 weekends. 

Go find Sean and have a Freedom Flapjack! 


Bon ape-damned-tit.

9

Granted, you don't get out much, but in the past month you've seen precisely two women in Maxi-dresses (in person, mind you; they've been cluttering the media for quite some time now), and you've already seen two too many.

One only has to check out that maxed-out plucky crew of Sex and the City fame to see why this look should be avoided at all costs. Besides the fact that Cynthia Nixon, left, has finally revealed her true identity: she's Annie--you know, the one with saucer eyes and dog named Sandy--all grown up and hagged out from sexually pleasuring Daddy Warbucks (sort of against her will; she coulda stopped, but then she'd have to forgo the Manolo Blahniks...) and now abandoning her sexuality, mid-life, so that she may join the Betty Friedan types in the fight to reclaim the rights she so frivolously urged her and her sisters to dump for shallow materialism. 

You think they look stupid. Simply because they demonstrate, once again, that the fashion creating and fashion consuming public have little to no imagination. The '70s hippie-ish looks have been rearing their awfully ugly heads in the past few years, and the only difference between these godawful frocks that make even the scrawniest of us look like we're about ready to give birth and their dowdy forebears is that these newfangled halfway infantilizing/halfway baggy, bedraggled, blowsy, and dowdy housecoats are, rather than being made with gauzy cotton, now have a poly-blend stretch that gives them a creepy, filmy quality. 


However, the real issue with reviving these looks, you think, is that, in general, they're missing one crucial element: the drugs. And you're talkin' the original drugs. Now any yuppie with a closet and a grow lamp can turn out primo weed and dispense it at top dollar to his cohorts in accounting. Those don't count. They can practically be claimed as tax write-offs...and probably are in states where it's legal.

You're completely serious! C'mon! People need to work with you on this one. Back then, the folks were dressed that way because they were demonstrating their allegiance to the counter-culture movement. Billowy sleeves and empire bodices sure wouldn't've worked in the office with a pack of squares!


Paisley. Tie-dye. Billowy, floor-length halter gowns that said, I am free to express myself in the face of an oppressive culture! abounded. Now it's just I am free to wear this funky costume today, and tomorrow I'm going to go for the Little Asian Schoolgirl look, and Zippee! Won't I look hot? Is this not a riot?

Seriously. The drugs--or the equivalent of the drugs--should re-enter the equation. 

You realize, though, that making arguments of these kinds are simply going to label you as the immovable curmudgeon you undoubtedly are. There is, however, a very practical reason why this stupid look should stay on the pages of W , and off the streets...


This is Houston. It's fucking hot. And humid. Idiots can squawk all they want about the breeziness and freedom of movement they have with their new Maxis, but the truth of the matter is that it's just a whole lot more of something nobody needs in this city: extra fabric to cart around on their sweaty bods. 


And now that the fabrics are predominantly natural fibers combined with synthetic blends, that breathability of cotton and linen is much more limited than it was way back when. Not as practical or cool than their bearers assume it will be. 

That is, indeed, Tommy Smothers with your mother in June of 1972, Chicago, Illinois.  His look might be saying everything you need to know about fashion, the era itself, obligatory fundraisers, drugs and/or alcohol, and your general upbringing.


But really, the Earth Mother look never was your style, and it reminds you, rather uncomfortably, of your '70's upbringing. You distinctly remember a moment when a rather free-thinking woman milling about a Co-op Farmers' Market outside of Chicago, Illinois, turned herself just enough to the sunlight to display more an ample silhouette view of her frighteningly droopy breasts. Wouldn't it be a lot cooler--both physically and conceptually--if these new faux-hippies simply stuck out the summer heat in nice, tailored mini-skirts with far less cumbersome fabric to chafe their delicate hides? Unless they really, truly, want to look like Jo Ann Worley from Laugh-In? 

8

Sometimes you wonder if you've still "got it". You sit at home, wondering if you're smart enough, attractive enough, and most importantly, why you're not luring the most brilliant and handsome men in the world on these online dating sites. Aren't all the greatest guys, you wonder, sitting in front of their Macs like a pack of slack-jawed shut-ins? If not, shouldn't they be?


Well, you'd wondered where the magic had scampered off to, but you needn't worry your pretty little hairdo any longer! Just this morning, you received a personal message from TVRED, of Indianapolis, and baby, you know you're still smokin' hot.


You find it hard to describe this gem, so you'll just reprint it in its original form:

Good Morning, Annoying Deadbeat Townie, 

I know this is waaaay forward, but I was tired of the typical pick up lines on this site. So I decided to write you a story instead. Please accept it as the compliment it is meant to be. 

To set the scene, Britsh Virgin Islands on a sail boat, just us. The breeze is warm, the sun is hot and the water is the most beautiful blue you could ever imagine. I am standing behind the wheel and you are stretched out on the deck as we're clipping along in gentle waters at about 7 knots. We have a bottle of good champagne open and a bunch of fresh fruit out on the deck as well. You are laying with your top off sunning yourself up on the deck above the cabin under the mainsail, with your head toward me and your feet toward the bow of the boat. I am in some surf shorts and a cabana shirt (you know the ones that are button on the front, short sleeves, that stay untucked) with it unbuttoned partially and blowing around in the breeze. That scene seems to play for some time as we sail from one inlet earlier in the morning to another on an island somewhere else in the BVI to anchor and spend the night there. As we sail around an uncharted island the wind picks up but is still comfortable. The only difference is that some waves are starting to splash over the bow of the boat now. We sail into a wave that as we crash down, the splash comes up and blows over teh top of the boat getting you wet in the process. The spray startles you and you sit up and scream a bit. I stand there and laugh as I saw it coming. Instantly the cool water on your body and the warm wind gives you incredible nips. And as you sat up, your bikini bottom allowed me to see down them and see the crack of your butt. The moment gets up up and you come back to the cockpit (no pun intended) and pour yourself some champagne and eat some fruit. You come back to where I am and feed me some fruit and give me a drink of champagne as well. Then you walk behind me and put your arms up and on my chest. Instantly my dick starts to grow. You run your right hand down my chest across my stomach and over the waistband of my shorts and down to my crotch where you feel my hard on as you go to fondle my balls. 


You squeeze them gently, enough to be very erotic but not hurt. I sigh and lean back against you, cupping my hand over yours to squeeze a little and move your hand back up over my hardon. I turn so I can feel your breasts against mmy back, and run your hands back down over my hardon. I turn toward you and fasten my mouth over one of your nipples which are now really hard. You moan at the feel of my warm, moist tongue and feel yourself grow wet in response. I suck gently and flick my tongue over the nipple before moving over to pay the same attention to the other one. You bring your hand up and rub it across the breast I have moved away from. You ease your legs apart and I slide two fingers into your bikini bottom and between the slick lips of your pussy. You moan again, with your head thrown back. I lift my head from your breast and kiss you passionately, thrusting my tongue deep into your mouth. I taste sweet, like the strawberries and kiwi fruit you've been feeding me...



Lucky you! What a seaman, huh? And to think that that pearl of prose was written exclusively for nobody else in the entire universe except for you. Glorious, irresistible you! How else could he have known how much you dig guys who look like Parrotheads? 

And the sweetest thing about this whole thing? Why, your new beau's got talent! He'll be writing Nora Roberts-style bestsellers in no time, and there the two of you will be, glorious and tanned and covered with each others' respective effluvia!


Ahoy, mate!

7

You go to the gym (FIT) practically every day. Your life is so stimulating and action packed, you're afraid that if you don't, you won't be in the proper condition to meet life's real challenges head on.

Of course, since you go during the non-peak/prime-time hours, you are surrounded, generally, by the following types:

1) Middle-aged housewives (MAH) whose husbands are out working at some lucrative profession. These gals are usually in great shape, are pleasant, helpful, and friendly. Predominantly Anglo. 


2) Old retired dudes (ORD). To be avoided at all costs. Usually clueless about innovations made in athletic wear, they are still slogging about in twill overalls and long-sleeved long-john shirts. Many of them do not understand that exercise garments need to be washed on a regular basis, and they subsequently can be smelled from two rows of treadmills away. 

Also in this category is the ORD who decides to be hip by attending yoga or pilates or yogalates. Like his overall-sporting brethren, this ORD has not a clue as to what type of clothing is appropriate for his chosen activity. Unlike the fellas on the treadmill, however, this ORD opts for light, airy, short-shorts without leggings or much on underneath. What a cool customer! But pity the rest of the room, especially when Mr. Hi-I'm-A-Hep-Cat-Grandpa, decides to do his thigh stretches front row, center, and facing the mirror. 

3) Mystery People (MP). Who knows what the hell these folks are up to; you certainly don't. One goosenecked creature with a bizarrely erect posture, an unlikely looking pair of tits, and really defined legs, struts around looking like a Latina version of Foghorn Leghorn's girlfriend. Sometimes she works out wearing a heavy scarf or a fake fur hat. 

You comment on that one day and a woman you know says, "Oh. I think she's a dancer." 

"Oh," you sagely nod. "I guess it's a costume from the ballet."


"No, you nit," the woman says, "a dancer." She mock-gyrates on an imaginary pole. 


Now you get it. An exotic dancer. And why, you wonder, are they called exotic, anyway? What's so exotic about some babe sticking her snatch as close to some business guy's pie hole as humanly possible and still have him stuff her g-string with a wad of dirty ones? 


Wow. Next time you book a vacation, just bag the whole St. Barts deal and spend that two weeks over at Lipstick Gentlemen's Club on 146 just south of Kemah. They're both super exotic locales. 


Oh, yeah, and there are other MP's: a few upstanding looking fellas who maybe work in the health industry, maybe retail, maybe they own their own small businesses. Who knows? They're obviously not over with the drones at AIG, who march, en masse, over to the Subway on the corner of Allen Parkway and Waugh each day from noon to one p.m., weekdays. They're free! Free, dammit, to lift free weights and listen to Beyonce croon in an admonishing fashion to her not-so-wise single sisters about puttin' a ring on it. (Christ, after going to the official website for that one, you're wishin' someone would be puttin' a sock in it.)


BTW? An entire post can be devoted to how bad the music is in your gym, but you can't go there right now.


Some of the MPs, you know, are academic types, and since you know this, they are no longer MPs. The M stands for mystery, gosh darn it. 

4) The crowd that freaks you out the most, however, is that of the Personal Trainer (PT). At your club, you can usually spot them because they are wearing bright red FIT-logo athletic wear. There's no need to kid yourself, though. You'd be able to spot them anywhere. 


They are the super-creatures who are always freaking you out in one manner or another. One of them (who, you have found, is a perfectly affable creature), used to have you running for a towel the minute she stepped into the locker room, since you couldn't really tell, at first, whether this one was a man or a woman. You're thinking now that she's a woman, but only because other people have referred to her thusly. You yourself are not completely sold. 


Then there's the very dark skinned one with super high cheekbones, long straight hair that would give Chris Rock a conniption fit (Good Hair--must be seen to be believed), and thighs that she could probably wrap around an average man's chest and cut off his air supply. She's very unfriendly and seems to be quite self-possessed. Heck, with legs that could kick through a safe door, you'd have confidence, too. 


Recently, you happened to unpleasantly come across her and a Latina colleague in the locker room. The Latina, built much like a lil' Schwarzeneggerette, had on a green glitter-sequined thong bikini. The power-leg lady was mashing the Latina's tits around until they looked properly rounded in their teeny-sheeny-triangles. She then helped her oiled, buff, and bikini-clad mate into a pair of clear acrylic stiletto mules, and maneuvered her into various muscle-defining poses as she snapped photos. 


Really, you were so glad you got out of bed that day. You didn't think that people like that actually existed. 


The guy PTs, for whatever reason, don't seem as strange looking to you as the women. Maybe you're just more accustomed to seeing guys swagger around with their six packs bulging. But that doesn't seem to be it, really; the men, in general, at least at FIT, tend to wear fairly baggy clothes. A lot of them could probably be mistaken for plain ol' male gym-plebes. Come to think of it, some of the regular customers actually look like they're in better shape than some of the male PTs. 


But it's the women you're always looking at. Everything that's wrong with society seems to focus itself on these female trainers. Forget about the one you thought was a man invading the women's locker room. It's the plastic surgery victims that bother you the most, and there just don't seem to be as many of them that are male. 


Is it, you wonder, that the otherwise cute n' spunky PT with the botched lip job thought she'd attract more clients by having a juicier, plumper mouth with which to say, That's right, Louise! Just 14 more!  ??


Or, do you think, did the If Tinkerbell Was A Feminist And Could Kick Your Ass female PT (oh, and anybody can make one on this Disney link...), with her lean, angular build, cute spiked cut and matching togs, who now, with her overly-aggressive boob-job, looks like a couple of cantaloupe halves resting on a plank, decide that looking decidedly deformed was a good career move?


Bizarrely swollen body parts. Tanned androgynes. Glitter-clad chicks who can bench press an Oldsmobile. 


Looks like the circus, with all of its freaks, is permanently in town. 


You've noticed, however, that the tent showcasing this Tod Browning look must be perpetually packed, as most of these barnyard oddities seem to be driving Lexuses. Or is it Lexii? 

6

 You saw Splice last night, and boy was that one a stinker. Not only was the story all over the place (is it a horror film, an exploration of the psychology of man creates monster/man vs. monster, or just a wacky twist on  Bringing Up Baby? or is it a breath mint?)


Throughout the film--and you use that term loosely--the person you came with keeps leaning over and saying, "Who's the midget?" 

Of course, you think he's talking about the actress playing the alien spawn, so you profess not to know. Then you realize, at the end, that he's referring to the female lead, Sarah Polley. You suppose, in retrospect, that compared to male lead Adrian Brody (btw, this site is a crack-up: one is "Brodified" after a visit), she kinda does look like a midget. 


Man, what a casting train wreck that one is! Sarah "Billy Barty" Polley runs around throughout the thing with that same stupid slacker-ass look she had on her face in Go. She looks like that bitchy chick you went to high school with who's now all bloated but still think she's hot shit. And Adrian Brody (pretty hot) just walks around in plaid pajama pants or rumpled plaid hipster looking suits spouting a mouth full of pedantic mush on the subjects of right and wrong. Brody doesn't do righteous indignation well here. Maybe it's the matching hair that he and his twit of a character brother sport. You never quite get where they think they're (the filmmakers) are going with these themes. The morality or the hair.


Most annoying, however, are costumes, set design, and props. Man, the couple (Polley and Brody) are decked out like two of the most with-it hipsters ever to board the L back to Williamsburg. You're sorry, but you know a lot of really cool lab scientists. Great people, all. But they don't look like the gang in Splice. Nor do they decorate their pads with uber-cool stuff that makes them seem like they've done most of their shopping in Soho. Or Tokyo. 


Even more annoying was the car driven by Polley and Brody: a red and white Gremlin. Now, come on! Maybe you'll buy the hip decor. Okay, you'll try to swallow the image of Polley in moon boots, a thigh-length sweater that makes her look like Where's Waldo's Woman? just came out in print and a comrade-friendly Brezhnev hat. But a Gremlin? Wow, are these two scientists cool, or what? You think that whomever it was that made that decision should have just dropped those two in, you don't know, a 1971 Ford Pinto--voted one of the 50 worst of all time! How cool would that have been? To have them cheating death in the lab AND on the freeway? Or if they wanted to have them living dangerously, how 'bout Starsky and Hutch's Gran Torino. Or even better: The Dukes of Hazzard's own General Lee (you really should check out "Cooter's Place" here). 

Oh, but too late! Much cleverer writers already incorporated that one into the plot of a much more interesting show: Weeds.


I guess, though, if you're going to be told, visually, that these people are entirely too happenin' for you, shouldn't they be drivin' it with more style? 


Oh, the lack of originality here is mind-boggling. One scene (and you won't spoil the fun) smacks so much of a scene from Young Frankenstein, you find yourself screaming with laughter--only to find yourself alone in that endeavor. Oh, people! 

But this is all you need to take away from this flick: a) Scientists are evil and can not rein in their impulses to play God; b) Simply making the opening credits illegible and gooey-looking doesn't necessarily mean "good"; and c) Be they your own children, barnyard animals, or creatures you've created in the lab, pubescence is always a bitch. 

5

Although you decided at one point that having a twitter account for your own personal use would be, uh, like all other social networking tools, completely ______________ (insert politically incorrect adjective here: "gay", "retarded"), not to mention passe, you did decide that having one for your avatar, The Annoying Deadbeat Townie, would be a good thing. And here you are on Twitter. Tweets ahoy!


This will give you something to do besides sit on the couch and watch some of the worst movies you've ever seen. Monster in Law, with Jane Fonda and Jennifer Lopez, is still rattling around in your poor addled brain like a box of Cocoa Puffs. Maybe not rattling. Sloshing, what with the added milk that gets all chocolatey when the cereal's been sitting in it for a while. Ah, that was always your favorite part! The sweet milk that made your teeth and tongue feel furry.


Boy, that was a stinker, though. Not that you'd expect any less. Maybe you're a condescending snob, though, but wouldn't any decent parent be concerned when her only son, an heir to a fortune, brings home a big-butted temp who's trying to dress like something out of Hair? Let's just put it this way: you're not sold on the Jennifer Lopez romantic comedy.


Is anyone?


But then you were still glued to the couch when Juno, uncut, started. You'd always resisted this faux-slacker feel-good vehicle. And right you were. Not a bad story or plot line, but the most insufferable dialogue comes from the mouths of babes, and if someone could have kept a lid on Ellen Page's pie-hole, the whole thing would have been less cloying.


But you can't be bothered to get off the couch and find the remote, so you're stuck with this banality and bullshit. Turning off the damned thing doesn't seem to be an issue, either, so there you lie: mindless and damned.