YARRRRR!!!!

Not only is today Talk like a pirate day, it is the start of Season 9 of America’s Next Top

Delusional Skank

Model! I could not be happier. I am wearing a horizontally striped shirt, a denim skirt and boots. I have on a funky vest and a lovely rhinestone skull and crossbones pin. I have told my boss that in deference to the media crisis going on in the field, which will result in any number of calls coming in to this office today, I will NOT be answering the phones “YARRR!”

Aye, he has no idea how lucky he is. I, on the other hand, have a ‘ery clear idea o’ how lucky I am, because before I left for work, the RLA composed a two-hour Pyrates playlist and uploaded it ont’ the ole i-pod, ya savvy? Aye, me parrot concurs.

Tonight will be t’ traditional popcorn and cosmopolitans, fuzzy bathrobe and bunny slippers, run t’ husband out o’ t’ livin’ room and settle in t’ watch t’ best train wreck on television. I love, love, love Tyra Banks and her haphazard crew o’ wannabes who can’t walk in heels. Sigh.

It is no shock to constant readers of this blog that I am a gear head. A gear head from the first. And an aberration in my family, where nobody knows anything about cars. Well, there is a legendary uncle on my father’s side who used to come to Florida for the horses, arriving in some flash convertible with golf clubs in the back and leaving by hopping the train… but I digress.

Anyway. Cars. Love them. Love to drive them. Love to look at them. Loved this article about them.

The 50 Worst Cars of All Time

I actually had some sewing room time this weekend, and some lolling about in the pool with the dogs. I started another tallis, and it should be ready for the holiday later this week. Tomorrow night I have to bake a honey cake. The RLA asked if I would be so kind as to make the traditional, dense, brick-like version this year, and I will happily oblige.

Later dollinks.

Well, more like pulling hen’s teeth. I have taken several days off of code writing since getting this back on line. Now I have to tweak and tease and make it pretty. Add some non-breaking spaces here and there. Get more links to work, because I don’t know about you, but I’m already tired of looking at my Dread 404 error page.

This weekend I have to go to Stuart, retrieve the Number 2 Surrogate Daughter from her summer of indentured servitude and bring her back to Miami. As a reward for packing up my parents’ home, and in addition to her pay, I’m taking her to my favorite tattoo parlor for some ink work. She’s getting a molecule, and I’m thinking about a wrist piece featuring this flower.

Star knows this and in fact is coming along for the ride. Whether I can talk her into some ink is unlikely. Unlikely like me voting Republican kind of unlikely, which is to say when ice skating is Hell’s favorite sport.

You have got to be fucking kidding. That’s it? That’s the way The Sopranos ends? Not with a bang (or a Badda Bing) and not with a whimper but with a fucking Journey song? Not even a Springsteen song, or a South Side Johnny number? A fucking Journey song?

Granted, Phil Leotardo had one of the “best” deaths I’ve ever seen on film/video, and fully deserved every second of it. Granted, the tension was excrutiating. Granted, Sil didn’t die, but our last shot of him wasn’t too hopeful.

But that ending? I’ve seen science fiction b-movies with better endings. I mean, why didn’t the credits just roll “The End?”

Pathetic. I feel dirty. Used. Fuck you David Chase. That sucked. And to add insult to injury, my last shot had to be of that useless twat Meadow?

Feh.

 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Not Silvio Dante! Damn that David Chase. He could kill off Christafuh, no problem. Bobby Baccala? Who cares? Uncle Junior, AJ, Meadow, even Paulie Walnuts or Carm, and I would be upset, but mostly OK. Wll, upset if it were Paulie or Carm, frankly, AJ and Meadow are total dead weight. And I was happy to see Tony finally shove his shoe up AJ’s self-indulgent, whiney ass. But Sylivo? Little Steven? My pretend boyfriend? (Not to be confused with my imaginary long-time lover, The Bob, or my special boytoy, The Boss.) Silvio, ambushed in the parking lot of the Bing, hospitalized and never expected to regain consciousness? Noooooooooooooooo. This sucks. I wanted Sylvio to walk away.

I should know better of course, this has always been a morality play, and you can’t shoot a bitch in the forest, or strangle a co-worker for disloyalty and not expect to meet your just rewards. Which means last night’s Sopranos was mild compared to next week’s expected blood bath.

Still and all, I’ll miss Silvio and his hair.

And what kind of professional ethics does Peter Bogdonovich have? (not Peter, of course, his character) Telling an entire table full of shrinks that Melfi is treating Tony Soprano, a fact he only knows because he treats Melfi. So much for patient confidentiality. And then she reads that stupid article and dumps Tony, in a particularly snippy and bitchy way. Tony respects her though, and doesn’t kill her on the spot, which he would have done a few years ago, so so much for therapy isn’t working for him.

 

I have a dirty little secret that I feel compelled to share with you all.

I have a soft spot for romantic comedies (films). I have an especially soft spot for Hugh Grant. I love Hugh Grant. I also adore Drew Barrymore, and will watch any romantic comedy she makes. The RLA and I just watched “Words and Music” and we both loved it.

Does that make us shallow?

 

I see that Kurt Vonnegut has died. And I’m sorry, I really am, because in my youth, I adored his work. Unfortunately, it was the work from his youth, and as we both aged, I lost any appreciation I had for him. His later works pretty much failed.

The Chronosynclastic Infindibulum

But his early works, in which he coined such phrases as that above (the time/space continuum from Sirens of Titan and in which he was still full of piss and vinegar, and had yet to succumb to morbidity and chronic depression, those were brilliant.

Everything was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt

I hope his widow, the photographer Jill Krementz (whom I met once in college, when she reviewed my portfolio…which she threw to the floor once she figured out what, exactly, was in the hotdog bun in that sort of blurry black and white photo) has the good humor and questionable taste (well, she and Kurt were married for a long, long time, but she did throw the hotdog picture) to put that on his tombstone. Assuming he has a tombstone. If not, then on his container of ashes.

From the wire story obituary comes this:

“We probably could have saved ourselves, but we were too damned lazy to try very hard… and too damn cheap,” he once suggested carving into a wall on the Grand Canyon, as a message for flying-saucer creatures.

And, like so much of his social criticism, he was absolutely dead on.

Maybe I will miss him more than I think. To quote from another dead and favored author,

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

BTW: Poor Impulse Control also notes his passing here.

As does the always excellent Rude Pundit.

 

Years ago I read a fairly lame and unmemorable first novel with the promising title of film had a total A-list cast, though it was made in 1997, when none of the actors were known. Jack Black, Luke Wilson, Andy Dick, Jeremy Sisto, Jamie Kennedy, Alicia Witt, Brittany Murphy. So I clicked and added it to the old queue, and last night the RLA and I watched it.

Except for the title, it bore such faint resemblance to the book, that I had to look it up on imdb to confirm that it was, in fact, allegedly based on the novel. Then I went to Amazon and read up on the novel, just to be sure it was the SAME novel.

I may be the only person to have read Bongwater, so let me assure you that the only thing the two have in common is a funny title and content that falls flat. The action takes place in the same cities, but most of the characters have been renamed and recreated to the point that they bear little or no resemblance to those in the book. And while, since the book was so vapid and unremarkable, this could have been a plus yet, it was not.

The only reason I bring this up today is a scene about three quarters of the way through the film, when Alicia Witt comes back to Portland to see Luke Wilson, and his friend, Andy Dick tries to keep her away. Andy is playing a gay man, and he hurls this insult at her: “blahblahblah, something, something, FIRECROTCH!”

Huh. Not only was Brandon Davis an ass, he was a plagarizing ass. To use a lame quote from a lamer movie, delivered by the lamest of the actors within, and never give credit that the epithet that made him a tmz/YouTube star was originally spoken by Andy Dick in a third-rate flick about stoners. I mean, if Andy Dick didn’t even want to grab his five minutes of continued “fame”, you know it has to be bad.

How low can you go? I’m a little surprised that nobody has come forward with this revelation prior to now. I think I’ll go over to tmz and drop this dime.

The best parts of the movie, if you want to waste 90 minutes with it, are Jack Black (but of course) as the pot farmer in the forest, and the audio track over the closing credits. The track is the phone message tape from the Luke Wilson pot-dealer character, and it is a non-stop series of coded messages like “I think I left my green shoes at your house? or “Has the printer gotten back to you yet? Is the ink on the brochures dry? Can I come pick them up?”

And that’s how bad the movie is, in a nut shell. The closing credits are the funniest parts.

 

Are you ready to rumble? I am. Tonight is the big opening night at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show Extravaganza in Madison Square Garden. I may have mentioned a time or two that I love the doggies. And the show. And the dead seriousness of the whole show.

But wait, there’s more. Later this month (on the 23st) RJ and I (and our husbands) trot over to SoBe for the Great South Beach Wine & Food Festival.* The weekend ends with us returning home, hung over, exhausted and sated to ensconce ourselves our couches for the best of all possible awards shows, the Oscars. Then, on the 28th, we have the return (season 8) of America’s Next Top Skank-Ho Model . I’m tired just dreaming about it.

* Yes, I have the pickled green tomatoes all ready to present to the great and wonderful Tony Bourdain. Sigh. I’m so not worthy.

But the pickles? They are. Totally. He’ll be my foodie slave forever, IF I can get him to actually eat one. I don’t, you know. But for people who like this sort of thing? They love love love my green tomato pickles.

 

It's my birthday! Yeah! Presents! Adoration! Tiaras! Whoo-hoo!

I'm officially older than dirt, and have lived more than half of my expected life. I can still drink young punks under the table, and shake my bootie till the wee small hours. I can't actually get up the next morning, but by the middle of the afternoon, I'm fine. It's the small victories, people.
The RLA was the first with the presents this morning. He gave me a beautiful Spanish fan... for the hot flashes. On the one hand, I think this is lovely, and dear and sweet. On the other hand, I'm ready to shove the thing up his ass for reminding me about them. He insisted that I bring it to the office, to have it always at the ready.

I was too polite to remind him that my office keeps its thermostat at the requisite Florida setting of Meat Locker, and that I keep a heater under my desk to keep from getting frostbitten toes. I don't think he reads my blog often enough to read this, either.

My second present was from RJ, who sent me a birthday e-card that had a downloadable tiara. I'm wearing it. I have absolutely no shame. Or pride. One or the other. In an hour we'll have our company holiday lunch, which means... more presents!! And food!! And wine!!

Life is good. Or at least a hell of a lot better than the alternative.



Please note the fabulous red Swingline stapler in the background among all the crap on my desk and surrounding areas.

I was saddened by the notice of Peter Boyle's death. While I have managed to see absolutely no episodes, ever, of Everybody Loves Raymond, and I loathed his character in Joe (but, well, we were supposed to), I have always adored his turn as Frankenstein's monster in Young Frankenstein.
Young Frankenstein is arguably one of the best Mel Brooks movies, ever, anyway, what with its all-star cast, and spot-on satire of the genre, but Peter Boyle stole the show when he and Gene Wilder did their song and dance number.

Last March, The Coolest Person in The World (tm) was in Boca, and we met up at a beach-side bar. We promptly put down a plate of oysters, requiring the drinking of a shot (or two) of vodka to prevent any untoward side effects of said oysters. Then, because a single shot of vodka can get lonely, we had to have several more. I think there may even have been a bottle of champagne as an apperitif prior to heading out for dinner.

Dinner required more alcohol, because we eat our steaks rare, and, you know, e-coli and stuff. In any event, I was fairly well oiled by the time someone at our table pointed out that Peter Boyle was sitting two tables away. I behaved myself, and did not accost him until he passed us on his way out.

Then I stood up (not at all unsteadily, I may say) and very politely told him "Mr. Boyle, excuse me, but I just had to tell you that the scene in Young Frankenstein where you do "Puttin' on the Ritz" is sheer brilliance. It has always been one of my favorite pieces of your work. Thank you."

He just gave me a big-ass grin and told me that his wife always said that was "real" acting. I got the feeling that he was just a tiny bit happy that it was Young Frankenstein and not Raymond that I wanted to talk about.

After he left, and The Coolest Person In the World (tm) thanked me for not falling over or otherwise embarrassing her, we watched him leave and thought, damn... he does not look healthy. I'm really a little surprised he lasted as long as he did.

Aww, man. I hate when I see these headlines. Robert Altman, one of my favorite directors of modern cinema, has died. He was a fucking genius, people. If you don't believe me, watch one of his movies. Any one of his movies, those which the critics loved (Nashville, M*A*S*H, The Player) or those which the critics did not (When You Comin' Back to the 5 & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean; Popeye or Pret a Porter).

Tonight at the Casita de Zapatos, we will be having an Altman retrospective, including M*A*S*H, The Player (at least the 5-minute opening pan...what a shot) and Prairie Home Companion.

To continue this emphemeral pop-culture entry, what the fuck happened to Michael Richards? I never found him particularly funny, except intermitantly as Kramer, but still, I never suspected him of racism, either.

I'm not buying his explanation for one minute. I mean, there have been times when I've had blood in my eye, and a burning rage exploding in my brain, and it never once led me to use the "N" word, or to make approving remarks about lynchings. No, I think and hope that the industry analysis of this being a career-ending move are correct.

Many years ago, when the RLA and I lived in Clovis, New Mexico (Don't ask. Scorched earth epicenter of racism, hatred and all that is wrong with America) I was actually dragged down to the dean's office at the little community college where we were teaching, because I shoved a middle-aged student assistant up against a wall, and explained to her very firmly and with very naughty language why the use of the "N" word was not acceptable in my class room. I was told that what she did was protected by free speech, what I did was considered assault. I told the dean that I considered what she did racism, and what I did education. We agreed to disagree. I didn't teach there again.

And then we have O.J. and his now-cancelled book and tv special. Despite the publisher claiming that old chestnut free speech, and that as a victim herself of domestic violence she considered this his confession, and wait. I have to stop myself right there.

Yes, he had the right to write his book. That is free speech. I have the right not to buy it, or not to watch his television interview. That is free will. But somewhere between the two is the right of the publisher not to buy the manuscript and the right of the television network to turn down the proposal. Like so many other things in this life, just because you can doesn't mean that you should.

And it isn't a confession, at all, is it? It was explicitly NOT a confession. It was a nyah, nyah, nyah. It was a big old fuck you at the American system of jurisprudence and OJ's protection under double indemnity. What happens next, anybody can guess: some lunatic vigillante will probably gun OJ down on the streets of Miami. And unfortunately, Florida, unlike New Mexico, does not accept the defense of "he needed killin'".

Have I missed any of the week's highlights? Oh, yeah. TomKat. He's gay. She's brainwashed. The baby was by way of a turkey baster and/or test tube. Who are they kidding... And the quote by Georgio Armani, that the wedding was sealed by an "everlasting kiss"? Even that was a manufactured thing. A quote from one of The Boss's oldest, bestest songs: Born to Run.

Avast, ye seadogs, we be havin' too much fun today.

Yarr.

She piles all of her clothes on the bed, and jumps off.

That pile is all of the clothing owned by me or the RLA. The random carnage surrounding the pile is everything else that ever lived in our one closet.

I had a shit fit this weekend which nicely coincided with the big Elfa sale at the Container Store, and the results will be posted as soon as tomorrow, if the installation goes as well as I anticipate.

I also got to play with my Dremel this weekend, and I went around the house like a mad woman, cutting the heads off of all the protruding nails in the terrazzo. The former owners of our little Casita des Zapatos put nasty beige carpeting over all of the terrazzo floors. While I was able to rip up the carpets, even before we moved in (first thing I did when I got the keys and the RLA left me alone in the house for a couple of hours), I've never been able to remove the nails without tearing up huge gouts of terrazzo. Since it's hard enough to find someone to polish and seal the stuff, much less someone who can do repairs, I left the nails in (they're only around the edges of the rooms). But yesterday, armed with my Dremel and a stack of extra reinforced cutting disks, I got rid of the nail heads and left smooth little steel dots that are virtually invisible.

I am woman, armed with power tools. Rahr.

Or, an Apologia for Vincent

Let me begin by saying that I like Vincent*, I understand his point of reference in most of the work he's done. I don't necessarily like everything that he's made, but I do recognize his departure point. What I don't understand is the intense loathing for him in the forums and fan groups of Project Runway.

Granted, this past week has seen that loathing come to a frenzied point, since he got to stay on when everyone's favorite little blonde unicorns and fairies girl Alison was auf'ed. But I think people would have been peeved even if it was BlahblahblahBobby who left the runway for good.
The universal dislike and disdain started the very first week, when he sent a perfectly respectable little frock out accessorized with a wicker fruit basket doing duty as a hat. It was totally awful, and made worse by the accompanying oversized sun glasses and the addition of dangling chains.



And yet...I saw echoes of the maestro Rudi Gernreich and the 2001 Space Odyssey fly girls.



In Episode 2, it was his green evening gown with the Jetsons-esque cap sleeves that had the internets twitching with distaste, but Miss USA liked the dress itself, and so did Miss Vera Wang. Except for the very couture element of the unwearable sleeve cap, the dress itself was simple, elegant and very, very wearable. Maybe if he'd let Angela stick her "signature fleurchons" on the straps instead, they would have won?



Episode 3, Doing it Doggie Style, saw Vincent doing another awful hat and a simple frock. He was derided for using knee-length leggings, but take a look at any fashion rag on the stands today, and you'll see that leggings are back. With a vengence. Also? The dog ensemble was a hoot.

OK. Here's where we need to address the real issue about Vincent. The guy is a total whack job. OK? The giggles and shits over the dog's little hat and coat were over the top, even for me, but Vincent amuses himself, and really not an anyone else's expense (AHEM, JEFFREY).

Vincent is a whack job, but not a nut case. Vincent, in his early interviews and bios acknowledged that New York and the fashion industry almost killed him. After watching six weeks of him, I can honestly tell you that it wasn't the pressure and New York that did for him, it was the 80s. It was sex and drugs and rock and roll. It was cocaine and quaaludes and way too much tequilla.

If David Crosby has said about the 60s that if you remembered them, then you weren't there, I say if you don't have some serious scars from the 80s, then you weren't THERE. I was, and let me tell you, I can recognize a fellow-traveller when I see one. You don't get Vincent's kind of crazy from smoking a little too much pot, or having a genetic propensity for mental instability. You can get Vincent's kind of crazy from too much LSD, but then, you generally spend the rest of your life puttering around in your sanitarium's garden, and producing no work whatsoever. **

Vincent's kind of crazy takes a lot of work, most of it in the form of little white lines, little white pills, way too little sleep and a lot, a fucking lot, of hard living. Been there, done that, never was indicted.

The last thing that I want to say that I like about Vincent is that he believes in his own vision. He may be batshit crazy and dead wrong, but he stands in the spotlight on the runway, looks Diane Von Furstenberg in the eye (thereby defying her attempt to turn him into stone with a single stare) and says, you don't have to like it, you don't have to see where I'm coming from, but I do. I know what I wanted to make, and I made it. Period. Love me. Hate me. Recognize.***

* Yeah, and I also just adore(d) Daniel Franco. Proceed with the proverbial salt grain.

** Example: Syd Barrett

*** He's a sistah soljah, from the belly of the beast, recognize! But even Vincent isn't as delusional and batshit crazy as Jade from last season's ANTM. See also the entry below, where I put a side by side of his "work of art" and a Miro.