Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Rockin' Republic

There’s a lyric from a Faith No More song, “Falling to Pieces,” that perfectly describes how I feel about certain of life’s most pertinent issues. The current crop of spring shoe fashions. Running. Crunchy Cheetos versus Puffy. And, of course, politics. It goes like this: “I’m somewhere in between my love and my agony.”

First, there is the absolute, passionate love I have for the good ol’ U.S. of A., which, to steal from Craig Ferguson, is the single greatest idea anyone’s ever had for a country, ever, in the history of the universe. Amen.

Then there’s my agony. Being, of course, the fact that 99.987 percent of the assholes running the gub’ment and the idiots who put them in office have forgotten this important fact.

So as much as I’d like to la, la, la, la, la myself into believing that we’re all big enough boys and girls to live under what I consider to be the El Perfecto, Ne Plus Ultra of poleetical systems (anarcho-capitalism), I realize that, unfortunately, we are not. Big enough. Responsible enough. Non-ADD enough.

Ergo, gub’ment. A necessary evil.

At the very least, then, I can participate by positing what it would look like if Moi were in charge.

Here ya go:

Moi's Running Mate: the Ivanator. He’s got enough pit bull in him to stand firm on the issues, enough Shar-pei to use his facial wrinkles to disguise the fact that he’s snoozing away in session when things get downright yawn-inducing.

Moi's Weapons of Mass Distraction: Ms R, EmmaK, Cake, Luka, Kiki. Not only do these gals have better abs, boobs, and behinds than our enemies, they’re smarter, too. I realize Ms R will have to take time off from her own dictatorship (and will hopefully give me time off from my duties as Minister of Fashion), but it shouldn’t require much effort on anyone’s part. North Korea starts acting all grumpy, I suspect all it will take to shut ‘em up is a little T&A and some kitchen wizardry. In return, all Moi’s Weapons get a lifetime’s supply of Louboutins and revolving credit at Agent Provacateur.

Moi’s Muscle: Da Pirate. She tough. She eats mileage like some people eat bon-bons. And she looks good while doing it, which is über importante in Moi’s administration. Not only will she serve as tough and stylish personal protection por Moi, she’ll whip the rest of this flabby-assed country into shape, too. You know how Mao had all the Chinese under this thumb wake up with mandatory Tai Chi? Well, here’s a hint: buy running shoes. And quit yer cryin’. In exchange, Moi’s gub’ment will pay for a lifetime of triathlon entry fees for her, her family, and sixty five of her closest friends.

Moi's Karl Rove/Official State Photographer/Musical Arranger: I Am Not. He is in charge of always, always, always making sure each and every one of us gals looks gorgemous in all photos and of ensuring that proper background music accompanies us wherever we go. Disco is good. So is Iggy Pop. And he can have all the female interns he needs to assist him with his tasks. In exchange, he gets, well, access to female interns.

Moi's Second Photographer in Charge: Meghan. The only reason you're not first is that you work hard enough as it is, and dang, girlfriend, with two rock stars to raise, I figure you don't need the stress. So just feel free to wander the White House grounds at your leisure and take photos of whatever you want and nap in between. Husband and children in tow, of course. 'cept hubby will have to leave the Crocs at home.

Moi's Ambassadorships: I don’t really want a cabinet, per se. I mean, yawn, that’s, like, waaaaay too much trouble. So I’m just gonna send a bunch of people out into the universe and let ‘em do their thing, as follows:

Da Troll: Ambassador to both Denmark (so he can score good beer for us, hot chicks for himself) and Russia (so he can make for damn sure the commies never rear their poorly dressed heads ever again). Troll is also Minister of All Things Food and Wine-y, which means he most likely gets to confer with the Weapons on occasion.

She: Ambassador to Iceland. Where she will spend her days learning the fine art of Viking toughness, eating smoked fish, drinking bathtub vodka, and creating unique performance art pieces with Björk. Plus, Trout will get to run around free as a big brown dog should because Iceland’s an island and what’s Trout gonna do, swim back to Georgia?

Anonymous Boxer: Ambassador to Switzerland. You know, I’ve never quite trusted Switzerland and if there’s anyone who can keep tabs on this tricky lil’ country, it’s AB. All lovely and luminous and even-tempered on the one hand, possessed of a dangerous-ass left hook on the other. Plus, she's got all them Chihuahuas. Sting like a bee, girlfriend. And bring back chocolate and blingy timepieces.

Aunty: Ambassador to the U.N. That’ll learn those pansy asses. All I’m saying is, they have NO idea just how effective a weapon a Bottega Veneta bag, backed up with a Blahnik stiletto heel and a Southern will, can be against Pakistani stupidity.

Wicked Thistle and Doris Rose: Ambassadors to Belize. I was gonna have them be Moi’s administration’s official scribes, but I know, just know, they’ll put off the assignment to the very last minute and then they’ll panic and nothing at all will get written. Besides, they’re most excellent at conveying a certain kind of Gallic-shrugged, cigarette-butt-flipped nonchalance that this administration needs in times of crisis. In other words: “Oh, Belgium is threatening to leave the E.U. and so no chocolates for Christmas ? Meh . . . let ‘em eat Hershey’s.”

NYD: Ambassador to Japan. Because he already lives there and can therefore provide Moi’s administration with the bestest sushi evah.

Czar: Ambassador to South of France: (Note I write South. The ONLY part of France Moi tolerates.) Because it just seems to me you spend most of your life copy editing what he's copy-edited (I mean, airline schedules, that's hardcore), you deserve to spend the rest of your life on a beach eating fois gras.

Oops, almost forgot the most important post of all. I need someone in charge of all things girly-girl (day spas, beauty salons, luncheon spots, shopping sprees) so that when we're done with all this guverning, we can relax and pig out on champagne and sushi and candy. While getting our nails done. I think Ms Thursday Next, no stranger to self-pampering, would most likely be Our Gal Friday for that.

So that should do it. If I left anyone out, let me know what you want to do and I’m sure I can wiggle you in somewhere. The rest of you all, you can just relax and enjoy the fruits of our labors.

Oh, and one last thing. You may have asked yourself: “What about your beloved S.B.? What’s he gonna do?”

You kidding me?

Man’s been waiting fifty gazillion years for me to finally snag the presidency so he can retire and spend the rest of his days hitting golf balls on the White House lawn in preparation for his eventual status as PGA star. Troll, I’m going to rely on your to send your cousin on over to assist in the task. In fact, I’m going to rely on the only three dudes in Moi’s administration to make sure S.B. is entertained at all times. Otherwise, he’ll start in with the home improvement projects and I'll get grumpy. If you have to use beer and female interns to get the job done, well, la, la, la, la, la, just make sure I don’t hear about it.

Friday, April 25, 2008

California Dreamin'

We interrupt this regularly scheduled blog to wish S.B.'s colleague and all-around nice guy and awesome sushi-making partner, Señor Daniel-San, all the best in running the Big Sur Marathon this weekend. Lucky fucker.

Daniel-San has only been running since the fall and already he has fifty bazillion races under his belt. He's one a' them natural runners.

Go Dan! Run swiftly, run well, and don't trip over your shoelaces!

Tuesday, April 22, 2008


Although I truly, truly believe that there isn't a government in existence anywhere in this entire universe that can actually do anyone any ding dang good in any way and for any reason whatsoever, and that I can count on three fingers, one-two-three, the only justifiable functions of government in our lives at all, I am nonetheless, in between actual bouts of work, day dreaming about what, exactly, I'd do if I were in fact elected president of these here United States.

Outlaw run on sentences for one.

I know. Sorry.

But other than that, what would I do? Who would be my running mate(s)? Who would sit in my cabinet and advise me on when to go to war and when to say home and lunch it out? Who would furtively fill me in at the last minute on the rebel goings-on in Yetanotherbananarepublicstan or the state of trade affairs with some rising Pacific Rim nation because I'm way too ding dang tired from having partied hearty with Denmark's entire diplomatic corps the night before?

I am giving it serious thought.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Saturday, April 19, 2008

A Pit Bull In Every Pot

Señor I Am Not has nominated Moi for president.

Sure. Why not?

I mean, who am I to refuse this important, historical nod?

After all, it will most likely mean:

1. I'll finally be able to purchase an entirely new spring wardrobe. I can't possibly stump in last year's outfits and, besides, I can write it all off. Just send all the receipts to my poor, long suffering accountant and have her file under: Really, Really, Important Presidential Nomination-Type Stuff.

2. Change. Really real change, Party People. I'm talking the stuff you put in your pocket.

3. Other really real important stuff I can't quite put my finger on at this exact moment. But I'll think of something. After I pick my running mates. And we all go shopping. And then stop for sushi.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Canis Lupus Fidelis

This post is inspired by a recent photo taken by She as part of her Mute Monday theme, All About Me. In that post, she includes a marvelous photo of her dog, Trout, that elicited in Moi a host of responses – not only an appreciation for the evocative power of art and its own particular "language," but also an appreciation for all that canines have come to mean to us humans.

If I haven't already made it clear here, I'm a dog nut. I spend part of my life working with them, studying their behavior, and talking to other dog nuts about that behavior. As a result of this experience, I have come to form certain conclusions that have led me to shy away from anthropomorphizing our canine friends except when it serves as a kind of short hand to get a point across. As in, yeah, lady, your pit bull is eating your sofa because he's basically at the level of an 18 year old frat boy. Give him something to DO. But, by and large, I agree with the great dog trainer/behaviorist Jean Donaldson (read her, not Cesar Milan) who believes that today's Disney-ification of canines does them no damn good.

But that doesn't mean I don't recognize that something special does exist between humans and canines, something that transcends the working relationships we have with other domesticated animals. A kind of fidelity that is difficult to explain, but which has existed between man and dog throughout history. For instance, the ancient Greeks write of the value of domesticated dogs as aides in physical and mental therapy. And the Chippewa Indians are one of several native tribes who include them in their Creation Myth - when given a chance to remain in paradise or stay on earth with man, the dog chose to stay with us. As Max Depree says: "We are alone, absolutely alone, on this chance planet; and amid all the forms of life that surround us, not one, excepting the dog, has made an alliance with us."

I'd like to hear about your relationship with your dog(s). Not about how much you love them or how cute they are but a brief illustration of your own experience of this alliance.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Friday, April 11, 2008

It's the 21st Century. So Where's My Ding Dang Clone?

SB says to me today, "When you gonna post something else? I'm tired of looking at that snow scene." 

Me, too. But, I'm also tired.

I had meant to post my muffin experience on Da Baking Blob long before now, but I'll have to get to that next week, after Mute Monday's All About Moi topic. And some sleep this weekend. And maybe some belly button contemplation and catch up on "The Tudors."

In the meantime, y'all occupy yourselves with this: 

Daniel Craig: – Hot or Not.
Discuss . . .

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

The Writing on the Wall

Two years ago we had a February/March snow season like few I've seen around here. One storm after the other blew in, dropping twelve, fourteen, eighteen inches of snow at a time. Of course, working at home means I can usually get on the driveway pretty quickly, shoveling it clear in between bouts of work to ensure that I'll be able to escape to the wilds of civilization for Starbucks and sushi sometime before the Second Coming. (What about SB, you ask? Well, Party People, SB is rarely home during these monumental events, spring being the best time for him to go to work moving power across 'merica's midsection. And I have the upper body muscles to prove it.)


Not only does snow pile up on our driveway, it also piles up on our satellite dish. Those of you who work at home know how muy importante it is to have working television at all times. So, on with the snowsuit, the snow boots, and the long broom to make the dangerous trek out back to knock the snow off the dish. Halfway there, I heard it: a rumble like distant thunder and then a swooshy sound like sand being pushed by a wave breaking on shore. The sound was coming from above me and I looked up just in time to witness a huge chunk of eighteen inch high snow come rushing down off the roof to land on top of my head. The force knocked me to my knees, the snow covered me completely. But within seconds I put those shoveling muscles to use and was able to burst forth into the sunshine. And complete my mission to free my satellite dish from being likewise smothered so I could spend the afternoon watching Fashion Television.

Since people die in roof avalanches, come summer, we did the responsible thing and called ABC Roofing to install all new gutters and snow breaks. No more roof avalanches.

But I'll never forget that feeling – however momentary – of being buried alive. It sucked. But that's how I feel this week. Part of what I do for a living, other than coming up with my own words, is making the words of others sound much better(er). And that's what I'm doing this week. Fixing other people's words. Lots and lots of them. Which can actually be harder than coming up with ones of my own. Hence, the buried feeling.

So I got nothing much else, except to tell you that I'll be posting about Muffins on Da Baking Blob soon. Oh and this:

Beyonce and Jay-Z got married this weekend. Did you hear they had 100 bazillion Thai peasants pick with their 1,000 bazillion nimble Thai fingers over 100 trillion perfectly bloomed orchids to decorate Jay-Z's Tribeca loft as part of their Twu Wuv ceremony? Sweet jeebus, that's excessive. Even by Moi's whack ass excessive standards. Then again, what else would you expect from a woman who never met a prom dress gone horribly wrong that she didn't turn into a personal fashion statement?

About Jay-Z I have nothing to say. Except that it looks like he buys a lot of shiny, silky stuff. Does he rap?

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Mute Monday: Power

No one changes the world who isn't obsessed.
– Billie Jean King

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Meme Memoir

The fabulous Meghan tagged me for The Six-Words Meme, which was originally started by Smith Magazine. The history is thus:

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).

Moi's six-word memoir:

Yay, the artisan's impulse! Stuff good.

I’m going to tag:
Wicked, Doris Rose, Anonymous Boxer, Troll, Aunty, Thursday Next, and Pirate (and SHE!).

Here are the rules:
1) Write your own six word memoir.
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5) Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.
6) Have fun.

And I just had to add:

Good gah, are these shoes not muy fabuloso or whatso? Le sigh.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Rehabbed and Ready for 15 Minutes of Shame

In an effort to curb what I am beginning to regard within myself as a dangerous tendency towards rampant materialism, I have decided to use this, the first day of April, to define for myself a new identity. One that has less to do with gobbling up shiny objects and more to do with letting go of those objects via eBay and communing instead only with those things that have real meaning and purpose.

Which, of course, means a redefined approach to my wardrobe as well. After all, one needs a certain kind of outfit to go with one's new found minimalist philosophy of down-to-earthedness. So, no more lusting after the new Burberry Prorsum Ankle Wrap Sandals and Oscar de la Renta party dresses. Instead, something less blingy and more, uh, crunchy is in order here:

to go with: