Window Dressings: Lake Placid Style

My new theme o' the month, the Delicate Art of Consumer Seduction, will now be called Window Dressings. Here is a wonderful example from a recent trip to Lake Placid.



I [Heart] My Nana. But I have no pants and no discernible sexual organs. What is the message here? I am not sure that references to a loving grandmother and "no pants" should appear within the same image. What happened to the child's nether regions?

I'm a Cutie Patootie is clearly not wearing any pants either, and I would suggest that the child also lacks underwear. This is a significant and horrifying problem. Shame on you, Grandpappy!



Here are their cousins, clothed. If I go to the Adirondacks, they will kill me with their laser eyes and barely-muzzled slavering beasts. See the little boy's hand? It is reaching out to I [Heart] My Nana to snatch her pants clean off and feed them to Its Master. Strange pagan symbols behind them control their every move.

The Delicate Art of Consumer Seduction

This will be the first in an exclusive Party Pony series documenting the delicate art of consumer seduction--the most compelling and inviting window dressings, mascots, advertisements, and taglines designed to please and tempt the consumer.

In the Christmas category, we have these examples:

Longing for some new negligee to tempt the man in your life? Don't look further than Main Street Hosiery on Mamaroneck Avenue. Not to be outdone by Bergdorf's in the city, Main Street Hosiery spent weeks arranging their jolly display of a 10-foot tall humanoid female about to whip off her sexy black robe, and a small, angry gnome who is clearly ready to nip under her nighty or flash us--either way, it will be perverted and wrong.



Also a jolly holiday tradition at Main Street Hosiery, Griselda the mannequin fondles her pink terrycloth robe while contemplating the red panties. Which shall it be tonight, which shall it be? But wait! The flannel suit on the wall behind her is FOR SALE. Oh, rapture!


Who among you knew that Smurf is called, in other tongues, Pitufo, Schlumpf, and even SCHTROUMPF? Isn't that how two Smurfs make another Smurf? Look, the Schtroumpf are Schtroumpfing again! Look closer and you will see that one of them is dressed up as a crab, while another one appears to be a carrot. Their eyes are filled with a mad light. No wonder these toys are so perennially popular!


This mascot for Veloce Pizzeria in NYC makes me regret every diet I have ever been on. His whole aspect says EAT. In fact, it says EAT ME. I AM GOING TO PUNCH YOUR LIGHTS OUT. When eating items with pepperoni on them, do we need an angry, snouted hog-thing staring at us in a menacing way? Yes, we do! Note the teeth, suitable for edging pie crusts.

All Doped Up and Can't Even Drive My Big Rig

We all know about the common side effects of SSRIs and their ilk: nausea, dizziness, fecal urgency, murder, and other mildly aggravating symptoms that are well worth the relief and well-being--the very same, mind you, that one might also get from a sugar pill stamped with the words "Eat me and be happy! I am a magic Jesus pill! I heal your fucking woes you silly depressed so and so!" Such type would be very small and you are probably too depressed to find your glasses, and even if you did you'd be worrying about the grammatical accuracy of the statements, so never mind.

But when was the last time you called in a complaint about side effects to the drug company that peddled you its latest panacea? Think about it: The poor devils who are writhing on the floor thinking their genitals are being nipped by aphids aren't exactly in the position to dial a 1-800 number and rattle off a list of complaints. Nor is that guy in the backhoe loader who just crawled into the shovel bucket and started whimpering for his momma. He'll go home and have a beer and think it was just a bad day and he will never call that troubling side effect in, will he?

This is why I have determined that a whole host of unreported side effects are going...unreported. In a journalistic foray into truthiness, I feasted on a whole bunch of these mood-alerting Scooby Snacks during one particularly gloomy and rainy long weekend, when even painting my toenails and singing lighthearted songs about daffodils and bunnies failed to lift my spirits.

Here was my menu--a delectable array of the finest that Big Pharma has to offer us poor, weary souls.


The Results of My Very Scientific Experiment:

Effexor: Stabbing electrical pains in the medulla oblongata, followed by a desire to outrun one's demons via fast and reckless highway travel. Occasional belief that one is a squirrel, and must mate with one's kind. Visions of angels coming down from the Heavens and prodding one with fondue forks, coupled with the maniacal laughter of unseen children. Vivid sense that the scent of poo is in the air. Realization that it is one's own poo.

Lexapro: Imbued with a sense that one is a salmon, and one must swim upstream with all deliberation. Attempts to do so in the kitchen sink are met with futility. A wish to eat poisonous plants is followed by a trip to Burger King, where the alarmed kitchen staff find a surprise, naked visitor at the burger station, trying to construct a warrior helmet made entirely of beef patties. The trip home results in vomiting and hearing a choir singing "These Boots Are Made for Walking."

Wellbutrin: Oh, I'm not sure one can talk about this drug. One did very bad things while on it, including a romp through a nearby shopping mall where one tore apart a candy store and ran about shrieking "I am the King Eel! I will bite your duodenum!" However, feelings of anxiety were greatly relieved and one had the best sleep in decades.

Prozac: Feeling great! So not depressed anymore! Except for that weird deadening of all erogenous zones, including the earlobes and buttocks. The feeling got so acute that one started slathering oneself with butter, whipped cream, and other foodstuffs in an effort to feel something, anything! Tried stabbing at self with a butter knife. Wound up lying on a platter with a pomander in one's mouth. A wonderful drug.

Zoloft: Became convinced that this all was just a dream, a lovely dream. Thought the world was an apple or a pomegranate, and one could eat it in one bite. Imagined that one had invented the whole world and all its history in a kindergarten daydream. Finally recognized that one was in Hell, and was attacked by fire, burning lakes, brimstone, hornets, and little fellows with pitchforks. Met with Satan and think he is overrated. Still possibly in Hell, although it is hard to tell, and my gym instructor will not divulge where she learned her craft.

Cymbalta: Depression hurts. Damn it, it even hurts one's damn dog, and other pets. Decided that they would all be better off dead, without one's gloomy presence. Murdered animals with pitchforks and staves in a large ceremony that included a giant Cookie Puss ice cream cake from Carvel as a celebratory after-hours feast. Mmm. Cookie Puss, you are so good. You are one's overlord.

Pristiq: Felt like a wind-up doll that some other, bigger force was controlling. It made one do awful little jigs and pick up the garbage, and perform unnatural acts. Simply frightful.

Xanax: Not an SSRI, but a benzodiazepine. However, after all the other pills and goofballs, needed something to come down and chill-ax. Also needed steely calm to battle the laser-eyed moon marmots, who now outnumber us and will soon overtake the capital.

Poo-Splosion!

Okay, so you are probably thinking that we should have called in an expert after yesterday's unfortunate discovery of fecal matter on the lawn. No, we did not. "Maybe it's a weird aberration!" we thought. Surly Miguel, the guy who cuts lawns in the neighborhood, had come by to give his assessment.

"Plug up that hole!" said Surly Miguel. Maybe a well-placed flowerpot atop the site of the extrusion would serve to prettify the area and prevent further blowouts! Anyway, we mixed a drink and ignored it, in the manner of the ostrich. Maybe the problem would just go away and prevent us from spending multibajillions of dollars to fix it.

So this morning I returned from the gym, where I was attempting to cut off further panic attacks at their source. I was feeling better, quite better! "I might turn the corner on this thing," I thought. Then I came up the driveway and saw It. The hole had belched forth a wide swath of effluvium, vastly trumping yesterday's horrors. The turds were not cute, nor were they small. I began to hyperventilate.

Several neighborhood boys were playing soccer on our lawn, as is the accepted way on our street where no private property is sacred. They seemed innocent and playful.

"Dudes!" I yelled. "Did you not see the big pile of poop?"

One of the boys said: "Yeah, we saw that. Pretty gross. I think the soccer ball went through it."

"Maybe, just maybe," I said, while trying to suck down some air, "you should take your game elsewhere."

"Yah, disgusting!" yelled the boys.

"I'm going to have a panic attack," I said to the boys, who are all about 12 years old. "Help! Help! What should I do with this?"

One of the boys thought most carefully, and then said: "I would get a shovel and scoop it all up and put it in a bag."

"Thank you," I said, most gratefully. Donning rubber gloves, I followed his instructions to the letter. Before I did so, however, I went next door to the neighbor to see if he knew a respectable type of Roto-Rooter fellow.

"I don't know who to call!" he said, clearly horrified. "But maybe you could call the police?"

I found the yellow pages, which I have never used for any reason. Right on the back was a big ad for the Drain Doctor, which advertised 24/7 emergency service. "I have raw sewage on my lawn," I told the Drain Doctor. "I think this qualifies as an emergency?"

While waiting for the Drain Doctor, my middle son ran to me in a fright. "Mommy, there's a big dead bird under the swing!"

I meant to give the bird a decent burial, but he got tossed into the Poo-Sack with everything else.

And then one of the neighborhood boys came back. "Hey, I forgot to tell you that there's a poop in the middle of the lawn, too." It had been stepped on by the soccer players and smeared through the grass.

"How did that get there?!"

"Must of gotten tossed through the air through that pipe. I'll bet it flew like a bird!"

I went and found the poop, which was clearly of animal origin. This poop was the kicker, for it was so foul that I started dry-heaving and stumbling over the grass. I came within a hairsbreadth of vomiting. Father's day was not going well! I had meant to give my husband a Father's day gift, but since he was off playing sport, his absence during this event was indeed the best gift I could have given him.

Various other neighbors came by. One of them poked a stick down into the hole, while tromping through the muck and doody and stompling at it with his shoes. My two-year-old ran up with a trowel, hoping to help, and then saw the puddle of doom which had been produced when we "tested" the toilet by flushing it. "Puddle!" he yelled, and jumped into it with both feet.

Then the Drain Doctor guy came. He saved our lives and charged us a good price. The day ended better than it had begun. Except for the dead bird--it's still dead.

Up From the Ground Come A-Bubbling...Turds?

I've had a pretty rough week that included panic attacks so severe that I had to put down the phone during a conference call, lie down on the bathroom floor, and breathe into a paper bag. So yesterday, when my husband came to me and said he had "something to show me," I became strangely and erroneously excited. Perhaps what he intended to show me was something nice, like a bunny rabbit in the garden wearing a circlet of daisies around its head, or a bag of diamonds.

It was not something nice.

Since we have moved into our 1890 Victorian house, we have discovered all manner of interesting goodies left behind by the former owners. Our idealistic sensibilities have been damaged by a serious dearth of cash and gold doubloons, treasures which we assumed would simply drop out of the ceiling tiles at surprising moments, or cascade into our arms when we peeled back the hideous wallpaper. My pal in Mahopac is always finding cool stuff on his property, like Native American artifacts and gravestones. We find things like human faeces.

Since that 2008 post, we have unearthed the following:
1. A tarnished spoon
2. Two very old bottles buried in the garden (pretty cool, actually, but yet another painful reminder of all the historic stuff that the former owners destroyed and mangled)
3. A few tattered paperdolls in a crawlspace under the stairs
4. 6 undamaged--and empty--cardboard toothpaste boxes from the 1970s (I sure forgot what the old Crest branding used to look like, and boy was I glad to see it again)
5. A can of "genuine Florida sunshine" in the rafters of the basement (It fell out on my head while I was doing laundry and almost gave me a melanoma)
6. Two perfectly pristine turds, and their accompanying toilet paper, resting near a small pipehole in the front yard

Ah, this last find was the most startling, I must say! For months, we had wondered just why this pipe existed. It lies flush with the ground in the grass next to our walkway, and the cap on it has a small hole in the center about two inches in diameter. Sometimes the boys poke sticks into it, and we can see water glimmering below. I had a theory at one point that it once housed a flagpole. Until yesterday, it was an interesting little mystery.

While walking past it, our nanny heard an ominous gurgling and bubbling sound, concurrent with shower, dishwasher, and toilet usage within the house. Later, she discovered that "something" had been tossed up with some force from the pipe's aperture. My husband was beckoned, and bent over to view just what it was. "Those are...turds," he said, with some evident lack of pleasure. A few shiny flies buzzed up and confirmed the diagnosis. Then he glanced down at his sandals. The sidewalk next to the pipe, where he was standing, was puddled with what appeared to be "water" but clearly wasn't just "water."

My middle child was fingered as the former owner of the offending objects, given away by his size and for the fact that it was he who sat upon the pot before the earth began gurgling and released its foul offering. He denied it, of course: "My little brother has the smallest poops in the house because HE is the smallest! So those are his turds." His argument had a fatal flaw, as the youngest and the potty have not yet become acquainted.

We noted with some relief that the aperture in the pipe, being the small size that it is, would prevent some of the potential "larger items" from escape. But then my husband shook his head with a sad and portentous expression. "Whatever force shot those turds up outta that hole, it's pretty powerful. I think almost anything might get pushed right through. Boom!"

It could become our own Old Faithful, finally making us rich through tourism dollars. I hope that the wee, sweet bunny rabbit is not in the area when she blows again.

The Murderous Undersea World of the Navy Mannequins

Recently my family and friends had the opportunity to board the USS Nautilus, a historic submarine docked in New London, CT, to see what the merry Navy is up to these days. Billed as the world's first nuclear powered vessel, first ship to go to the North Pole, and first submarine to journey "20,000 Leagues under the sea," the Nautilus is a marvel of engineering from stem to stern. It also contains some of the most terrifying mannequins seen since the famous Crack Lady of SoNo New Ro.

Welcoming us aboard with a jaunty "Ahoy, sailors!" was this gentleman, with regulation Navy haircut. His sad eyes suggest a more poetic career would have been preferable, while he aimlessly but firmly drives the pen into his own thumb in an effort to finally feel something, dammit!



Clad in blue jeans, the ship's whipping boy, Stewie MacGruder, reflects on his last shore leave and the girls of the Mystic Marriott Residence Inn, who showed him a good time. But, uh oh! Note the steely black toe of the Admiral hoving into view. It's the brig for Stewie when the Admiral sees the sketches he's been drawing in that notebook!



Oh Lord, no. No nononono. Trying in vain to reach out and "cup" the last shreds of his manhood in his outstretched hand, Officer Dunthwaite enters one of his famous fugue states, which are always followed by wholesale murder of anyone in the vicinity. Pilates has done him a world of good, but he is still Very Angry.



Too late, the officer here realizes that his crewmates have pulled another fast one on him. Where did the coffee cup go? Whups! Awww, fuck.



Periscope, up! Oooofh, not...enough...Viagra. Must slump gently over controls.



I have lost all sense of my place on this earth, human decency, and the feel of a good woman's buttocks. Therefore, pass me that knife so that I may end it here, 20,000 leagues under the unforgiving ocean.



How does that feel? A little to the left? Yes, aah. That's it, baby. Look into my eyes and tell me I am not THE MAN.



McKinley used to work in a local pizza establishment. Then he joined the Navy! Excitement, adventure, and endless crank-turning have brightened his outlook and put a wan smile on his pasty, sallow face.



What's this, good sirs? A bit of tomfoolery in the downtime? Oh, what does that sign in your hand say? You want to kill, kill, kill us all? Please spare the children!



Sampiere, you poor sonofabitch.



In the officer's mess, the meals are a good deal more uplifting. The refreshing taste of a Coca-Cola gives this fellow's hair a small erection.



Cookie, as he was known in life, was a simple and decent fellow, fond of making poached eggs. Until the day that Sampiere questioned how his burger had been prepared (medium well, rather than medium rare), and Cookie finally and irretrievably snapped.



Oh yes, my invisible Master whom I spy in the steel cabinet reflection. I am ever your willing servant and humble slave, ready to do your murderous bidding. Yesss.



After a hard day on the USS Nautilus, the sailors relax in peaceful slumber, their giant and unsightly arms protruding from the bunks. When the Klaxon sounds, he will strike his head most forcefully on the bunk a mere three inches above, which will likely lead him to murder someone later that afternoon.

It's the New Year! My Predictions for 2010.

Ten Predictions for the Coming Year
These things are gonna happen, people, so just gird your loins.

1. Per chaos theory, a violent tornado will arise as the result of an errant Argentinian butterfly flapping its wings. Picking up nails, screws, and long sheets of scrap metal as it travels, the tornado will whisk all my enemies into the ocean, where they will sink while being gnawed in a desultory fashion by a pod of sharks.

2. A cut lil' bunny rabbit that has been kept in a cage for all its natural life will turn feral, escape, and eat all the members of the household. It will then lead its dumb cousins in cages everywhere to mimic its actions in "copycat" fashion after they observe the story airing nightly on local Fox news stations. Earth will hereafter be known as The Bunny Planet.

3. Glenn Beck will be eaten by a bunny.

4. Sarah Palin will be eaten by a bunny, but only after she takes down a rabid army of bunnies Rambo-style. She survives for a time on their flesh, hiding out in a decrepit trailer in the Alaskan wilderness, before succumbing to a Great Raid by the bunny infantry.

5. The bunnies will finally be defeated by a pride of lions who decide that enough is enough of this bunny crap. They eat a bunch of people too, but then peace will be achieved by a group of vigilante vegans who convince the beasts that a macrobiotic diet will ensure longevity. The lions wait and bide their time, fretting that the humans are getting awfully lean and stringy.

6. In the last days of 2010, health care reform will finally be achieved. Uninsured citizens will be able to buy into an affordable plan starting in 2015, but anything related to hearts, lungs, skin, tummies, brains, and other sundry organs will not be included in the plan thanks to a last-minute clause inserted by the Republicans. Approximately 1,245,678 small children will be gnawed and devoured by bunnies in the intervening time, making their health care issues rather moot.

7. Cookie LaRue, the 35th mistress of Tiger Woods to come forward, will vastly underestimate the appetite of the American public for scandalous gossip when she uses the phrases "nine-iron" and "the pooper" in the same sentence. Fox News ratings go up again, and Accenture executives muse about bringing Tiger back as a spokesperson with a few fresh and amusing taglines.

8. Spencer Pratt, his bride, Britney's spawn, Bill O'Reilly, and Jon and Kate and all eight children all get eaten by bunnies in a most grisly spectacle known as "The Circus of the Rabbits." The lions finish off what the bunnies left behind.

9. Sacha Baron Cohen's new film, "Li-Li," shames a lot of people who are duped into thinking the actor is actually a maniacal 8-year-old Japanese girl who likes to wear party frocks made out of meat and wants to show you her detachable penis.

10. President Obama, in an effort to bring peace to the Middle East, hosts an all-day "Booze and fucking crazy-ass drugs summit" at the White House. Refreshments include fountains spurting liquid LSD, psychedelic mushroom canapes, and a roasted tofu-piggie stuffed with "chronic" marijuana and vomiting a constant stream of goofballs and pep pills via a perpetual motion machine invented by Al Gore. It all goes well until someone gets beheaded in the jello shot salon and a lot of fingers get pointed.