Fuck.

Ok. Ask me anything.

SUBMIT:

SUBMIT:

SUBMIT:

SUBMIT.

I made this new single serving Tumblr blog of girls selling thrift store clothes at vintage prices.

GIRLS OF EBAY

For more adventures of the Steeez mascots Hi-Hat and Scraps check their blog Kitteeez.

theNUDES r wickid into social networking

TWITTER
FACEBOOK
TUMBLR
MUXTAPE

This time it’s about fashion.

And the word “emerate”.

The first version of steeez.com was started in the Fall of 2007. From The Vaults is a new feature consisting of old steeez.com content that was kinda decent.

I love when it’s Parent’s Day in Williamsburg, Brooklyn! Yay!

Easy way to deal:

1. Brunch as early as possible - The scrappy batch come out to eat post-noon, so to avoid Mom asking questions about why all the girls look like your Aunt Donna in the late seventies and why all the boys look like Portuguese Water Dogs, dine early.

2. Teach ‘em about subway poles - They’re just as dirty as the steering wheel of the rental car Dad drove down the BQE in. Make them fucking hold them. Nothing’s worse then some top-heavy, tucked-in Mom and Dad stumbling all over the L train as it pulls outta the Bedford Stop towards the Museum Mile.

3. You won’t get robbed, Mom - So go ahead and loosen your grip on your Coach bag. And Dad, your cellphones and pagers might get stolen so go ahead and untuck your shirt and hide your tech-holster-pants-holder.

4. I know, I know - My beard makes me look 10 years older and I should shave it… Whatever…

5. Hide the edgy wall-hangings - A gold frame around a transgendered, Sherlock Holmes-themed, gang-bang, B&W inkjet print ain’t classy. Slip a picture of your grandmother behind the glass for the duration of your parents’ visit. It won’t knock your street credit - We pwomise…

Oh yeah - Always walk one-sidewalk square ahead and make sure your girlfriend doesn’t wear that fake, faded Moody Blues t-shirt (or if she does - make sure she crams the night before.) Oh… and avoid all night life - Rent a movie instead.

India is not a place for great boozing. Historically, Hinduism doesn’t have as strong a connection to the good stuff as Judaism, Christianity, or even Sufi Islam (open Fitzgerald’s translation of the Rubbaiyat of Omar Khayyam, close your eyes, and point to a random quatrain and it’ll more than likely have to do with wine.) When the least fun man in the world ended up becoming the nation’s semi-naked hero during the struggle for independence, Gandhi’s puritan values were cherished by people who would probably have thought better of their stances were it not for the fact that the British had just left and they were all massacring each other left and right (or East and West, as the case may be.) Gandhi even went so far as to encourage some anti-alcohol language to be inserted into the constitution. But in spite of this, and in spite of the attempt to ban alcohol for a few years in the 70’s and in spite of several states being “dry,” Indians still drink. Just not that well.

The average consumption across the vast country is about two litres per person according to this article in Express India. However, the article goes into plenty of detail regarding the general distribution of consumption by state and points to some rather interesting differences in alcohol consumption across gender lines. What the fact that Assamese women drink like Punjabi men means is beyond my limited understanding of the situation. In any case, people in India are drinking. People of every class, which is not insignificant in a place which still speaks of castes, and both men and women, despite the best efforts of Hindu fundamentalist thugs like the Sri Ram Sena in Mangalore (trying to outdo or at least catch up to their more successful co-fanatics the Shiv Sena in Maharastra,) who earlier this year attacked women for drinking in bars with men as a prelude to their wildly unsuccessful campaign against the lewdness of Valentine’s day. Gandhi’s ashes must be spinning in the Ganges or something to that effect.

But booze still flows, and although liquor stores are poorly stocked and no particularly cheap, things are looking on the up for libation liberalism: even in Muslim-majority Kashmir, liquor stores have slowly been opening despite threats from the more orthodox religious elements in the area. For many years, India kept a tight lid on its’ booze barrels and restricted importation as part of Nehru’s socialist interpretation of Gandhi’s Swadeshi. In other words: you could only buy Indian-made liquor. This meant some pretty poor-quality stuff coming from a country who’d had thousands of red-faced white men importing all of their slosh from back home and had never put much thought to national brews. This also meant arms full of precious duty-free Black Label whenever one would go to visit family. Now, after the increased opening of India’s market and the deregulation which continues apace under PM Manmohan Singh’s economic plan, I was able to order a Hoegaarden beer at a fancy restaurant in Bombay. Granted, the waiter did insist on showing me the bottle as though I’d just ordered a pre-war Burgundy, and then proceeded to shove what seemed like an entire orange in the glass, but I was impressed that they had any beer apart from the charmingly oversized Kingfisher, which, if not the King of Beers, could perhaps at least be called the Bud of India.

So what of the gin-blossomed ghosts of the Empire, passed out on a verandah with smashed malaria-fighting G&T’s spilled around them? Well, they seem to have taken their dipsomaniacal secrets to their oak-barrel vaulted catacombs. Apart from the annoying English habit of measuring each pour of liquor to the exact milliliter and stingily not leaving anything to chance (to the point of rather boorishly listing the portions on the actual menu,) the Indian concept of the cocktail is little more than a poor attempt to make beverages as sweet and easy to drink as possible for slim local girls who gleefully order a round of “shooters,” and mock their teetotaler friends for ordering “mocktails.” Which is particularly odd: it seems like the Indian bar/loung/club/drinking scene is less about the pleasure of drinking, or even the fleeting pleasure of getting drunk and making mistakes, than it is about playing dress up as a movie character at a bar with an allotted 30ml (I mean, really, come on,) of vodka in a giant tumbler filled with every fruit juice known to Vishnu. I’ve always said you can judge a society by the ease with which one can purchase tonic water (something I’m convinced is good for nothing but cocktails,) and so far I’ve only seen a bottle in one shop here and it didn’t look much bigger than 30ml itself.

But there is hope, and that lies, as one would naturally expect, with the traditional and indigenous method of getting sozzled that has served Indians since the Mauryan empire. There is Tharra, a type of sugarcane moonshine that can blind you and sometimes ends up killing people through copper formaldehyde poisoning from the vats it’s distilled in. Toddy, a homebrew made from the sap of a coconut palm flower (how romantically Oriental, no?) is considerably less toxic. And of course, there is Bhang: the fermented hash liquor which probably tastes like eating a Sikh’s beard after he worked the glass-blowing booth at Burning Man. Bhang may or may not be legal in some places. It’s a bit unclear as to what the exact rules are and to what extent they are enforced, but the premise is that Bhang may be needed in religious rituals, and we all know how sacred (or just plain dangerous interfering with,) religion is to the Indian government. I sometimes wonder if I could marry an underage homosexual monkey in Uttar Pradesh as long as I said it was part of my religion.

Anyway, as I was saying: Tonic Water. Can’t really find it. Hadn’t forseen this eventuality. Had bought a liter at duty free to tide me over for the trip (or at least the first week of it.) But everybody knows that drinking straight gin is almost as unpleasant as drinking un-ginned tonic. So I snooped around my pantry and figured something out. Here’s my recipe:

1/3 Gin

1/3 Litchi Juice

1/3 Limca

Limca is an Indian soft drink which tastes like Jesus decided to make Sprite at home. You should be able to find it in Indian groceries if you ask around – but be careful – just because someone has a red dot on their head doesn’t mean they’re Indian. They may be being targeted by a sniper. Also, don’t make the mistake of putting ice in the drink, not only can one never be sure if the ice in India is made from safe, non-dysentery-causing filtered water, but one can be sure it’s not an authentic Indian anything unless it’s served at room temperature by a way-too-fussy waiter who insists on showing you his medical records before he serves you (well, it’s not quite that bad.) Since the drink is made of Gin and Litchi, I’m going to call it The Glitch. Enjoy.

OUT & IN is an ongoing investigation into real-life and internet cultural trends that are expiring and suggestions to what can replace them.

Volume 6 will tackle: ENTERTAINMENT IN THE LATE 2000s:

Open your Photobooth app, fix your glasses, muss up your hair a bit.  Countdown: 3…2…1.. FLASH!  You are a cute blog bro!  Plop your little headshot into your cute tumblwitter page and write something meaningful yet cryptic in the “about” box:

This shit is over, boys.  Girls hate pussies.  Girls hate nerds.  Girls hate boys with glasses.  Girls hate hairless little dipshits.  Wanna know what girls want?  Some authentic caveman-revival shit.  And this trend is creeping up:

POINT 1:

I was in a band for 15-20 minutes called “CAVEMAN DUDES” and we set up a tour with GIRL TALK but had a band fight and I ruined the guitar player’s furniture.

We sounded like a mixture of distilled testosterone, engines roaring, and charcoal briquettes.  We got kicked outta facebook and myspace and tumblr for being way too fucking raw.  iTunes tried to fight us and we beat the living crap outta him.  I’m not gonna even mentioned what we did to Geocities (rest in peace, fool).

POINT 2:

This band is called CAVEMAN BAND and they’re all man.

My friend Matt’s dad is in this band and looks like an awesome dude.

I haven’t heard the music yet, but I’ll bet my balls that it sounds like a mixture of distilled testosterone, engines roaring, and charcoal briquettes.

POINT 3:

Oooga-Booga.  STFU.

NEXT THINGY:

Doing drugs the normal way stinks.  You have to excuse yourself to the bathroom or closet and pretend to being doing something that is not drugs.  Then you end up wiping your nose or rubbing your eyes or untying a rubber band from your arm when you get back to the party and it’s TOTES embarrassing to get called out on your shit.  However, doing drugs a way cooler way rules.  Cook your drugs into spaghetti and snort them at the dinner table (pictured).  THAT’S COOL.  Try body-painting with drug-infused body chocolate from Spencer’s Gifts!  THAT’S COOL.  Go get a cut-and-color from a drug addict, have him/her accidentally clip your ear with the snippers and have him/her take a “puff” of drugs and then blow it on your bleeding ear.  THAT’S COOL.  “Think outside the blogs,” bros.  There’s a whole new way to get high.

N-N-N-NEXT:

Lady Gaga is an America-hating vampire raver.  She wears wicked weird costumes and considers her entire life a photo-shoot.  I don’t get her.  I saw her in concert and she stunk.  She sang like a stoned pony and danced like a sloppy ass (tiny horse).  I would much rather see that other chick in my cool graphic above playing a bass solo.  It could be anywhere:

• BASS SOLO AT CHURCH
• BASS SOLO BETWEEN BANDS AT AN INDIE ROCK SHOW
• BASS SOLO ON YOUTUBE
• BASS SOLO ON XTUBE
• BASS SOLO ON REDTUBE
• BASS SOLO ON A FLASH DRIVE
• BASS SOLO ON A BLOGSPOT SITE
• BASS SOLO ON A VIDEO CHAT
• BASS SOLO ON THE CW, ABCFAMILY, SPIKE TV, TNT, FOOD NETWORK, OR TBS
• BASS SOLO WHILE FISHING WITH JOHN MEYER
• BASS SOLO WHILE SWIFFERING SOMETHING
• BASS SOLO WHILE CLEANING ME AND MY FRIENDS’ TEETH
• BASS SOLO WHILE MY G.F. DOES JUMPING JACKS
• BASS SOLO WHILE A UPGRADE MY RAM
• BASS SOLO WHILE I BUY A KNICK-KNACK FROM AMAZON.COM
• BASS SOLO WHILE I SLEEP
• BASS SOLO WHILE I DREAM
• DREAM SOLO WHILE I SNOOOZE

Y’know what I mean!?  That’s it.  Hope you learned something.  Here’s a coupon code to bananarepublic.com that I just made up in my head:  SEINFELDTHEMESONG.  Enter that in the “coupon codes” section.

You’re welcome.

UPDATE: John Meyer just twittered the following after hacking into our WordPress admin page and reading the draft of this post that I’m writing:

Thanks, John.

xoxo,
Keeez