In a town run by candy, one man stands alone...
The Teen Vote
You can tell it's election season because TVs and computer monitors everywhere are blasting political messages at young voters like tommy guns. Candidates are doing all they can to reach out to this large, unmotivated and traditionally apathetic voting bloc. Today we've got ObamaGirl and will.I.am electioneering for Obama, while... Well, we're sure there's someone out there rooting for Hillary. The point is, election commercials these days are just not as good as they used to be. In order to really tap into that youth vote, you need something flashy, urban and real. Something teens can really relate to. Like this!
MAGIC MOMENTS AT MAGIC MOUNTAIN
Yeah, I do.
Last week I had the privilege and pleasure to get to know the top fourteen so you think you can dancers, their host, Kat Deeley, and their Producer/Judge, Nigel Lithgow. True, Mary Murphy wasn’t there, but few things in life are perfect. Many things come close though.
We had supper together, the dancers and I. We laughed, and despite the fact that they were at a separate table from me, I can’t help but think we were laughing at the same jokes.
I shook Sabra’s hand (she won the show) and we talked. Mainly about Proust, but since I hadn’t gotten very far beyond Swan’s Way, the conversation was brief. I spoke with Nigel too, and, yes, his teeth are just as perfect as on TV, more so even in life. He had an iphone. I have an iphone. We had LOADS in common.
Kat Deely is wary of sausages in salad, but she and I both agreed we would try it.
Spotlight On a Reader II
There is a girl named Miranda who lives in Chicago and reads this web site all the time—yet she never comments. Can you believe that? I know I can’t.
She’s a Vassar girl, and she very recently sent me a trinket. Just a funny old locket she must have found in an old junk shop. She likes junk shops, she likes going to them. I see her pretty much every time I visit Chicago. We go out dancing or horseback riding. I love to watch her read stories to crickets, and she always makes me laugh when she makes fun of dead cripples lying partially naked in the streets.
Miranda is very attractive and as of this writing she is single-- male Chicago readers, take note! She likes guys, Persian guys mostly, and despite being a single teen mother, Miranda parties until very late, gets almost no sleep, and then shows up at homeroom anyway. Amazing! Her dad is a recovering drug addict, and he always promises to stop hitting her, but I usually manage to find a new bruise somewhere on her body or a small laceration near her pussy . There are one or two bars at which Miranda can be found nearly every single night, trying to make a brother or sister for her lonely newborn, and one or two after hours clubs where she doles out handjobs for banana-nut bread and the occasional blow-job in exchange for a kind word from a stranger.
Long had Miranda regaled me with lore about her acumen in the kitchen, and during my most recent visit I had the opportunity to discover for myself. Like the gracious host she is, Miranda made me dinner: a delightful poached salmon paired with a dry sherry and some corn nuts. It was excellent. Miranda once hosted a dinner party where she suddenly realized that not a single guest was of colour-- it's very important to her to have bi, bi-racial or multi racial friends. So, she sent everyone home. You have to admire that. She once was engaged to an elderly Hopi man, but he stole all of her of panties and sold them to a Puerto Rican pedophile on ebay.
Anyway, Miranda works a job in a strawberry field where she works until very late at night, and gets paid thirty percent under minimum wage. The owner of the field loves to sample his girls’ goods, and Miranda tells me that she is his favourite. She likes it when his calloused hands rub up against her clitoris. That’s another reason she’s so attracted to guys, older men especially. They buy her nice perfumes and old clothes from consignment stores. They tell her how pretty she is, and how much prettier she could be if she would just lose forty pounds. These men make her feel special and wanted, even more so when they cum into her asshole while covering her head with a plastic freezer bag. It’s at these old men’s houses that she is free to look at the computer as much as she likes and much to my delight she is a loyal Weak Nights reader. Yet for all this, she never writes to say, “That column changed my life, does NYE want to fly up to Chicago and finger bang my pussy for a couple of nights?!” or “That article was pointless. SANDOVAL clearly knows nothing about global economics, Adam Smith and the unseen hand, or Street Fighter II Turbo Hyper Fighting.”
Nope, she remains silent. So perhaps this provocation will lull her out of her silence and she’ll begin commenting. She might be the new Ms. Ray!
HOT TAMALE TRAIN
Week in, week out, America tunes in. Tunes in to watch the only show with both hip-hop flava and Rococo delicateness rolled up into one creamy rotollo: So You Think You Can Dance (I actually do, thank you). “Why,” you ask (and if you are indeed asking, then you may want to get your genes mapped and pay close attention to chromosome 21, red flag if you’ve got three!)? Simple: Mary Murphy. She’s got style, grace, and a silken voice that could soothe babies and tame demons. Please watch this sample of her delights, and be prepared: you will never be the same again.
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