Sucking at the Teat of the Nanny State

You know why the 4" high, stack-heeled black leather pumps currently residing in my closet, where they are patiently waiting for Fall 2007 and yet another year of fun-colored textured hosiery, were made by Antonio Melani and hence retail for $89, and are NOT the $700 Christian Louboutin black patent leather Very Prive Pumps over which I have been lusting for ages?

Because I cannot afford the Christian Louboutins.

Of course, I want them. In the worst, worst way. And I could indulge that lust and put them on a credit card and take 1.5 bazillion years to pay them off at 25 bazillion percent interest.

Sure. I could.


But I won't. Because that would be fiscally irresponsible. After all, lusting after something and wishing you possessed it, does not equal the right to have it.

So why are we bailing out the idiots who took that same pie-in-the-sky privileged attitude with their homes?

This, Party People, is unacceptable.

And we're going to pay until the cows come home.

Which will be never.

We Pause for More S.B. Identification

Because I am obsessing on my race and on other work and because this week my brain is just not working as quickly as it usually does, I am slacking off a bit in the blogging department. Therefore, to make up for it, I herewith present you with a tidbit from the annals of what I like to call, The World According to S.B.:

For the past week or so, S.B. has been working diligently to make Life as We Know It safe for the Croc-wearing Wal-Mart shoppers of northeastern Georgia. Given the two hour time difference between there and here, I usually get my daily call from him around 5:00 p.m. MST. Two days ago, it went like this.

Moi: So, hon' what did you have for dinner? (After ten-plus years together, the away-from-home sexy talk starts morphing into an almost obsessive concern for each other's diets. I know, I know, but trust me, it will happen to you.)

S.B.: Quizno's. (Another S.B. tenet: Subway Sucks.)

Moi: Did you get the Bundt cake, too? (S.B. loves him some chocolate Bundt cake, even if it isn't mine and is made instead with lots of chemicals.)

S.B.: Uh, nope. (Whenever S.B. is even more laconic than usual on the phone, I know it means he is multi-tasking. Not only speaking to me, but also checking his email, doing billing, etc.)

Moi: How come? (Things are becoming slightly inane at this point.)

S.B.: (Sighs) Because they no longer make Bundt cakes. They have cookies now.

Moi: That's too bad. I'll just have to make you one when you get home.

S.B. (Pause.) (Silence.)

Moi: Do you know why? (The inanity meter is now moving into the red zone. Trust me, this will happen to you, too.)

S.B.: (I can hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background) Uhn-uh, why?

Moi: (Referring to my tendency to assign various men a rated spousal position in Moi's Imaginary Backwards Islamic Universe in Which I Get to be the Girl With the Most Cake and Also Have my Own Harem – hey, fair is only fair). Because you're my Primary, Number One Husband.

And, without missing a beat or a keyclick, S.B. says:

Well, it's better to be Primary than Back Up. Because then I have first right of refusal. I don't like the Bundt cake, I just pass it along to the next guy.

R.I.P. United States Constitution

Which is the greatest danger facing the United States today?

A. The threat of an outside terrorist attack
B. The threat of an internal terrorist attack

If you said A., well, it must be nice, living down there with your head in all that sand.

If you said B., you hit the nail on the head. Because we don't need to worry 'bout no yippy skippy jihadists undermining our way of life. Dubya is doing a mighty fine job of it all by himself. His recent Executive Order: Blocking Property of Certain Persons Who Threaten Stabilization Efforts in Iraq can only be interpreted, Party People, as no less than an all out attack against the United States Constitution, specifically the Fifth Amendment. If you don't know what I'm talking about in either case, go on, Google 'em. I'll wait.

. . .


. . .


. . .

Done?

Okay, now for a short, sharp history lesson, courtesy Moi:

The absolute stunning beauty of the United States Constitution, the reason why it is without precedent in the entire history of politics, is that it was NOT created to protect the government from the whims of the people; it was created to protect We the People FROM the whims – often dangerous – of the government. How awesome is that?

But with the above decree, Dubya is circumventing the Constitution and everything it stands for and protects us against. What he is saying is this: "Trust ME not your country's laws."

You know what you call a government leader that requires total faith in their irrefutable knowledge and absolute power? A tyrant.

Making Trash 1 Percent More Acceptable?

I know that time is flying by faster than Lindsay Lohan's career if Hollywood is now remaking movies I remember watching like it was just last week. And doing a crap weasel job of it, if you ask me.

Look, there's little about John Waters's original Hairspray, made in 1988, that could possibly be improved upon today. It was the director's first really "mainstream" film and it starred Waters staples like Divine, as well as some heavy-hitting pop icons: Deborah Harry, Iggy Pop, Pia Zadora. Remember Pia? One of the decade's great It Girls for sure.

So why retread the tire? About the only thing to recommend the new version (not directed by Waters) is Michelle Pfeiffer as Velma Von Tussle, the role originally inhabited by La Harry. Pfeiffer has long been one of my favorite actresses because beneath that California cool chick surface of hers lurks a steely intelligence and just a hint of self mockery. She always seems to be on the verge of busting out a sly smirk, half directed at herself for her public position, half directed at the outside world for stupidly worshiping that position. And any gal who can say, and mean it, "I used to smoke two packs a day and I just hate being a nonsmoker . . . but I will never consider myself a nonsmoker because I always find smokers the most interesting people at the table." has got my vote.

But in the end she can't pull the boat all by herself. Not when John Travolta insists on continuing his quest to become the Queen, uh, sorry, King, of Overblown Emoting. The guy had me once, at Saturday Night Fever. And then promptly lost me forever and ever with Moment By Moment. And no, I did not like him in Pulp Fiction. The only good thing about that drag of a movie was Bruce Willis. And we all know I'd follow Bruce to a film if he were wearing a diamond-encrusted tutu.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Remakes rarely improve upon the original. What they mostly do is fuck with precious memories. The original Hairspray represented Waters at his most giddy. It was trash gone good, maybe even slightly smart, as the movie also managed to make deft commentaries on body imagery and racism without sacrificing all the fun. The remake just burns the gummy image of John Travolta in a fat suit into our brains forever and a day. Nothing Divine about that.

Who's With Me on This?

Justin Timberlake's HBO Special

Okay. So he teeters just a hair on the not-so-cutting-edge of dweebie. But consider this: How many dweebazoid boys (or girls, for my 1.75 male readers) did you know in junior high and high school who grew up to know exactly what they were doing and now you could just smack yourself silly in the forehead for passing them right on by?

Uh-huh.

S.B. rolls his eyes like the end of the world were 2.5 seconds away and I was still figuring out what to wear whenever I mention just how underfreakingestimated I think Mr. Timberlake is in the greater pantheon of Popular Music. But I don't care. I've always been able to sniff out the diamonds amongst the rough. And I'm going with my instincts here: Justin Timberlake is very sparkly.

Besides, he's from the south, despite S.B.'s protestations to the contrary. (To my beau if it ain't Louisiana, Mississippi, or Alabama, it's "up north.")

Anyhoo. Admit it. You know you wanna turn around so he'll pick up the slack.

The British Open War on Golf

According to Wikipedia, which in my line of work is known as "research lite," or "yeah, riiiggght" but which often does in a pinch:

Golf is a very old game of which the exact origins are unclear. The origin of golf is open to debate as to being Chinese, Dutch or Scottish. However, the most accepted golf history theory is that this sport originated from Scotland in the 1100s.

Which makes absolute, perfect sense to Moi. Have you seen St. Andrews, et al? I mean, we American's, we pride ourselves on creating courses that kick your ass but look fabulous while doing so. Kind of like Angie Dickinson's Sgt. "Pepper" Anderson in Police Woman.

But the Scots? Ooooo hell no. Those aren't golf courses, those are battlefields – pock-marked and windswept, and laden with danger, the way they cling to the cliffs above angry seas and chemical spill-colored skies.

Even the spectators wear expressions of grim, institutional determination. So does Moi, as Tiger hangs behind yet another Latin firecracker. Tiger, get thee back to some sunshine and concentrate, would ya?

Today's Guest Blogger

Shhhhhhhh . . . .

Dahlinks, I haff teep-toed over here from zee Wicked Thistle's site because at zee Wicked, I was given not enough time as an absolutely faaaaaabulous mammal, no? I mean, Wicked, she has to give zee time to zee kitty cats. I understand.

But here, at Moi's site, I sink I haff a leetle more air time. And not only do I come so you can admire my absolutely faaaaaabulous mammalness. Oh no. Although, yes, let us admire for few moments.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Okay.

So, I also come to give advice. See, I haff heard zhat Moi, she is worried about zee hairs goings gray. Never mind she is too lazy to do something about. She has found fabulous hair stylist, no? She go see zee Karen. Karen, she make everything okay.

But eef the Moi, she has no time, I have solution. I vhant you take good look at head. No, no, stooopid, my head. Ees how we do it in Animal Kingdom, with zee hair. That goes gray. No problem for us. We look faaaaaabulous with zee gray. And all weethout those what you call them, high heels.

Now, go take lesson and be faaaaaabulous. Or I poopie on head. No, no, stooopid, your head.

The Bubble-Headed Bleached Blonde Comes on at Five

Oops, sorry. I meant bobble-headed.


Calling all my Pals Across the Pond: Can you take her back now? We're done.

Quote for the Day

The worst form of tyranny the world has ever known
the tyranny of the weak over the strong.

– Oscar Wilde

Tagged by a Pirate

The way cool Dread Pirate Rackham, that is, who not only lives in my 'hood and ran La Luz (and is doing so again this year, I believe), but also competes in such bad ass Olympic-style events like the Buffalo Springs Lake Triathlon AND writes a terrifically entertaining blog about it. Whoa. She da bomb.

And now the Pirate has tagged me as a Rockin' Girl Blogger. Which tickles me pink.

So to pass along da luv, I hereby tag five of my own fave Rockin' Girl Bloggers:
Wicked Thistle
Doris Rose
Orangeblossom
Meghan
Dizzy

Each of whom rock in their own unique ways. And DO NOT, might I mention, wear Crocs.

The Shoes I Love to Hate (For Meghan)

Yes, Meghan, I share your pain.

I hate Crocs so much, I won't even link to their ugly ass Web site, which features even more of their ugly ass shoes.

I'm so sorry. Your husband is a cutie and looks like he knows what he's doing fashion-wise in every other instance.

Tell him, "Hon, these are the ugliest ass shoes in the entire known universe. How could your feet NOT sweat like a passel of piglets on the D Train to the Bronx in mid July wearing these things? And do you know who else wears them?"




She's rumored to have one pair in every color.

Enough said.

Slothful in Blogland

Well, lookee here. Nearly three whole days and I haven't posted a ding dang thing. Haven't found one single thing to be pissed about. Not one single thing to covet. Not one single thing to bring to your attention or convince you to go out and buy.

That's because I've been BUSY party people. Busy jumping through hoops for a client. Busy shillin' for da pitties. Busy obsessing on La Luz. Busy planning our next COWW event, a big ol' patio pahty at Moi's house this Saturday.

I haven't even been window shopping for shoes! Or sneaked a peak in the stores for fall 2007 trends. Gah. I hope ankle boots aren't in AGAIN.


I'm not really sure how I feel about ankle boots. It's a fine line with these things, between Mary Poppins matronly and a subtle dominatrix-esque fabulousness. Although, if I happen to be the winning eBay bidder for this nifty Phillip Lim wool trapeze dress tomorrow, I just may have to buy a pair – they seem to go together, no? Usually, when it comes to shoes, I can be convinced of anything. So long as they're not Dansko clogs or those bizarre ice cream-colored plastic boat shoe thingees, I'll go for it.

You Can Dress It Up

But you can't make me fly it.


So what, it's tres, tres chic. So what, it's 20 percent more efficient. So what, it's lighter (is a plastic airplane necessarily a good thing?) So what, it allows a bazillion times more cargo and leg room. It's not like I travel with my entire closet, you know.

Boeing calls it the 787 Dreamliner. And no, not because when you find your ass spiraling out of control down towards the Atlantic Ocean, it's gonna be nothing but sweet dreams from there on out. It's more like, dream on, suckas, regarding the orders.

So who's pitched up so far? Only a slew of our planet's finest, most frequently flown, airlines:
Air Berlin
Quantas
Qatar Airways

Qatar, party people.

Me, I'm waiting for the Danes to perfect their quantum teleportation techniques.

Bling Bling For the Clean Clean

Have I ever discussed with you the demands that stained concrete floors, Berber carpet, S.B., and Ivan place upon Moi's cleaning prowess? Suffice to say, one must have tools, Party People, with which to attack effectively. And my Oreck was losing its staying power.

Enter the 2007 Riccar Pristine canister vacuum.



We won't even go there about the fabulous color, or the fact that its manufacturers have given it a name (I mean, could anything be more custom-made for Moi?). What's most important is the bazillion mega-hooha wattage sucky-uppy power that totally ensures me speed and ease of cleaning.

With this baby in hand, I will put aside for a while my anger over Scooter Libby and bumbling international terrorists and make it all about the clean.

What's in a Name?

This whole Scooter Libby debacle has got me thinking about some things. Certainly about how RIGHT NOW! would be a really good time to go back and read, oh, I dunno, the Declaration of Independence, Articles of Confederation, and the Constitution and Bill of Rights.

But also about names, diminutive monikers and nicknames in particular. (As the dread pirate pointed out, what kind of person calls himself "Scooter"? I mean, the implications abound . . .)

Most nicknames are given to us in our youth. Sometimes by parents who, after being all proud of themselves for coming up with, like, a totally kreative moniker for their newborn child, suddenly realize about 3.5 seconds into the process that widdle Alexandropova might be better off in the long run with just plain Alex.

Sometimes, it's because a big ol' serious name like Harrison or William – which of course works nicely after the age of, say, 45 for someone entrenched in law, medicine, or politics – doesn't quite yet fit that chubby cheeked little urchin who is at the present moment picking his nose and writing on the walls with Magic Marker.

Hence, Harry and Billy, like my cousin. Although, said cousin now goes by Bill. Perhaps because, while all growed up, he is neither a doctor, lawyer, nor, perish the thought, a politician. Bill is a happy medium. But it still sounds weird to me because I grew up calling him Billy. So when he calls, all "This is your cousin Bill." serious-like, it's as if he'd never, ever terrorized me with a hair brush, made fun of my driving, or given me that look when I told him Kelly Clarkson was the greatest thing to happen to pop music ev-ah. Note to Bill: you're still BILLY to Moi.

Then there are the nicknames we're given by childhood pals who can't say our names. For years in school, I was Pistachio. Even teachers called me that. Or those names that come about because we like a certain color or are good at a certain thing – Pink, Racer, Scout. A friend once called me Clutch, after a cartoon detective named Clutch Cargo, because of my investigative tendencies.

There are also regional nicknames – particularly in the south, where you hear a lot of Skeeters and June Bugs and Bubbas (I don't know what you hear in Los Angeles, though . . .)

Then there are those our loved ones give us – which can range from the diminutive to the affectionately descriptive to the downright annoying. S.B. and I don't have nicknames for each other. When he isn't referring to me as "Hey!", I'm Weeennnnah, dragged out all southern style-like and usually when he's standing in front of the refrigerator looking for the milk, which he can't find because his big ol' brain is busy making the world safe for democracy and he can't be bothered with details.

(Me, I call him S.B. 'cause that's what he is, regardless of his inability to focus on the contents of our refrigerator.)

So, Party People, share. What's your nickname? And, please, don't tell me Scooter . . .

Know Your Rights

All three of 'em:

1. Life
2. Liberty
3. The pursuit of happiness

With emphasis on the word "pursuit." Because taking one person's rights to ensure those of another, well, that's called stealing, party people. And there are a lot of folks in our current gub'ment on both sides with mighty sticky fingers. It's time we just said NO.

Now, go and enjoy the 4th and think about what you can do, on this holiest of days, to rage against the machine.

Live Fast, Die Eaten

I know, it's gross. Blame Wicked. She started it.

So I was feeding the hummers last night, hurrying to provide them with their evening repast before the skies split open and scared me rotten from going outside ever again, when I saw it. Right there on my front stoop. This half masticated sumpthin' or another that I know, just know, is the fault of my ever lovin' bats. Cute tho they may be, they're blood thirsty as hell. You should see the bug carcasses gathering on my porch.

Which explains this fun fact about bats: they can eat up to 1,000 bugs – or nearly their entire body weight – each, per night. I can relate. I have been known, on occasion and especially when S.B. is out of town and I'm left to my own devices, to eat nearly my entire weight in cupcakes while perusing celebrity gossip Web sites instead of watching something edifying on television like how Alexander the Great smashed and bashed his way to conquering the entire known world except Antarctia and New Jersey. Even Alexander didn't want New Jersey.

Anyway.

I now return you to your regularly schedule blog to make these additional observations:

1. Well, Scooter Libby may now be officially pardon-ay-moi-ed, but hey, there's a silver lining to every cloud: That right there seems to me to be such a WTF!?! moment, that fo' sho' Congress will finally get all righteously indignant and prosecute Da Shrub for gross misconduct of office or some such similarly slimy-assed thing. Right? Right?

2. Memo From Moi to the Eight Terroristos Thankfully Snagged by Our Good Buddies Across the Pond, Wot: Next time why don't cha all LEARN yourselves a little more about explosives, huh? Oh, sorry. I forgot. No light in caves to read the instruction manuals provided along with your training course, How to Jihad in 10 Easy Steps For Fun and Profit. So I guess y'all had to wing it. Oh, and I suppose the fact that you also attended medical school in a cave means your instructors just skipped right on over the Hippocratic Oath entirely. Especially the part about : "I shall do no harm . . ."

May a 1,000 pallid bats chew happily away at your innards. Fucktards.

Fabulous Fashion Moments in Film

Ooo, I just love rediscovering the films of my youth.

This one is a goody, goody, with plenty of terrific '70's high fashion gloss, vintage Faye Dunaway bug-eyed emoting, a screamingly cliched sound track (culminating in one of those overwrought "rock ballads" that Barbara Streisand was known for during her l-u-v affair with ex-hairdresser-cum-movie-producer Jon Peters.)

All the fashion photos in the move were shot by one of my favorite artists ev-ah, Herr Helmut Newton. Here's a typical example.


See the girl on the far left? That's Lisa Taylor, one of the world's first Super Models. Back when Super Models were just that, that is – lusty and busty and full of their own fuck-it-all Amazonian power. Who could have predicted at that glorious moment in time that the Waif Trend would soon come scuttling in on its boney little feet and turn us all back into concentration camp victims?

Oh well.

Oh, and can you believe Tommy Lee Jones was ever this young? What a sexpot.


The film is also filled with marvelous grins and giggles. Like: Why, despite being 30-something when this was made, does Faye Dunaway look for all the world like a 50-year-old-nanny throughout the entire movie?


My theory is this: Jon Peters wanted girlfriend Bawbwa Streisand for the role. He was voted down. So he turned Dunaway into a dowdy little bitch. Or maybe that's the film's irony. Whatever. I just wish she'd looked more glam, ya know?

Even Laura Mars's car is a puzzle. Why, with all her money and fame, would she cruise the fabulous streets of 7th Avenue in the Family Truckster from National Lampoon's Vacation?


No matter. The Eyes of Laura Mars is over all a fabulous film. Go rent it today.