By J.D. Oxblood

Success! We totally hit it! Over 2500 people hit the blog in one day last week, all because I decided to talk trash about somebody famous. When my editor said, “We got linked by Gawker,” I put my hand to my mouth like a Japanese schoolgirl. “Is that, like, the internet’s way of getting fined by the FCC?” I thought, finally, I’m busted. It was almost a relief. But it turns out, unbeknownst to me, that Gawker is some, like, really famous website? Where, like, EVERYone who’s ANYone goes to get their dirt on the celebs? And, like, you SO totally have to check it out, like, every day? And there was little ol’ JD getting linked by the big boys, and all the ga-ga girls and pretty boys hyper-linked over to cultural capitol where JD told them to… get a life. Ah, the circle of cynicism is complete.

So I’m sorry to leave my devotees hanging all this time without a missive, but my editor and I have been on a bender since our big day last week. It began — like all good stories — in a modest bar in Brooklyn, but ended badly in Atlantic City with two transvestite crack whores, a jar of peanut butter, and a nickel. Don’t ask about the nickel. That was truly the weirdest thing I’ve ever done without being paid for it and I certainly won’t talk about it here. Needless to say, I packed up my shame and came back to the city where I quickly realized — what the fuck was I celebrating anyway? Success? So some people read us, big deal? I DIDN’T GET PAID.

What is “success,” anyway? I’ve been asking around and getting a lot of horse manure. When you ask somebody what success is, they scratch their chins, look up and slightly to the left, and deliver something seemingly pithy while protruding the lower lip. It’s a side effect of pontificating, apparently. Turns out that success is the opposite of happiness, since happiness is wanting what you have and success is getting what you want. Success is also living well (which is also the best revenge — gag me), loving and being loved, having good friends and a caring family, and good health. All of which was big news to me, because I had always believed — as television has taught me — that success is cocaine and 16 year-old prostitutes and Benjamins and muthafuckin’ Bentleys. Hells yeah. For the rest of you: you can’t want something you already have, living well is its own reward, your friends will step over you for a cameo on 90210, your family is dysfunctional, and your good health, ultimately, won’t last. If you need me, I’ll be in my Bentley doing a line of blow off a 16 year-old’s ass through a hundred dollar bill. Snap.

But seriously, folks, I’ve been absent as I’ve been sucked into cyberspace by the uber-villain known as Facebook. Is there anything weirder than being “friended” by an old lover with whom you haven’t spoken in over ten years? Yes, indeed there is. Here’s what I wanted to write back to a guy who friended me last week:

“Hey Biff! Just want to make sure I’m thinking of the right guy… Bendover University, we were in that project together sophomore year. We were never really close friends but always got along. Also, you fucked my girlfriend summer after freshman year when I was out of town. Right? Believe me, I’m not mad about it… we all know I cheated on Muffy plenty… she banged guys to get back at me… we were a regular 3-ring circus. But I’m just wondering, what’s up? Why the offer to become “Facebook friends?” It’s obvious that we haven’t had anything to say to one another for 15 fucking years, so I’m actually curious — what would you say to me now? Or what would you like me to know about your life? Or what would you like to know about my life? I’m totally new to Facebook– I only joined to keep in closer contact with all my friends from Europe, Central America, Asia, the Middle East — you know, people I don’t really call.

So the whole getting-tracked-down-by-old-classmates thing is still a little weird to me. I mean, are you having a midlife crisis or something? No friends? Because if you need anything, just ask, man — I’ve totally turned into that kind of guy. But, if you’re just “friending” every name you can think of so that you can have a high “friend count” and look really popular, I can’t help you with that. As you may recall, when I was 19 I had no appreciation for the false virtue of popularity. That hasn’t really changed.”

(I fear that this is only the beginning of my Facebook ranting. There’s just something so insidious about this “social utility.” I encourage commentary; weirdest Facebook story wins a gin & tonic on me. If you live in another area code I’ll pour a gin & tonic on me and send you pictures.)

In other news, I was out Saturday night because a friend was DJing at a party for — wait for it — Gotham Girls Roller Derby. He said, “Stop by, have a drink,” and I said, “You had me at ‘beefy tattooed chicks on roller skates.’” Turns out there was no derby except the reruns on the screen, as it was actually a fund raiser, but I had a few cocktails and mingled and I am here to say that… the… Gotham… Girls… are… totally… HOT. Sweet girls with big asses and bigger attitudes who can totally beat the crap out of me. I’m in love. My editor and I have been brainstorming about what other subbacultures I can stick my nose into—don’t worry, I’m still on the burlesque beat and there will be lots o’ commentary to come with the burlesqe fest in September—and I think Roller Derby is for me. And I think it’s for you, too: check these girls out.

For your consideration, dig this pic my boy took of Miss American Thighs:

Need I say more? Dig them boots! I’ll be checking out the bout on Saturday and I encourage you to come. If you’re too lazy I’ll tell you about it next week.

Kiss kiss,