Month: November 2012



The handjob is a lost art. Sure, plenty of us gave them in high school, and threw some pity handjobs in college. You know the kind where you drunkenly go home with someone and realize half-way into the make out session that they look like a Dr. Seuss character. Perhaps you realize too late that that’s a NASCAR poster on his wall, but his cock is already out. There’s no way that thing’s going inside an orifice. Only option is a HJ.


Anyway, I squeezed a couple drops of lemon balm in my water and nothing happened, so I poured a shot or two more into my water and gulped it down. About a half an hour later, I felt goooood. Then I take a look at the bottle and discover this “liquid lemon balm” contains 30 percent grain alcohol.


I’m a jet-lagged insomniac who hasn’t slept in days. I’ve tried all the tricks I know; meditation, medication, marijuana, masturbation. Nothing is working. Dumbo Gets Mad’s upcoming LP Quantum Leap sounds like how I feel. Like I’m half awake and half asleep, in between the worlds of dreams and reality.

Above are selection, read the entire thing at


Hiking the Haleakalā Crater like an Astronaut

Declaring “I can’t do anything before I’ve had my coffee” makes you sound like a tool, but FOR REAL,  I can’t even have morning sex before I’m caffeinated. Ask my boyfriend, I’m not turned on before he turns on his expresso machine. So the fact that I woke up before dawn to complete a six hour, 12 mile hike up the 10,000 ft. high East Maui Volcano, known for the Haleakalā Crater is probably my greatest personal achievement of 2012.

We had some time off from work around the same time, so we decided to spend it in Maui then Sydney. We flew out of NYC the day after election day, hungover from celebrating Obama’s victory. We escaped the city a day after our electricity was restored from Hurricane Sandy and hours before New York was hit with a Nor’Easter. We decided to take advantage of our jet lag-induced early rising and tackle the hike on our first day in Maui.

However, once we discovered the villa we were renting lacked a coffee machine, I was unpleasant as Carrie at the prom covered in pig’s blood. I was quite the cranky puss on the drive to the mountain.

Once we got there, the view was so beautiful I shut the fuck up.

The view from the top

Despite being in Hawaii, it was quite chilly on the top of the mountain. You can see the frost. I bundled up and resembled the unabomber.

Bundled up from the cold

The volcanic terrain made you feel like you were walking on the moon. In fact, NASA had astronauts practice walking at Haleakalā in preparation for moon exploration.

Looks like moon rocks!

Along with the foreign terrain, the plant life was quite alien. This is the only place on Earth the Silver Sword grows.

Silver Sword

While we encountered a few other hikers on the trek, for the most part we were the only two people in sight. This was quite a meditative and surreal experience for two kids who live in downtown Manhattan. There was complete silence.


After about five hours of hiking we reached the final stretch of our journey, a precarious climb back and forth on switch backs up a vertical mountain.

Almost there

After picking up some hitchhiking hippies on our drive back that gave us free weed, the rest of our time in Maui was spent relaxing. We were sore for days and hobbled around like a couple of 80 year olds, but it was an once in a life time experience that was totally worth the pain and initial whining.

Relaxing the day after the hike

My boyfriend Johnny (@timthegiraffe) is responsible for all photos and has hiked this mountain before, except he did the three-day long version like a bad-ass. Read about his initial experience here

Johnny C


“There are more types of group sex than strands of herpes on the Rolling Stones’ tour bus: threesomes, orgies, swinging, even god-damn circle jerks. But how, you may ask, as you flutter your mouse over Red Tube’s categories in an incognito Chrome window; volume down, cock up — does a gang bang differ from a classic orgy?”

Read the entire thing at

Hurricane Blues

At the mere mention of a hurricane or a storm, I go into a state of panic. Last week while coworkers somewhat naively read Twitter headlines of the impending stateside “Frankenstorm,” I excused myself to the handicap stall of the bathroom to take deep breaths and pop an emergency benzo to stave off a panic attack.

Growing up in the Virgin Islands, on St. Thomas (what, you thought that was my real last name?) hurricane season crept around like the devil’s version of Christmas season – residents hurrying to stock pile lanterns and non-perishable goods like parents hoarding the latest toys; families boarding up houses with the dedication of decorating a Christmas tree. Yes we drank rum, but without the jolly warmth of eggnog.

Unfortunate others, perhaps those new to natural disasters or without media access and unaware of the danger suffered the consequences. Or, as what happened to my family in September of 1995 during Hurricane Marilyn, you can follow the preperation manual perfectly and then your neighbor’s house (In my case one belonging to the cousin of Andy Warhol, what a strange world we live in) becomes uprooted by the winds and smashes into your own home and your meager human efforts at protecting residence are smashed, quite literally to shit by mother nature.

I was in second grade, my memories of that night are spotty — perhaps I blocked many out. Those remaining include the four of us, my parents and sister hiding in the downstairs closet while the upper levels collapsed on top of us. Our family’s car, a 4Runner came crashing through a wall. I threw up. I worried about my kitty cat Rosa. Rastas called the radio to report their cows being picked and carried away by tornadoes. The soul-piercing silence of the eye of the storm.

The next morning our neighbor, a family friend and jeweler hacked us out of the rubbish with an axe and we crawled out of the debris. We spent the next week homeless, wandering from home to home in our neighborhood that had survived the storm. With lawyer parents, my sister, mother and I were blessed enough to escape to my grandparents via Puerto Rico on a small plane after only about ten days or so of living displaced. Even when we returned, months without power, ages without television. Showers in the rain, baths by boiling water pulled up by a bucket on a rope from a cistern.

And now the same disruption and terror has come to New York. Living in ABC City I lost power for a few days and am still without heat, but compared to the Rockaways and the Jersey Shore I escaped unscathed. Emotionally, like many of us affected, no matter what degree, I’ve felt dredged in darkness and anxiety the entire week, the continuous sounds of sirens flooding the city punctuating our collective depression. I’m grateful for my New York family, my friends, boyfriend and sister who I weathered the storm with, as we attempted to fight off cabin fever with each other’s company and copious amounts of red wine.

If this post has a purpose other than acting as emotional therapy, until I can see my therapist in a few weeks, (I’m about to leave the city after my election day to Maui then Sydney with my boyfriend, the trip was planned pre-Sandy but couldn’t come at a better time. And yeah, I know, I’m fucking too damn blessed to be depressed) it’s to hope that the slightest silver lining of hurricanes such as Sandy creeping their way up from the Caribbean to New York City is that perhaps those with lingering doubt will recognize climate change is real. And yup, you called it, here it goes in 3, 2, 1…



The latest. Read the entire thing here at 

“Happy Day After Halloween, perverts! It’s Scorpio season, the spookiest time of year. I love my dark side, and not just as an excuse to ignore cell phone bills in order to pay for a brand new Día de los Muertos skull tattoo, or to make me feel better about my unfortunate sexual decisions in college. The trick is to embrace your darkness rather than try and snuff it, or else it might bubble up and you’ll find yourself etching the word “ALONE” into your thigh with a kitchen knife at 3AM after too much absinthe.”