Remember the best memory from your childhood?  Now imagine you could re-live it again 20 years later.  Would you?  For me, the answer is a resounding “yes” and Saturday night I proved it. In sweltering 90-some degree humidity I got me to the nearest amphitheater lawn and relived the greatest night of my 8th year on this planet.  I saw the New Kids on the Block in concert…again. 

Donnie Wahlberg, Danny Wood, Jordan and Jon Knight, and Little Joey MacIntyre have come back like the chronic heat rash on the juicy inner-thighs of a 35 year old virgin named Darlene.  And just like the first time around, they’re going Step by Step (ooh baby, gonna get to you giiiiirl). 

Step One: Do Not Age Well
The boys all looked a little worse for the 20 year wear.  With the youngest member of the pack no where near jailbait anymore at 36, you would think the cougars in the audience would’ve stayed away.  Nay, my friends – not so.  The crowd was ripe with the 40 and over set swaying their ballooned hips to the sweet sounds of opening act Jesse McCartney (Who?  Exactly… I think he MAY be related to Paul McCartney?  This is my best bet).  These midwestern suburban jungle cats went ape-shit for NKOTB.  Being in the lawn, I had prime real estate to watch the classiest of cougars.  My personal fave was the leathered lass in front of me on who sported a tattoo on the nape of her neck which read “Carpe Dieum.”  That’s correct, Dieum.  D-I-E-U-M.  No lies…as if you needed a reason not to trust your tattoo artist to spell correctly in English, let alone a romance language.   

Back to the kids.  They may have aged ever so slightly better than their fans, but not by much.  From the moment they hit the stage, it was clear that Donnie D (now DDub to fans…) was sporting a piece.  He seems to forget we’ve seen him age on film (I loved him in Band of Brothers and the Steve Cirbus starring vehicle, the Kill Point), we know he’s thinning.  Well done on the plugs, Dr. Schwietzman, or should I say Morrie Kessler.  Of the boys, Danny Wood is the one whom the media are lauding for “growing into his looks.”  Let me tell ya though, ladies.  There were still no takers for the token “ugly one.”  As they intro’d the men onto stage all got an ear shattering scream equal to the one they got back in ’89.  Danny = crickets.  No one likes the monkey man. 

Step Two: Fail Your Marriage and Other Careers
Not one of the men had a ring on it (of course I looked).  Keep in mind, when they were on the Today show last spring, I believe all, if not the majority, of them were happily married with kids.  Clearly, these bad boys can’t be tied down.  As for the other careers – apparently the NKOTB (as they like to be called now – you’re not fooling anyone) have a new album.  Who knew?  They played a bunch of songs from it at the concert.  You could tell because when they played these songs people stopped dancing, sat down or yelled “PLEASE DON’T GO GIRL!”  No one wants to see you play your new shit, nostalgia bands.  I certainly didn’t drop $20 to sit through a song called Dirty Dancin’ sung by gyrating a 45 year old.  Which brings us to step 3… 

Step 3: Grab Your Crotch… A Lot.  And Point At It More
This is self explanatory.  When pondering why they weren’t showing off the famed “new kids dance” my friend Jen pointed out…”hip replacements.”   

Step 4: Love the Obese Ladies
The crowd of the concert was comprised of 4 types of people.  Cougars, Obese women in their 30’s who make the Kirstie Alley of today look like Kirstie Alley when the New Kids were famous the first time, Ladies who wanted to laugh at the glory days of 4^th grade, and men who were walking around, clearly without balls*.  The clear majority, however, were very large females.  I had no idea…  It looked like a cattle call for Hairspray.  And here’s the thing.  You’re fat.  I get it.  There are reasons people are fat…blahblahblah.  What there are NOT reasons for is a size 24 woman squeezing her ass into a size 12 coochie cutter jean short and tube top in the vain hopes that Jordan Knight will come freak on your voluptuous booty.  Just because it “buttons” ladies, doesn’t mean it fits.  Here’s a good rule of thumb (which I saw violated more than obeyed at this concert) if you can see your belly button THROUGH your shirt, it’s too tight.   A note to the mens out there…if you are desperate for some lovin’ grab a case of the high life and head to your local amphitheater when the Knight Bros and Crew roll through.  You’ll.   Clean.  Up. 

Step 5:  If You Can’t Make It…Fake It
Gentlemen, charming though you are, singers you are not.  The Bostonian boys didn’t sing a single note between the five of them for 3 hours.  This concert made the Ashley Simpson SNL debacle of ought-five look like a night at the Met.  My favorite moment of the concert trickery went to my childhood love, Donnie D who slung a guitar around his neck for the entire performance of Cover Girl and pranced around the stage “singing” not touching a string.  When his designated part to play came (which was maybe a 20-note lick, mind you) he conveniently turned his back to the audience and jumbotron cameras and “played” the white fender stratocaster.  I almost peed my pants.   

All said, this was a great night.  I was riding high on my concert euphoria.  So high that at one point I yelled “THEY ARE SO COOL!”  And during the encore (Hangin’ Tough…my fave) while waving my hands in the air I looked at my friend Jen with tears of laughter and screamed “THIS IS THE MOST FUN I’VE HAD IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!”  I would like to clear the air now that I have come down from my NKOTB bender…that was probably not the most fun I’ve had in my ENTIRE life, and the New Kids on the Block are NOT “so cool.”  They are just 5 guys from Beantown with a song in their hearts and a negative balance in their checking accounts.  But I am ecstatic they reached that negative balance.  Being 8 for a night sure beat the hell out of being 28 for the entire weekend. 

*I could be wrong on these ball-free duders, these could be the smartest f*ers on the planet, these guys were probably promised things I would rather not mention on the interweb for fear of being picked up as a porn site.  Well done.

Somehow somebody gave me permission to blog on the Huffington Post. Check out my first effort, and comment/like/digg/become a fan so that they’ll let me do more!

Every month, I receive several trees worth of magazines. The vast majority of these fall under the “women’s magazine” category. I stopped reading the fitness magazines long ago, once I realized that A) I was never going to do butt lifts using my coffee table for resistance and B) that each and every article is exactly the same every month, give or take a scary gyno feature or two. But the fashion mags I just can’t quit. Mostly it is because I covet expensive clothes, jewelry and makeup and looking at the glossy pictures gives me a contact high. But in each and every magazine, without fail, I find a trend by which I simply cannot abide. The skinny jean, the peep-toe bootie … these are scourges on humanity that must be stopped. And then, of course, there is the romper.Here is a page I came across last night:

First of all, do not look so pleased with yourself, missy. Your legs look about 12 inches long. Secondly, there is no such thing as a “citified” romper. Citified is not a word, and if one was to classify the rompers on this page, well, it would look something like this:

You can enlarge the scan, but here’s a helpful glossary:

“The Madras Romper” (top left): I really have no words for this. Whoever invented madras deserves a terrible sunburn.

“The Crowded Sandbox” (top right): Buttons, trim, a tie belt … this is from Anthropologie, which is totally unsurprising, given that the company’s mission seems to be forcing grown women to buy overstock from Jolly Rompers. (If you click on that link you will hear a high-pitched child’s giggle, which seems to say, ‘Silly bitch, rompers are for babies”).

“The Thuttocks” (middle left): The shorts on these look oh so short. Much like the “cankle” is the calf plus the ankle, the Thuttocks are that problematic area where upper thigh meets buttock, and if the Thuttocks are exposed to daylight—with the exception of the beach, of course—it is my belief (and hope) that a higher being puts you our of your misery and pulls some biblical shit like turning you to dust. I think a picture may speak louder here than my acid-tinged prose possibly can:

DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU.

“Saggy Thighs” (middle right): OK, this is kind of an uninspired moniker, I admit, but for real, if it looks bunched and baggy already it will do you no favors. I think that this special garment could have the potential to create a camel toe while still sagging at the ass, which, in spite of myself, I would kind of like to see.

“Little Lord Fauntleroy’s Undergarments” (bottom left): There is nothing OK about a white romper with a bow tie at the waist. Putting aside for the moment that there is no underwear you could wear under this that wouldn’t show (right, because THIS IS UNDERWEAR), where exactly would one wear this? The only correct answer is “To visit the chamber pot.”

“The Baggy Crotch Deco” (bottom left): The bodice of this I kind of get, but to me it looks like a comfy tunic that was cruelly neutered. Let the tunics LIVE, people. They just want to cover our asses, literally, instead of accentuate our upper thigh flab in the form of loose jersey shorts.

Ok, that’s over. Urge to kill fading.I have to say, though, at least rompers are a bona fide trend. I uncovered this next page and actually gasped aloud.

I’m sorry, but when did zippered leggings become a normal item of clothing to have just lying around? (I am also looking at you sideways, tennis skirt, but you’ve escaped my wrath…for now). In the interest of full disclosure, I once owned a pair of acid washed jeans with ankle snaps, but this? I have no idea why leggings would even require zippers, except to create an easy opening for a Stadium Gal or, worse, to allow the leggings to fall more easily over one’s peep-toe booties. I believe that as a public service, this page should have read like so:

People.com has reported that Susan Boyle missed another Britain’s Got Talent tour concert.  They cite speculation that she was distraught over her cat.  Her rep was quoted saying, “She was feeling tired and she decided not to perform.”  The world, apparently, cares.  This letter must be written:

Dear Susan Boyle,

Barbara Streisand you are not.

Get over yourself,

Erdahl

P.S. Word to the wise, “exhaustion” “tired” “laryngitis” - these are just PR people’s terms for “hangover.” 

My generation is typically referred to as “Generation X”, which according to official explanations, is the group of people born between 1965 and 1976 (I just barely made it, peeps!!). Generation X people are widely described as independent, umotivated, distrustful and like to watch a lot of MTV. That’s me. It’s also someone who favors flannel shirts, has an obsession with making mixed tapes,  Eddie Vedder and eating gravy fries at 3 am. That’s also totally me.
The idea of Generation X is well represented in some of my favorite movies of that era (that do not include blood or rape):

Say Anything- This movie was the first (in my mind) to show the slacker kid get the unattainable girl. The fact that Lloyd was sincere, vulnerable and liked Peter Gabriel made girls all over the country convince themselves that he was the ideal boyfriend (for me notsomuch..I didn’t do trenchcoats or nice).
Let’s face it- if it wasn’t for Lloyd Dobler, Michael Cera wouldn’t be a working actor today- so lets all thank the good lord above for letting the alternative dude win (I’m looking at you, Judd Apatow).  It also was the first movie that showed indecision and teenage cynicism as positive traits. When Lloyd was pressured by his teacher to pick a post high school path, he simply said “I don’t know. But I know that I don’t know.” Sage words of wisdom that I have lived my life by, Mr. Dobler. Sage words.
This movie also inspired me to buy “Mother’s Milk” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, so it was a total win-win.

Singles- this could quite possibly be the best movie ever made. Why? How about a killer soundtrack that NEVER gets old? How about Matt Dillon as the clueless lead singer of Citizen Dick? How about the best ensemble cast since The Outsiders-yeah I SAID IT! The Gen X storyline here is that there were a lot of people just floating around aimlessly, looking for something to define themselves: a relationship, a job, a car. Essentially, Singles is what happens to Lloyd Dobler after college. Please see the “Steve” character played by Campbell Scott. He IS post grad Lloyd.
PS. Chloe Dancer/ Crown of Thorns still cuts me to the core. I’m not even going to apologize.

Reality Bites- True. This movie is a bit self indulgent and whiny but alls I know is that Ethan Hawke was ridiculously hot in this movie and the rest doesnt even remotely matter. Jobless slackers with crazy sexual tension, cigarette breath and Ben Stiller? Fine by me. I like Ethan Hawke and his rendition of whatever he sang on the pretty good Soundtrack. It happens to be a fact that “Stay” by Lisa Loeb officially killed 1994 and the entire dress with boots movement, thank you very little.

Although her work for the promotion of cat eye glasses have been pretty substantial, I suppose.

The fact is this: Being rich, skinny, well educated and having parents who have enormous clout in Hollywood is a Pa-RETTY good spring board for someone’s career.

Enter Gwyneth Paltrow. An average entertainer, Gwyneth’s current role of a lifetime is just being herself on a daily basis. Its gotta be hard work acting like a pompous elitist asshole with a unusually high opinion of yourself 22 hours a day (though I’m pretty sure she gets shredded by her disdainful husband who probably hates her more than AIDS, Bono and both Gallagher brothers combined).

Gwyneth’s fame has been heightened by some very high profile relationships (‘member when her and Brad Pitt got matching hairdos? Wasn’t it totally cute when she and Winona double dated Affleck and Damon? That was sooooooooooo awesome! ) mixed with some mediocre acting skills. I didn’t see Shakespeare in Love and never will, but I can tell you her English faux-ccent is NOT Oscar worthy. Mine is waaaaay better: Allo, Guvnah! See???
Gwyneth’s new motivation is to let everyone know just how freaking brilliant, deep and spiritually sound she is by making a concerted effort to tell the world (or anyone who will listen) how much better she is than everybody else.
First of all, she has a website dedicated to her magnificent lifestyle called GOOP – it talks about her choice of autumn shawls, kabbalistic musings and cookie baking tips. Its so affected that its actually hilarious. I like it when she refers to Billy Joel as William while describing the perfect cookie, which you know she would never really eat. Seriously.
She’s also on a food road trip show with a bunch of other obnoxious dickheads and the fantastic Mario Batali. Why Batali needs a macrobiotic, vegetarian actress to accompany him on a ham tasting trip around Spain is beyond me. I recently caught a few agonizing minutes, to see Gwyneth slowly cruising through the streets of Andalucia in a Mercedes convertible, pretending not to have an orgasm over being recognized. My favorite moments are her showing off her Spanish skills any chance she could get, even if the person she was speaking to knew perfect English.
And finally, what about giving her kids those obscure and socially unacceptable names? Thats the icing on the pretentious cake!
Apple? Moses? Come the fuck on, really. In about 15 years “Moses Martin” will be accidentally drafted onto the Seattle Seahawks and Apple Martin will be the perfect drunk London socialite looking all bleary eyed while teetering on her 5” Chloe shoeboots outside of some club.
PS. Is that special Extra EXTRA Virgin Olive Oil from your own personal olive orchard smeared on your legs? Bliss!

Boardwalk Hall. Atlantic City. June 13th, 2009. The air was ripe with the smell of the ocean, cheesesteaks and axe body spray.

Girls combed their hair in their rearview mirrors and the boys tried to look so hard. (Sorry, it’s Jersey. The Boss has to be mentioned.)

Accompanied by two fellow pop culture enthusiasts from Brooklyn clad in skinny jeans, we sojourned to Atlantic City to pay hommage to one of the most incestuous, celebrated and screwed up bands in music history.

Fleetwood Mac. (Get out your coke spoons!)

Fleetwood Mac’s abridged drama:

1)The British keyboard player (Christine McVie) was married to the bassist (John McVie) and starts banging the sound guy. Rumored to have banged lead guitarist/singer (Lindsey Buckingham) a few times, as well.

2)The wicca piece of ass with a sheep-like wobble (Stevie Nicks) starts banging Don Henley from The Eagles, the tour manager and then the drummer (Mick Fleetwood), much to the chagrin of the lead guitarist and singer (Lindsey Buckingham) who she hitherto was banging since High School.

Years of infidelity, death threats, drug problems, alcohol addiction, shawls and guy-liner ensued.

They’ve still got the right stuff.

They sounded pretty great— minus the hurdle of losing Christine McVie, masculine keyboard player, to a transgender op. (Just kidding, Davey! I love Christine McVie! She’s retired from the band as of now…) Fleetwood Mac also conveniently relies on three back-up singers to help them hit the high notes they can no longer reach due to massively effed up nasal passages eroded by massive freebasing.

One of the highlights of the evening was Stevie singing her solo hit, “Stand back.” Replete with the signature twirl from the music video. It was hilarious being in South Jerz with thousands of 45-50ish aged people losing their shit when this was performed like they were back in Wildwood in 1983.

I felt honored to share this slice of time with all the men and women who fucked in a busted trans am to the 8-track of Rumours.

Don’t judge me.

Last summer, as I lived large in my boss’ home, I relished in HBO on the steamy summer Sunday evenings.  One night a new series by the name of ‘True Blood’ showed itself in my OnDemand menu.  It starred Anna Paquin (gag – I hear she’s a horrible tipper) but was written by Alan Ball (joy!) and was produced by HBO.  SOLD!  I hit play.  My jugular quivered with anticipation from the opening sequence as I realized I was about to be treated to the next phase of Louisiana vampire lore following the well trod paths of the Anne Rice novels of my teens. 

 If you’re not familiar with the True Blood, allow me to top-line.  The show (based on the novels of Charlaine Harris…of which I have not read one) centers around Sookie Stackhouse; just your average Bon Temp, Louisiana bar waitress with shorty shorts and the ability to read minds.  The show starts when Sookie becomes enamored of Bill Compton, a 175-or-so year old vampire who moves to town.  In this world, vampires have decided to “mainstream” into human society thanks to the invention by the Japanese (ugh, they EVERYTHING cool) of True Blood – a blood substitute which allows vampires to quench their thirst without biting a living being (sidenote: apparently the True Blood tastes like ass…I imagine it’s kind of like Red Bull.  Tastes like Dimetapp,  but you’re willing to drink it with vodka for a killer buzz).  Sookie’s parents died in a flash flood (because that happens a lot on the Mississippi River) so she lives with her Gran (who is there just to get killed halfway through season 1) and brother, Jason, who never wears a shirt (and we prefer it that way, thank you).  She loves her small town existence, but longs to be with a man whose mind she cannot read.  And what do you know?  She can’t read vampire brains.  Madness ensues and we are taught a few life lessons about living in the deep south and sharing an existence with vampires over the course of season 1. 

• Vampires are a lot like people.  They recycle.  They highlight their hair.  They like to have sex in cemeteries.  Unlike people, however they are not allowed to enter your house unless you give them a formal invitation (wouldn’t it be nice if people were a little more akin to our blood sucking brothers, dear landlord?).
• Just because you are bitten by a vampire doesn’t make you one.  In fact, if you’re going to do the do with a vampire (which apparently is just freaking awesome) it is common courtesy to let them bite you to increase the pleasure for everyone.  But, beware, if you do decide to get nasty with the undead you will be labeled a FANGBANGER and probably killed during season 1.
• If you are a black female you are angry and a substance abuser.
• If you are a black, homosexual male the only way to get ahead in life is to become a drug dealer prostitute.
• If your boss can turn into a dog, he’s probably in love with you.
• If you’re a heterosexual, white, human male, you’re dumb as a box of rocks.
• While being a vampire, the best way to make money is to own a bar.  Give it a fun, punny name, like Fangtastia, the coolest vampire bar in Shreveport, LA and watch the vamps and fangbangers alike pour in to get it on.
• Cults exist in Loosiana too.  And they hate vampires.
• Drinking a lot of vampire blood will give you a nonstop raging boner.  However, doing just a dab of “V” will make you hallucinate and have the best sex of your life.  Magnolia blossoms become sparklers as you will roll around in a psychosomatic meadow; you will have the ability throw your partner 60 ft in the air and catch her on your hard-on (here’s to good aim and wet targets, friends.  This does not sound comfortable).
• If Alan Ball asks you to be in a “drama” about vampires, do it.  The show will be hilarious and you’ll win a Golden Globe. 

All these lessons aside, the moral of True Blood is this: don’t judge a book by its cover…And have sex with vampires.   

A BIG P.S. on this: the new season, based just on last night’s premiere episode, looks to be just as entertaining as the last!  Well done Mr. Ball.  Watch the preview and tell me it doesn’t make you want to positively revel in this total smut with me!  

Okay people, bear with me here, because my thought process is very ‘If You Give a Mouse a Cookie’ (or if you prefer, ‘If You Give a Moose a Muffin’).

I discovered this article about a BBQ gone wrong, where the grillmaster was struck by lightening and continually muttered ’sausages!’ Of course I feel sorry for the man, but his choice of words cracked me up. This incident reminded me of a terrible movie I saw on TV several years ago, in one scene a man is stung to death by a swarm of killer bees and his last words (more like last screams) are the hilariously cryptic “Everything… tastes like… BANANAS!” I can’t recall the name, but knowing crappy made for TV movies, it’s probably called ‘Bees!’ I believe it was part of that trend of turning hot button news topics like bird flu (Remember that? We were so dumb then, now everyone knows pigs are the real menace!) and Y2K into sensationalist ‘LETS FREAK OUT THE GENERAL PUBLIC! OH GOD WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!’ films.

This lead me to reminisce on the unfortunate endings of moribund characters I’ve seen over the years in equally ill-fated movies. Such as the classic fight in ‘Mortal Kombat: The Movie’ when Keno begs Sonya to give him a break so she agrees and in turn breaks his neck. The poor guys death was a pun, talk about the eternal joke! Another favourite is the insane king from ‘Gormenghast’ (aka the trippiest Masterpiece Theatre ever) who simply says “HOOT!”and throws himself out the castle window, convinced he is an owl. Lastly, I don’t think he says anything, but you have to love the sombrero wearing biker in the original ‘Dawn of the Dead’ who decides it’s a good time to test his blood pressure in one of those machines in the mall and is consequently ripped to pieces by zombies.

What is the point of all this, you ask? Well, I naturally looked on Youtube for said scenes, but instead found a compilation of hilarious movie deaths even a connoisseur of terrible films such as myself was unaware of.

(Click on Harold for the link, don’t worry they’re all pretty PG as movie deaths go. If you have a morbid sense of humour too, please share your favourite dumb death scenes in the comments!)

I have watched many of The Real Housewives incarnations on Bravo…the Atlanta, Orange County, New York City seasons are okkkk(my fav previously was the shit show of NYC).

But Bravo has really outdone themselves in the reality show casting department by assembling some wacky Franklin Lakes bitches, and Italian Jersey to the max.

They make me want to 1) settle down with a man who deals in cash, 2) have said man call dancers homos –bc he’s a caveman, 3) stage mom my kid to death, 4) and get my boobs done, in equal measure.

You have Dena: the blond ice queen with a scarecrow-esque daughter and always absent “traveling husband.” Her house looks like an overfurnished bathroom at The Manor in Orange, NJ. I keep expected a canary to fly out and be devoured by Mr. Bigglesworth, aka, her freaky, ugly as shit cat.

Teresa, the well-meaning stage mom with dead eyes, a five-head (some folks have foreheads, others much like Tyra, have five-heads…), a homophobic hubby, and a never ending supply of cash. Like 15k in cash for gaudy furniture. Happy wife, happy life. AREN’T YOU AFRAID OF AN AUDIT, EINSTEIN? You’re on film! Too much cash, Teresa. Too much flaunting of cash.

Crazy botoxed, mafia, drug cartel Danielle! She makes my heart sing. She looks like a lean, weathered piece of jerky and her helpless daughters look like they are embarassed to call her Mama. I love the 26 yr old boyfriend who looks like a chronic farter…I love the breakdowns and I love her inability to move her face or show any expression. She makes Nicole Kidman’s face look as mobile as Jim Carrey’s.

Caroline (Dena’s sister) may be my favorite because she’s little and round and funny. Sporting a cropped, butch hair cut, flowing with an accent as thick as paint, and having sired three winsome kids who seem completely unaffected and real—it’s just good television. I’d like to sleep over and listen to the “heyyy, whattsa matta wich you” banter at brunch the next morning.

Jackie is the sweetie pie who keeps miscarrying and is married to Dena and Caroline’s brother…she has a c.u.next.tuesday of a daughter from a previous marriage and drinks A LOT of tea in every episode. I feel a lot of empathy with her because she married into a family of mean broads. She’s like Michelle Pfeiffer from “Married to the Mob” and they’re psycho Mercedes Ruehl.

Ok, so if you’re not watching this show…hook up the DVR or catch a marathon on some Saturday or Sunday. BEST HANGOVER CURE EV-AH.