bagatelle

2009-05-05T01:18:00.001-07:00

I suppose it was bound to happen.

As times grow increasingly bleak, there is a tendency to revert to stereotype, and to the most profound, bone-deep, sources of consolation.

And so it was that this note caught my eye:

“Irish consumers are more likely to do without hair conditioner, washing-up liquid and disposable nappies during a recession than their morning fry. Sausages, butter, bread, milk and tea are highly recession proof, according to Nielsen, but hair conditioner and washing-up liquid are particularly vulnerable.”

Which makes all the sense in the world, both the foresworn and the never-to-be-forsaken. And, if one might wonder as to how endless fry-ups can be made compatible with a lack of washing-up liquid, perhaps a thoroughly non-PC reference might be made to the essential difference between shanty and lace curtain irishpersons. Feel free to back-channel me if you aren’t familiar with the slur.

Shanty Fry-up

Eggs
Streaky bacon
Sausages
Tomatoes
Black and/or white pudding
Tinned beans
White toast

Fry. In this order: sausages, bacon, eggs, puddings, tomatoes, preferably all in one large pan. Heat beans.

Lace Curtain Fry-up

All the above.
Mushrooms
Substitute fried soda bread for lowbrow toast
Potatoes: mashed, hashed browns, chips or boxty
Fry.

As we say about Guinness, fry-ups are not just for breakfast. Or for hangovers. Any meal, any time of day or state of mind is immeasurably enhanced by this platonic ideal of consolation.

Whether you take the low road or the high.

A Silk Purse...

2009-05-01T02:08:00.000-07:00

For anyone who has been wandering in here of late and perhaps thought they had missed the signposts…

Given current economic, market and emotional conditions, we are indeed taking a detour and comforting ourselves with New Depression-appropriate recipes. Feeding the soul if not the bank account.

Today, being especially trying, I’ve decided to dream of cassoulet. My always favorite dish, my obvious choice for Last Meal before being marched off to the guillotine. Wishing it could, in fact, transport me back to Biarritz and that stall at the end of Les Halles.

Now, in France this could easily be considered Depression food, but not so much elsewhere. In order to make it approachable in straitened circumstances, liberties will have to be taken. In this as in so much else.

Also think of it as a sort of apologia for the last post, as well as a homage to the current Porcine Pandemic.

Cassoulet

2 duck legs [hah!! Chicken legs, or even thighs, will suffice]
4 sausages, preferably Toulouse [preferably the cheapest on offer, add garlic if necessary]
1 3 1/2-pound boneless pork shoulder, trimmed of excess fat, cut into 1- to 1 1/2-inch pieces
6 rashers smoked streaky bacon, cut into half-inch long pieces
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 sticks celery, finely chopped
2 carrots, finely chopped
4 large cloves garlic, finely chopped or crushed
1 generous tbsp tomato purée
1/2 bottle dry white wine
2 330ml cans canellini beans
1 330ml can flageolet beans
2 330ml cans haricot beans [seriously, any sort of white beans in sufficient quantity is just fine, and, by all means, feel free to soak dried beans overnight if so inspired]
500ml good vegetable or chicken stock
about 6 springs fresh thyme
parsley, finely chopped (optional)
olive oil, for frying

Add some olive oil to a large hob-proof casserole or other large pot. Put on a high heat until very hot.
Brown the duck legs, sausages and lamb shanks in the hot pan. Once brown on all sides, remove all the meat and reserve.
Turn down the heat slightly and add the bacon, onions, celery and carrots.
Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently, until the bacon is cooked and the vegetables softened.
Add the tomato purée, mix well and cook for 2 minutes, stirring constantly.
Turn up the heat, add the wine and deglaze the pot well, scraping any brownings from the bottom with a wooden spoon - reduce the liquid by about two thirds.
Reduce the heat to low, add the beans, stock and thyme. Return the browned meats to the pan and then cover.
Cook for an hour and a half, stirring occasionally.
Remove the lid and cook for a further hour or until only a little liquid remains.
Before serving, remove the duck legs and shanks and take the meat off the bone in little chunks. It should be very tender. Return to the pan to warm through. Check the seasoning, add the parsley if desired and serve.

Many recipes call for a breadcrumb topping, swaddled with butter and browned in the oven: precious, but optional.

More Cross-Posting

2009-04-28T01:33:00.000-07:00

No, there is no way in hell I’m kidding.

Between our ever deepening New Great Depression and minute-by-minute updates about the Emerging Pandemic, there has never been a better time to revisit this childhood classic.

It has to be the cheapest supper out there [except, of course, for fried bologna, and I have no doubt it shall, at some point, come to that as well]. It can be endlessly retrofitted. It will fill anyone up, and it will transport one back to those mythical days of innocence and ease.

Let’s start with the Sturdy Original, direct from Campbells’ own website:

Mid-Century Tuna Noodle Casserole

1 can (10 3/4 oz.) Campbell's® Condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup

1/2 cup milk

1 cup cooked peas

2 tbsp. chopped pimentos 2 cans (about 6 oz. each) tuna, drained and flaked

2 cups hot cooked medium egg noodles

2 tbsp. dry bread crumbs

1 tablespoon butter OR margarine, melted

PREHEAT oven to 400°F.
MIX soup, milk, peas, pimiento, tuna and noodles in 1 1/2-qt. baking dish.
BAKE for 20 min.
STIR . Mix bread crumbs with butter. Sprinkle on top. Bake 5 min. or until hot.

Have some fun if you will:

Save some of the pimientos for mixing up your own sandwich spread [grated process cheese food, mayo and chopped pimientos].
Add some diced onion.
And Real Men and Women eschew the bread crumbs and add a topping of crushed potato chips or…tinned French fried onion rings.

Before you know it, you really will believe you’re sitting at a turquoise formica kitchen table, crickets are merrily chirping outside and dad’s in the den with his Pabst.

Let Them Eat Cake

2009-04-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

In the interest of being of some use, I've decided to start crossposting here from my "translation" blog where I've grown bored with whining about outsourcing and the lack of work. Instead I've taken to posting some of my more simple, deeply comforting recipes. Foodstuffs in celebration of the New Depression, in homage to the Last Great one.

One of my favourites from my impoverished university days was Stuffed Cabbage Rolls. Not the fancy ones, though they do lend themselves to infinite variations of ingredient and flavor. They also involve real cooking, several steps and time spent in the kitchen. Just the thing for avoiding the pointless sending out of 200 more letters to translation agencies or the equally pointless obsessive checking of one’s bank balance.

Stuffed Cabbage Rolls

1 medium cabbage
1 ½ cups cooked rice
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 tbsp. butter [or oil]
1 lb. ground beef [the cheaper and fattier the better]
1 Egg
Salt and Pepper to taste
Herbs and spices as desired [some suggestions: thyme, marjoram, savory, allspice]
1 Garlic clove; minced
1 can (15-oz) tomato sauce
Sour cream

Remove core from cabbage.
Place in a large pot of boiling water to cover and blanch for 5 to 10 minutes until outer leaves are slightly wilted.
Drain, cool and separate leaves, cutting a V-shaped notch in each, removing the thick stems.
Sauté minced onion in 1 tablespoon butter.
Combine the meat, rice, onion, egg, salt, pepper, garlic and spices.
Mix thoroughly.
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Place about 3 heaping tablespoons of meat and rice filling on each leaf.
Roll the leaf, tucking sides either inside or under.
Repeat with remaining leaves.
Place the cabbage rolls close together, seam side down, in a baking dish or Dutch oven.
Pour the tomato sauce, diluted with ½ cup water [or chicken broth], over the rolls.
Cover and bake in the oven for 1 1/2 hours. You can uncover for the last 10 or 15 minutes or so in order to help the sauce thicken up, but keep an eye on it so it doesn’t burn.

When serving, top each roll with a large dollop of sour cream.

Best served with large quantities of mashed potatoes of the smooth and creamy [NOT “smashed” or lumpy] sort.

Variations: a mixture of pork and beef can be used; a bit of brown sugar, Worcestershire sauce and/or lemon can be added to sauce for a sweet-sour tang

He's in the House

2008-11-05T00:26:00.000-08:00

The 44th President of the United States

2008-11-04T16:43:00.000-08:00

Mood management.

2008-11-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

Much too wired to post for now. I'd rather watch, rejoice and eat chocolate.

I will try to add the odd pic.

The sad news is that it is utterly impossible to steal any other Seal videos, and god knows I've been trying.

2008-11-03T15:12:00.000-08:00

Vote.

Early, often and gleefully.

And more to come...

2008-11-03T03:03:00.000-08:00

Yes.

We.

Will.

epic win

2008-11-02T01:32:00.000-07:00

Just in case you haven't seen this in its entirety.

And, yes, it's totes for real.

5 days...

2008-10-29T20:00:00.000-07:00

Maria Sibylla Merian & Daughters

2008-07-09T02:40:00.000-07:00

I suppose if I had been schooled in a more recent decade, I might have known of this lady and her lucky daughters. Sequestered somewhere in those abhorrent Women’s Studies programs that serve, like similar “special” studies, only to marginalize and caricature.

But, since I adore old school illustrations of flora and fauna almost as much as I do eccentric, transgressive and brilliant ladies, I might have forgiven the arbiters of PC for an earlier introduction.

Born in Germany, 1647, married at 18, two daughters. Left her husband and was divorced by him.

But acute observation is a necessary part of the process in concocting these perfect illustrations. And so she observed. She observed, for example, that unlike common scientific wisdom of her day, butterflies were not, in truth, being spontaneously generated from warm mud.

For real.

And so she observed, depicted and published the glorious life cycles of sundry caterpillars, their predictable and ever glorious metamorphoses. Proving and herself illustrating that beauty and uncommon wisdom are so very often born of happy, careful eye and steady hand.

Point, Not Counterpoint

2008-07-08T01:51:00.000-07:00

I have no idea what this might mean, nor do I think I should even be thinking about what it might mean, but it started with Hopping John.

Out of the blue, persistent images of one of my most favorite, but, given current conditions, almost forgotten, dishes. And not the knee-jerk New Years’ Day offering, rather the everyday side, heaped up in the middle of plate, garnished with minimal protein.

And from there the daydreaming went to simple rice and beans of various variant. Mixed with a dollop of sofrito, perhaps, or with sautéed onions and chicken broth, the poor person’s risi e bisi.

But it ended up with asopao, the best comfort food on the face of the earth.

The blossoms are from the same island as the asopao, best enjoyed together, and more than enough to trump the rest of the world.

Summer Fun & the Joys of Explosives

2008-07-04T01:14:00.000-07:00

So many reasons to celebrate.

Or at least to fry one’s skin, burgers and brain cells.

The Fourth, of course. Preferably celebrated in the middle of literal nowhere in Nova Scotia with highly illicit pyrotechnics and bootleg rum. Or, even better, Warsaw, where they have raised the fine art of “fireworks” to a level of cannon-firing explosives that would be the envy of many a small, under-funded military.

Sad to say, we missed Dominion Day on the first. Yes, totally old-school here. I mean “Canada Day,” in all its grey bureaucratic pallor, just reinforces so many, mostly justified, cultural stereotypes. And, speaking of ethnic stereotypes and the stupefyingly dull, here is someone’s idea of a list of the 10 “hottest” Canadian men and women. Most of them are, in fact, imports and/or exports, and I would love to hear from anyone who finds any among them even remotely fanciable.

And, for those who think brain cells are can only be fried by alcohol and pharma of whatever sort, you might try this. Despite all common and perceived wisdom, it is not a place I would normally choose to go. Seriously. Christy Brinkley, I hardly know who she is. But then one hears about $3000 a month for porn, a $700,000 payoff to a barely legal “mistress,” waterboarding Billy Joel’s daughter. The joys of that sort of excess, in whatever guise, seem rarely joyful but occasionally just tawdry enough to compel.

The serious, and most relevant, issue, however, is the New Relaxed Summer Dress Code. A directive [“memo”] has gone out to Obama staffers, carefully delineating the rules for proper attire during the long hot days of swelter in DC and Chicago. Reading it, I found myself magically transported back to some of my more merrily transgressive days in high school. Always reaching for that perfect slut yet serious incarnation.

Some things never change.

Boys We Love

2008-06-30T01:45:00.000-07:00

An almost ideal summer weekend, with happy notes to spare!

No, seriously.

Spain wins the Euro Cup, por fin, crushing the Hapless Huns and bringing joy to many, many streets. And it was all about the new talent.

Gay Pride day weekend, with parades that would make our own occasionally transgendered boys proud. Our favorite blind [damned if I can remember the currently favoured PC term] governor of color, David Paterson, took literal pride of place, happily marching down Fifth Avenue. The celebratory embodiment of an order he issued last month directing state agencies to recognize same-sex marriages performed outside of New York State.

Such a good boy.

Breaking Something

2008-06-29T01:36:00.000-07:00

A weekend roundup, wherein we concoct a little mashup of various, mostly irrelevant and horrifying, events, news items and reprobates of any or no stripe.

Mandatory Castrati:

That cute little Punjabi governor of the formerly great state of Louisiana, Bobby Jindal, took a short break from "auditioning" with Psychogeezer for the “position” of VP, and what a fun position that augers to be! This week, Bobby announced to an adoring public that he had signed into law a brand-new, never before seen “Chemical Castration Law.” Not just any castration law, but one which moves from the optional to the mandatory and from the chemical to the, mother of god, “physical.”

SB 144…provides that on a first conviction of aggravated rape, forcible
rape, second degree sexual battery, aggravated incest, molestation of a juvenile
when the victim is under the age of 13, or an aggravated crime against nature,
the court may sentence the offender to undergo chemical castration. On a second
conviction of the above listed crimes, the court is required to sentence the
offender to undergo chemical castration.

This bill also provides that a court may instead order a physical
castration instead of the chemical castration.

Karl Rove Also Hearts Barry:

Yes, the slimy little enforcer reveals his most intimate fantasies:

“Even if you never met him, you know this guy,” Rove said, per Christianne
Klein. “He’s the guy at the country club with the beautiful date, holding a
martini and a cigarette that stands against the wall and makes snide comments
about everyone who passes by.”

Perfectly etched, but when the hell did they start letting anyone into country clubs other than fat, rich, pasty-faced white guys? Ah, yes, that must be the point. The source of their endless raging, earth scorching, economy plundering and warmongering. They have been waiting for Barry, all these years, waiting for that lean, RatPack-cool presence. And the bastard never shows. Poor Karl. Maybe he’s just, you know, not that into you.

Bubba Cries, Pouts, Flees and is Majorly Disrespected

Poor Bill. In an attempt to balance that always ticklish dilemma of being a serious dick whilst still exuding gravitas, he took refuge in London this week. He couldn’t possibly appear with Hills and Barry or make any statement of support for that uppity little colored person. After all, he’s a former President himself, and much blacker than Barry. He has important places to be and important, world-stage type people with whom to be seen. So there he was, grandly strolling Nelson Mandela’s birthday events, managing to confess to a brit scribe [who are ever so much better than their American counterparts since they have no issue whatsoever with being pushy pricks], that Barry could “kiss his ass” before he lends him any support. Poor Bill. Even Oprah apparently made it clear that she didn’t want to be anywhere near the little scumbag.

The Street

2008-06-28T01:36:00.000-07:00

Dita doing casual streetwear. A fitting vision for slipping into weekend.

Of course, that’s casual streetwear in Paris, but it does bring to mind certain nagging cross-cultural observations/peeves. Yes, the obvious: how the variations on that theme seem to reflect other, often less obvious, local currents.

Daywear on the Left Coast, for example, is all about heavy, 80s style makeup, coupled with something atrocious from the neck down. Ensembles that would be less than acceptable at a Lima, Ohio Wal-Mart. Think something in terrycloth dug out of the deepest reaches of your great-aunt’s laundry bin. Or very short cut-offs coupled with a markedly filthy t-shirt and, as fitting homage to the sweltering weather, a fetching pair of shaggy atrocious Uggs.

Dressing up, or “evening” wear, requires the same maquillage, but coyly matched, shoes and purse style, with a Dynasty-era ensemble. Streetlight red dresses [one could never call them frocks] are huge, as is anything in white, especially when combined with innumerable and irrationally positioned studs.

Uniforms reign in Dublin, mostly of the black leather jacket, black jeans and sturdy, yes, black, boots sort. Barcelona moves to very different tunes, especially in the winter. Frocks galore in the warmer months, but then an uncommon amount of tweed. Not the nubby, Irish sort, but subtle, smoother weaves, never competing with backdrop. Biarritz is exactly as one might hope of an ever so slightly time-worn French seaside resort. The ladies, and their presence, catch one’s eye as they should. Discreet, fully informed, perhaps a tad too formal for resort, but then it was winter, and the Millennium to boot, when I was living there.

Warsaw, much more complex, would require an entire brooding post.

So the Left Coast, two decades too late and awash in misplaced narcissism, lassitude and an apparent dearth of full-length mirrors.

Dubliners have much else on their minds, shudder at the thought of being noticed and, most importantly, have to deal on a daily basis with the filthiest of all possible streets.

Barcelona inhabits, as it has forever, that shadowy autonomous space between the Continent and the South. Riven equally by a need to embody artful classicism and to traverse the light transgressive, they have mastered the art of subtle reference.

Biarritz. What the hell. They’re French, Paris is a long Fast Train away and they choose to inhabit other times.

Midweek Madness

2008-06-26T00:44:00.000-07:00

Bad, bad, bad girl, with a very good excuse, of course, but I’ll keep it to myself. Especially as there is something so very appealing about being a bad, bad girl.

And since I’ve been so lax, there is an absolute surfeit of riches we need to address. From that very smooth Italian operator, Rafaello, known for his “Vatican connections” [not] and real estate deals, who made the cardinal error of scamming Bubba, along with a thousand others, thus ensuring his recent arrest and hundreds of criminal charges.

Then there is that most devout meth head cum feelthy rich televangelist cum client of blabbermouth gay tricksters, Ted Haggard. The Most Right Reverend has just been graduated from his “restoration program.” This is apparently Christianity’s version of Hollywood “rehab” programs, but instead of pretending to treat addiction issues, they pretend to retrofit sexual preferences, all in service of the loftier goal of reintroducing said celebrities and their formerly tumescent cash flows.

Irrelevant assholes, of course, but, speaking of which, nothing any longer justifies the existence of Grand Wizard Mister Ralph, “Look At Me!” Nader. Irrelevant, check. Still inhabiting fantastic dexadrine-driven, constructs of previous times, places and events, check. Racist cretin, check. Narcissistic publicity whore, check. But today’s events and words have made even the generally unflappable squawk and screech like banty roosters being driven to the assembly line.

An Offering

2008-06-24T00:33:00.000-07:00

A small token, a place card as it were, until I'm able to spend more time here.

Snapdragons. One of the first flowers I ever grew, and, like morning glories, cockscombs and bells of ireland, still and always in my gardens.

These, the salmon-coloured tinged with butter, are, unlike most, surprisingly fragrant, jammy and eloquent.

After All These Years

2008-06-18T02:18:00.000-07:00

My second favorite Moustaki, but the videos for my favorite were crap.

Sorry for the paucity of posts, but I promise to overcompensate shortly.

PD: Here's his official site in Spanish, if you care. You can also have it in French and German.

A Saturday Night Lagniappe

2008-06-15T01:37:00.000-07:00

Daddies Dearest

2008-06-14T00:59:00.000-07:00

[NYET wins, thousands cheer, others moan and now, in the second chapter of Lisbon Treaty: WTF?!, all EU countries are saying they don’t have the slightest idea what this means, but they are absolutely certain it means something, and that something is most likely messy and dire.]

My tribute to Daddy’s Day Weekend, as I mentioned in a comment on the post below, was to offer support, solace and easy tips for those not feeling in the mood to celebrate this particular holiday. Perhaps you might have vague, almost catatonic, memories of your own father punching out a sibling in a drunken snit on Christmas morning, downing the tree which crushed all the unopened gifts and sending your mother screaming out the door.

Or perhaps he retired from your life when you were 12, claiming he had just discovered, and owned, the fact that he was a Proud Gay American, only to be outed 2 years later when he was picked up on a morals charges, shacked up with the 16 year old daughter of your mother’s best friend.

Granted, the above are best case scenarios, but even those with truly traumatic experiences can find ways to take comfort, soothe their thoroughly unresolved anger issues and have a pain-free Daddy’s day.

TIP #1: It could have been ever so much worse.

Deep in your heart, assuming you’re over the age of 24 [or, for boys, 30], you know this. But sometimes we all need a little reminder. It could [now bear with me because how the hell does anyone ever know the truth of a man, and he has admitted to at least one encounter of the female kind] have been Gore Vidal. Just imagine life as the despised offspring of one of the most vicious, preening, petulant über-narcissists ever visited on humankind.

TIP#2: Get over it.

If male, locate a straw man. Preferably someone who looks or acts like him, or, if not, who is dumb, weak and/or available. Then vanquish him. Knock him off whatever pedestal on which you/he perceive him to be ensconced. This could be done virtually [just leave a scary number of contemptuous comments on his blog] or physically [best accomplished whilst one or both of you are sporting extremely high blood alcohol levels].

TIP #3: Adopt

Find someone. It might be a gentleman already of your acquaintance, perhaps that charming eccentric down the street or the reckless uncle who let you cadge beers at his flat when you were 11. Or you could hang out in your park, chatting up the elderly chess or bocce players. Once you find your long lost dad, and you will, simply inform him of the blessed event and get on with it. Listen to his stories, all of them. Stand up straight, act like a man and make him proud.

Guess Who?!

2008-06-13T00:51:00.000-07:00

And you only win if you guess them both.

[Oh, and you can ignore the young felon wading through the waves, weapon of choice in hand.]

The Lisbon Treaty: WTF?!

2008-06-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

Hah!! Seriously. Not.

Although it is true that irishpersons are the only ones who have the god-given [literally, perhaps] right, if not duty [given that only 45% of them did today], to vote on eurotreaties. And if one person in hell can prove to me that he, or more likely she [those unsung thousands of PAs across the far corners of every dusty eurocubicle who actually researched and drafted it], understands a damn thing about it, then serious cheers.

No one understands it, although some have taken passionate position. The Government has tried to strike fear in the hearts of our compatriots by darkly, and vaguely, hinting that all those rivers of euro lucre which we have so taken to our hearts and pocketbooks might slow to a trickle if we misbehave and vote NYET.

But I will say that any NYET which can put Sinn Fein and those creepy Libertas persons in the same bunker does tend to catch one’s attention. And, since the voting is now over, and I freely admit to not having a single, solitary clue or position about the Treaty, let me direct you to this very entertaining corner. If you do read it through, you’ll find that even the author - clearly in deathly fear for his own standing in the NYET community - hastens to add that, despite his outing Libertas’ connections with the US intelligence community and military contractors …is himself voting NYET.

And, as penance for this post [and for a number of related sins], I promise to quickly post something else above.

Madmen

2008-06-12T00:57:00.000-07:00

Boys, sex and politics.

The perfect combination of corruption and sleaze, at least in the States, reinforcing way too many easy conclusions. Too obvious, of course, but equally irresistible.

Gennifer Flowers and Paula Jones, two former paramours of that former president, have just launched a website where they shall be shilling videos wherein they discuss hopefully lurid details about their encounters with said former. But at just $1.99?! I like the fact that these ladies are finally trying to cash in on their adventures, but what the hell? Why is it that only perhaps 1% of the ladies, almost any of the ladies anywhere, ever figure out how to turn a respectable buck at whatever their profession, or hobbies, of choice?

On the other hand, I suppose it’s time to move on.

John McCain, that man’s man of a man, has an even more despicable history with women. He left his first wife [who was only ever described at the time as a “willowy swimsuit model”] after returning home from Vietnam. It would appear that the horrific car accident she had been in while he was a POW had left her semi-crippled, 5 inches shorter and hardly the stuff of his dreams. He was entitled to much, much more.

So, after numerous flagrant affairs, he discovered Cindy. The quintessential trophy wife: rodeo princess, 15 years his junior and seriously wealthy beer heiress. Out with the old, in with the new, so it goes. After all, it appeared that almost all the Republican hopefuls [as well as many of the Democrats] this year had similar newly minted mid-life Cindy clones.

But what pales in the face of this generally irrelevant gossip, is what lies beneath McCain’s predictable predilections. Most people have long been aware that he’s an angry, out of control, batshit kind of guy, but, for those who hadn’t noticed, we also have this:

“... In his 1992 Senate bid, McCain was joined on the campaign trail by his wife, Cindy, as well as campaign aide Doug Cole and consultant Wes Gullett. At one point, Cindy playfully twirled McCain's hair and said, "You're getting a little thin up there." McCain's face reddened, and he responded, "At least I don't plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt."”

Ladies. Seriously.

2008-06-10T01:07:00.000-07:00

One of those chillingly perfect confluences.

The magnificent star of everyone’s all time favorite film, Showgirls, Gina Gershon. And the Appalachia loving former President and current hillbilly playboy, Bill Clinton.

Gershon rocks the iconic bad girl trailer park ethos like no one ever before has. Just the right amount of dimestore makeup overload, five different shades of highlights, perfectly botoxed lips. The obligatory same-sex scenes, and, frankly, I found Bound quite entertaining, and not just in an ironic, campy way.

Given Bill’s history in amatory matters, one can easily see how Gershon would be his ultimate Venus, the nasty cheerleader-stripper of his dreams. Despite her disclaimers, I very much prefer to believe Vanity Fair on the subject [and the entire article is a deliciously fun read]. Given his access to all the perks that money and his new “high-flying” crowd of frat boy enablers can buy, how could Gershon not have been on his current Must-Do list?

I wonder if, deep in his newly addled heart and impulse control centres, Bill is not more than a bit pleased that he and his “wife” will no longer be under the scrutiny of all press great and small. Despite the always seductive lure of power, I imagine that he would just as soon be devoting his days and nights to pursuing the powerful seduction of his ever expanding Must-Do list.

Match Dot Com

2008-06-08T01:11:00.000-07:00

Most of us know that boys - while wonderful, indispensable and inordinately fun to raise hell with - can, just like girls, sometimes astonish with bouts of swinish simplicity.

And two of that sort managed to sneak through my usually firm defense systems this week, and I’m not sure which is more offensive to any number of sensibilities.

The first, languidly lounging/pouting on the left, is a Brit who calls himself Golden, already a clue to his resolute cluelessness. Golden has recently “written” a book about his lifestyle choices, titled – and again revealing the breadth of his intellect and sophistication –Gigolo.

Nothing in this Times’ article rings true. Rich, powerful, purportedly “alpha” females could do ever so much better than this pathetic wanker, and I’m sure they do, without ever having to pay for it. Then there is this:

"There is such a thing as a free lunch, however. Golden goes out with “a group of girls who call upon me for lunch when in dire need”. They are his female equivalent in many ways: models, younger trophy wives, and girls who have a rich patron. “We have a good time together and it doesn’t revolve round sex. Their husbands and boyfriends know I won’t steal them because I couldn’t support them.”

I rather fear that with this paragraph, Mr. Golden, or perhaps his ghostwriter, has let slip either the fiction or the closet. When in dire need of male diversion which “doesn’t revolve round sex,” all girls, everywhere, simply call upon one of their most empathetic and witty gay friends. And Golden has clearly never even been in a room where either of those two qualities has been present.

The other is rather the polar opposite of the above, proudly reveling in his most American excesses and appetites.

Henry T. Nicholas III, a retired dot.com billionaire and creepy geek extraordinaire, is under indictment for the usual sort of sordid financial felonies. Boring? But, of course.

Not boring is what he has been doing with his billions. The first thing that captures one’s attention is the $10 million dollars he spent on building an “underground sex cave” beneath his home which he kept stocked with a bevy of hookers, all on payroll. His penchant for schoolboy pranks such as slipping ecstasy or coke in his colleagues’ drinks. Smoking so much dope on one of his two private planes that the pilot had to don an oxygen mask.

I can only guess that the perv level of all this was remarkably low, at least on a euroscale, the real point being the flamboyant throwing around of multiple billions of dollars on his “vices.” So very American, and so very much in counterpoint to his British counterpart. The former trying to parlay his pedestrian fantasies into a tale of life as a fancy fashion accessory to rich, powerful unreachable women. The latter trying to impress his peeps with his ability to overspend on prostitutes, real estate and last year’s drugs.

Both swine, both faithfully reflecting their cultural values. Given all the above, I think they not only deserve each other, but could most happily ride off in the sunset together, a match made in someone's idea of heaven .

Boy Meets Girl

2008-06-07T00:27:00.000-07:00

More femme, yes?

Must be that maternal certainty thing.

The Dublin Women's Mini-Marathon!!

2008-06-05T23:45:00.000-07:00

Bank holiday Monday this week, and the boys were out in force, wishing to lend a little cross-gender support to the ladies, the charitable event and their own, ever sterling, reputations.

Oddly enough, the garda seems to be having more fun with the ladies than the ladies themselves. My best guess is that these were probably taken early on in the event, prior to any of their very many scheduled pub stops.

Purple wig, bottom pic, for those who wish to know.

Moves

2008-06-05T01:27:00.000-07:00

Well, I had thought I should be writing something about Bobby, but it didn’t seem at all right to be commemorating such an obscenity, in any way at all. The cortege in that previous post spoke well enough, as did he, to other times and places.

Nor do I have the words yet for Obama’s win. That I would never have thought it possible, until I saw his words, watched while he did indeed build his campaign from the ground up. Casually wresting power from K Street flacks and corporate wingmen, under their radar and all across Web 2.0.

It feels generational, but not the way the micro-wonks would believe, it’s not about age or gender or level of education. Or at least not always or mostly. I suppose, at its simple best, it reflects a willingness to suspend one’s cynicism, anger, defeat. To be able to notice that there’s not a whit of opportunism or sham or fear anywhere there.

And, speaking as a girl and notching the level of discourse way, way down, you can also see it, and I always look for it, in how comfortable he is in his bones, his skin. That has always been the money shot for me, the sign and signal, that a gentleman is who he is, knows it and is just fine with it.

My Happy Place

2008-06-03T18:40:00.000-07:00

Thoroughly ensconced therein.

Madness Takes its Toll

2008-06-03T00:50:00.000-07:00

Never fear, that's just a line from the clip.

Slammed right now, so here's a small diversion.

Downwardly Mobile Europersons and Hills Hooligans

2008-06-01T01:44:00.000-07:00

Our CenterGirl is a request from a very dear friend, but, as I was doing my always extensive “research” for this weekend’s issue of Upwardly Mobile Eurotrash, I found myself becoming increasingly concerned, befuddled and depressed.

Carla, sweetheart, you married down, for god’s sake. He’s horrid, ugly, tacky and low in stature. He shat all over his previous wives, uses you like tabloid eye candy and nothing good will come of it.

While it’s fun to have a new incarnation, now we’re wearing Galliano frocks and Chanel flats, the whole Pillbox Jackie meme, but seriously WTH?

I can empathize with the fact that you make abysmal choices in men. Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton…Donald Trump. And you just need a head of state to add to your resume. But, please, The Nicky is a peeg, and a jackbooted one to boot.

**************

Yes, some of us had thought I was to resume my profoundly black, agonized political rants this evening, but I was unable. The sight of those crazed, HRT challenged, unbearably rude, catcalling Code Pink wannabees, screeching at the top of their lungs, cheering on their own Queen Hillbot at the Democratic Party Rules Committee meeting whilst all chances of her coronation faded…all I could do was clutch my Irish passport to my heart and fear for her nation.

A Peace Offering of Sorts

2008-06-01T00:26:00.000-07:00

More Confectionery

2008-05-31T00:30:00.000-07:00

It's Friday night, and, since I already uploaded this evening's playlist last night [given that it was, last night, Friday night in one of my time zones], I feel moved to continue with the irrelevant, frivolous and self-indulgent.

It would appear that in many corners of the world, there is much fascination with Angelina and Brad. I tend to run into them at jezebel, a corner which provides me with much pleasure and diversion.

Therefore, in an attempt to be non-elitist, and understanding the twisted nature of that caveat, I present: Chateau Miraval. The new abode of the galactic couple. The 17th century estate in Provence where she shall give birth to the twins, sample the organic wine produced in its vineyards, surrounded by 400 hectares of forest and said vineyards, secured by iron gates and moat. Thirty-five bedrooms, a lake or two and god knows what else.

And the colors are grand, as well.

I really don't come to snark, rage or indulge in ill-concealed envy masked as supercilious scorn. I simply think it would be a grand place to live, and, if it can't be moi, perhaps better the happy couple than most others who might afford it.

Enola Gay

2008-05-30T03:01:00.000-07:00

Because I love it.

And because the Sir J is 12 year and the places I prefer to live play it in the shops.

Friday Night Special: Shane, Sir J and My Favorite

2008-05-30T02:32:00.000-07:00

Weeping Beauty

2008-05-30T00:02:00.000-07:00

Not sufficient time nor firing synapses to write much of anything, and, given my mood, I'd rather simply have this upon which to gaze.

Just a perfect swath of wisteria.

Almost too beautiful to exist.

Confectionery

2008-05-29T00:16:00.000-07:00

It's Rome, the house colors are sugary and sweet and Clive Owen is shirtless.

One more engaging scenario with which to divert and entertain myself during this week of political abstinence. Yes, I've extended it to a week, until Saturday when the DNC Rules Committee shall meet to determine the fate of...

No, no more, I promised.

Just an endless swath of enchanting, and steadfastly mindless, visuals.

A Perfect Storm

2008-05-28T00:17:00.000-07:00

I found myself in need of an even higher level of escape than usual tonight.

This finally satisfied.

High, very high.

Steeped in steampunk ethos.

As am I.

Not Just an Illusion

2008-05-26T23:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, Mata Hari Day here.

A celebration of risk-taking, stunning corsetry and seduction.

I have no idea, of course, whether she really was a spy or just set up as easy diversion and fall girl.

But I would rather concentrate on the power, strength and beauty of the images she created and left us, that compelling mysterious creature. One aspect of archetype to which all girls aspire.

Seriously.

Girls do want a bit, or a lot, of intrigue. We would like to not be totally known. Even in her dance, the lady of our hour rarely disrobed entirely, always leaving something, not to the imagination, but, perhaps, to be earned.

Pastiche

2008-05-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

“Put simply, burlesque means "in an upside down style". Like its cousin, commedia dell'arte, burlesque turns social norms head over heels. Burlesque is a style of live entertainment that encompasses pastiche, parody, and wit…” Love you, Wikipedia.

Yes, it’s still the weekend, and I’m still thinking of our latest stirring subject.

I knew there was more to it than just the staged events I found so appealing, something else was resonating and I realized it was my lifetime of girlfriends.

In Savannah it was Goth Night at the local upscale gay club. The girls would always gather at my house, traincases in tow, stuffed with enough cosmetics to impress a MAC countergirl. Then the long, leisurely transformation from our everyday personas to glamorous, and possibly dangerous, Queens of the Dark.

Before that there were other times, places and costumes, but the last number of years the celebrations have become more imaginative, more unique to self, more gloriously parti-colored. And I do think some of it has to do with that turning of social norms head over heels.

My girlfriends who were in from Dublin last week had a fine turn at turning dismal social norms upside down. I would like to think that some whose company they graced are still recovering.

And here they are!

Spies Among Us

2008-05-25T00:58:00.000-07:00

One of those listless days with nothing much done and even less on my mind.

So I decided to take a slow stroll through some of my favorite places of yore, stopping off first at Ladies United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails.

The sad news is they seem to have left the building for the last two years. I trust they shall reappear, as, in a lovely coincidence, one of their last projects was presenting an exhibition on the ladies of the burlesque. I might have known.

Said synchronicity has convinced me that I’m on the proper path. This is clearly the requisite divertissement for keeping my head in the sand. At least for the bank holiday weekend.

Oh, and for those minds which enquire, Dita is no longer with Mr. Manson [and I must say I concur: while I'm not much of a believer in any sort of fashion rules, I really don't think the boys should be wearing eyeliner after the age of 23], and she has been signed to play Mata Hari in a new film.

Dirge

2008-05-24T00:46:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know it's Friday night - at least I think it is - and I should be spotlighting the good fortunes of another overachieving europerson of little or no repute.

I also know I swore off politics, more or less, but that really is something I do quite often and no one takes me seriously.

But this really isn't about politics or the election cycle or some amoral rabid little psychobitch.

This is the second time I've used this picture here. The first time was in January, and frankly that post says almost everything I wish to say on the subject.

The gentlemen in the picture are saluting the funeral train that carried the body of Bobby Kennedy as it wended its way through the furthest outposts of his words and heart.

My one best hope is that Teddy stays well enough to do it once again and to put her, once and for all and forever, in her place.

Sweetie

2008-05-23T00:27:00.000-07:00

I am in love with her.

And you won't forgive yourself if you don't have a peek over here.

A Directive

2008-05-22T00:20:00.000-07:00

Good news for most of you: I am swearing off the reading of all those irritating “progressive” blogs which form a most unseemly, hysterical and generally irrelevant [except to their own selves] circle jerk.

Other than small stylistic differences, most of them do nothing other than read each other and cut and paste to their own blog, providing as many outgoing links as possible so as, of course, to increase their Technorati gravitas.

Tedious, yes, but one in particular finally convinced me of the inanity of it all. There are those who, desperate for something ever so slightly more sexy or compelling, have taken back up some old bad habits. Stealing, in fact. I have, therefore, decided to not provide him/her with any more material.

No more politics [or at least nothing clean enough for his/her new fanbase].

I shall foreswear all but Truth and Beauty. Which obviously means sex, fashion, gossip, food, flora, words, pointless rants and, always, fetching boys.

That's Dita Von Teese, just in case you don't know her, and you should.

Another Day

2008-05-20T21:46:00.000-07:00

Some of the words you will hear were quoted in another post far below ["A Fitting Tribute"], because this brother chose to quote that brother's words back at him. Letting that brother's words speak for themselves. And for him.

As they should, and as they do here.

Rant With Gratuitous Sexual References

2008-05-19T23:33:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I met Gloria Steinem, and we had a brief chat. A chat that might have gone on much longer if she hadn’t said something that stopped me in my tracks, accomplishing what most people find impossible. She rendered me speechless.

“There’s nothing sexier in the world than watching a man ironing,” she dropped into our conversation.

My mind - which could, did and often does find itself filled with endless visions of boys and hotness – could simply not compute hers.

Did she find an equitable division of domestic chores a requisite for dalliance, and was ironing perhaps the pinnacle of said equity? Or was it, perhaps, the groveling she found so arousing? After all, she has also said that unpaid housework "is the definition of women's work, which is shit work.''

I’ve grown exhausted by one of the “narratives” in this election: the whole older women/younger women, Clinton/Obama thing. And how it ties in with second wave/third wave feminist divisions. I tire of it because it’s one of those observations that seems so obvious, and I just wish it were all over.

The other outspoken old school feminist in this election has been Erica Jong, she of Fear of Flying and the infamous “zipless fuck.” Since I‘m taking the low road in this exegesis, the relevant point here is one often forgotten: that she stated that she herself has never enjoyed one.

Unlike third-wave feminists.

Both of these women have been penning endless dismissive diatribes against Obama and those who support him, and, most especially, against those younger women whom they see - god, yes, one knows this is coming – as not doing things their way. The end of feminism, the dismissal of all that went before them. Yes, I’ve got it. It's a generational, experiential thing. Angry older women, angry older black preachers.

But what finally pushed me to the limit, and forced me to waste words on these ladies, was Jong’s comments: “Despite his penchant for saying "sweetie" to shut women up, Barack Obama…”

As one who regularly uses some sort of endearment – usually sweetheart, darling, dollbaby [seriously], hon, but almost any will do – perhaps all I’d really like to say to Steinem, Jong, their candidate and all the others who share their anger, bitterness, lack of understanding and sense of entitlement, is

STFU, babycakes.

Cannes: Wankers, Wannabees and Not Much Else

2008-05-18T23:02:00.000-07:00

Either Cannes is losing its ever ironic glitter and bemused self-absorption…or I am.

It was all pandas, fat boys and seniors. Elderly actors with anorexic child brides trying, for reasons unfathomable, to relive their salad days. Elderly directors attempting to salvage their plummeting reputations by scooping up one gorgeous actress and one pathetic media creation and having them snog. How very not hot and how very last decade.

This is all the gossip I could muster:

Sean Penn, trying to prove how very much more deeply French he is than Frenchpersons themselves, insisting on illegally smoking indoors whilst functioning in his role as president of the Cannes Film Festival Jury. How seeringly rebellious of him!

Harrison Ford, doing his best to appear 45 and manly, failing miserably, strutting about, stumbling even whilst strutting. His presence was disquieting enough, but how in god’s name did an Indiana Jones franchise show up here? La ironie, or merely filthy lucre changing surreptitious hands?

The very creepy Scarlett Johansson [she of the “pathetic media creation” above] failing to show up because her outrageously silly demands were not to be met. She was apparently not to be provided with her very own makeup artiste [to the tune of $5000/day], but expected, shudder, to share one with Penelope. Can one imagine the slight?

So Woody Allen hired Johansson, Cruz and Javier Bardem to have a threeway, set in Barcelona. I’m sure he assumed this was an absolutely foolproof way to get the Frenchpeople’s attention and reboot his sagging status, career and member. Sorry, but the creep factor simply overwhelms.

Penelope Cruz, though, is supposedly spectacular, playing the whacked-out ex-wife in the above noted pathetic pander. From some of the pics I’ve seen of her on Allen’s arm, though, I'm thinking she might wish she’d stuck with Almodovar. As do I.

1001 Nights

2008-05-17T22:52:00.000-07:00

Sorry to inflict this on all of us, especially on a Saturday night, but truth be told this really is what a Saturday night in Dublin often looks like.

Yes, Colin Farrell is the spitting image of most of those stumbling out of Fibber's or wherever.

The only difference is that, because he is who he is, he has just been awarded a Gold Card to Abrakebabra, the necessary and inevitable pitstop on one's long night's journey back to flat.

Their kebabs are dreadful, cheap and can only be consumed whilst hammered beyond measure. Yes, the Irish version of White Castle.

Welcome to the New Old World

2008-05-16T22:26:00.000-07:00

Mara Carfagna.

You've never heard of her, you mutter?

Welcome to the first in our new and sporadic series: Upwardly Mobile Eurotrash.

We will be showcasing heart-stopping exemplars of the ever-expanding, and soon to be nation state, the Sovereign Supremely Supranational Social-ha! European Union.

Tonight's eurodamsel comes with a delightfully eclectic portfolio, and, no, not what you're thinking, unless you're thinking of her very early work.

Yes, this former "showgirl" [and I have no idea what the Italian street means by this term], law school graduate, topless Maxim model, politician, object of Silvio Berlusconi's ever lustful attentions, now has a brand new gig: Minister of Equal Opportunity [hell, yes] in the Berlusconi's cabinet.

Yes, once upon a time the United States was known for being the place where anything was possible, the sky was the limit, as long as you worked hard, never had sex, greased all the right palms and kept your mouth shut. Any little boy or girl could make it to the top of whatever slag heap, no matter how poor, how off-color, how dim-witted he or she might be.

[Our other series, Downwardly Mobile Former Trailer Trash Celebrities and Politicians will be running concurrently, but even more sporadically, with this series.]

But now it's our turn. The American Dream is now the EuroDream. A land of peace and plenty, with no glass ceilings anywhere. Just a bit, you know, sexier and more ironic.

Bounders then and now

2008-05-16T00:09:00.000-07:00

Cads.

Dying breed, performance art, stock character, myth?
I would have thought dying breed, since I’d like to think I’ve run into one or two somewhere in my distant past. A smooth, attentive customer, an interesting but shaky resume, one too many passports.

A gentleman who would woo, court, show you an excellent fine time, then disappear one day with your bank account, wardrobe, safe deposit box and/or heart. Making for wonderful stories with which to entertain your girlfriends, bore any future children and demoralize all boyfriends yet to be.

But I’m afraid the concept of cad is most likely a myth made up by our grandmothers and great-grandmothers to rationalize and whitewash the simple, time honored behaviors of men everywhere. Even the language we use to describe them haunts other decades.

These behaviors seem to inevitably revolve around another woman and a very tall tale. The ex-girlfriend with whom he is not speaking, dining or bonking. But to whom he must suddenly return that night after one has taken the train up to NYC, gotten madly drunk with him and been thrown out of one very famous literary bar, only to be dropped unceremoniously off at the Gramercy Park fucking Hotel. She was young, very young, and she hopped back onto a train at 6 in the morning, still dead drunk, and wept all the way back to DC.

The next time this happened, a couple of decades later, another louse had two of them. He admitted he was “living” with the other women [his work involved dual countries/residences], but the one was, and I swear...”like a sister” to him, but her flat was huge and cheap and what was a boy to do? The other, installed at his other location, was very young, deeply disturbed, she needed him, would expire without him. Unluckily for him, he had mistaken her for the girl at the Gramercy, and all she could do was howl with laughter.

I imagine men had life much easier in those older days, with the ready-made cover of cad, but the world, as we hear if we listen, has changed. Have a peek at this, if you will, and enjoy the very new playing field.

Cheers, Seriously

2008-05-15T19:12:00.000-07:00

Weddings!!

Unlike most girls, I wasn’t much intrigued by the concept, never fantasized about them. The objects of my future obsessions always involved residences. Endless sketches, fantasies, blueprints, garden designs.

Seriously.

But today I am thinking that it is indeed a wondrous thing that hundreds of weddings might suddenly be celebrated all over the generally unenlightened [truly] state of California.

[Note to those who do not know: This morning the California Supreme Court ruled, in a rather surprising decision, that there was absolute equal protection under the law for all citizens, of whatever sexual orientation, to enjoy the full benefits of the law, including marriage, and that all counties should forthwith make whatever arrangements necessary to allow and implement such marriages.]

I imagine a myriad of celebrations bursting forth across the state, like endless swaths of wildflowers across empty fields, a startling explosion of light, color, joy and good cheer. An influx of happy couples from all over the country, rendering that benighted state a much, much more beauteous – and just – state of mind and place.

2008-05-13T19:40:00.000-07:00

No, it's not an obsession with Barry.

Nor just my endless penchant for gazing at beautiful men.

Well, perhaps it is all that, but it's also the pic itself. It reminded me of something else, something rather haunting.

And then there it was, and god knows it was just what I needed today.

After all, the Shadowmaster was the gentleman who financed a certain trip to Cannes one other festival year for similarly intrepid ladies of letters. Perhaps this is a sign?! Perhaps a manuscript will be accepted, a lottery ticket cashed out, pigs will fly, and I shall soon find myself sipping a fino at a cafe overlooking the Mediterranean.

Cosmos, Cuba Libres and Chimeras

2008-05-12T22:20:00.000-07:00

Cannes.

We knew I’d have to go there, now more than ever. Between cyclones, earthquake and election cycle, my favorite fantasy event comes to the rescue.

Way too much irony abounds, given that it has now been 10 years since I’ve actually entered a theatre to watch a film. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the concept, the gowns, the gossip.

This evening I thought I’d present another pleasing piece of irony. Che and the gentleman who is playing him in this year’s entry. And the other gentleman whom he had, once upon a time, wished to play. The wish was apparently mutual, but never to be.

Timing is indeed everything.

Fun, seriously

2008-05-12T00:08:00.000-07:00

“So, yes, maternal certitude is thrust upon one, does not allow for hesitation or nuance and is certainly not limited to biological imperative.”

That was another time, another post [the Parlour: May 15, 2006].

When I was 5 or 6, our cat had delivered a fine litter of kittens, and, after 2 days of round the clock nursing, I awoke to the startling sense of her poking one of them under my covers. Then another and another, until all of them were safely tucked in. She then demanded escape and took off for some quality alone time outside.

I curled around them as I had seen her do, and they were more than fine. Content, asleep, seemingly oblivious to change of place.

That was to be my only ever bit of instruction on motherhood, but I do believe it was sufficient.

My own mother was the second youngest of 11 children, and she had been sent to live with an older sister when she was 10, farmed out as it were, to function as housemaid. My aunt [who never had any children of her own] and she developed an odd, symbiotic relationship over the years that followed. They were extremely close, but I could never quite figure out the dynamics. My mother often seemed infantilized in her company, as if she might have been forever seeking that nurture she had missed out on along the way.

When she became a mother herself, her approach was direct and often vocalized. She fancied babies immensely, but not much once they were up and walking. She had a decided preference for her boys. But what I found most odd was that she never really seemed to have a sense of us, never really knew us. As if the only part of mothering she understood, or cared for, was that early nurturing, the kittens tucked into bed.

I found my own child’s infancy wonderful but challenging, for all the usual economic and domestic reasons. But after that every single day, year, decade, has brought a new thought or skill, smile or kindness, adventure or nuance. I learned that, for me and for most, the joys of motherhood are daily, endless, always surprising and forever exponential.

I am always sorry that my own mother missed that part, the best part, of motherhood. Taking daily delight, forever, in the ever changing and unique nature of one's own child.

Amy Herself

2008-05-10T02:07:00.000-07:00

Yes, we all want Amy Winehouse to eat something. Preferably several helpings of shepherd’s pie, a double order of damp chips and several sandwiches from her local Spar.

We also think she should kick Blake Incarcerated to the floor.

We hope that she survives the notion that artistic genius must inevitably cohabit with madness, addiction and self-destruction.

We have right here, in fact, a commenter of note who disproves that notion.

But most of us were once 20-somethings gone bad. I have a “friend” who spent several years acting out every witless overindulgence known to man. Amy cuts, drinks, is said to purge and indulges in low-rent chemicals. My friend rarely ate, drank copiously and enjoyed a brief but memorable affair with a high-rent powder.

At the end of it all, she weighed 83 pounds and had grown weary of too many thoroughly unmemorable boys, friends and flats. There was an abiding sense of ennui, a weariness of puerile drama and an easy conclusion that it had all grown quite old.

Almost everyone I know, all grown up, has murmured the words “I don’t know how I made it out alive.”

The reward for having survived is that one can do it all over again, when the opportunity presents, but with a pinch more wisdom if not discretion.

I don’t really know if “interventions,” familial devotion or rehab are of much use, despite the tabloid wisdom. I do know they would have been wasted on my friend. She didn’t give a whit – and still does not – about other people’s assessments of her, her choices, her circumstances. She only trusts her own, even when she chooses to ignore them.

So, in the best of all possible worlds, I do hope Amy Herself comes to that end.

2008-05-09T19:36:00.000-07:00

It's Friday night, and this is where I should be.

When I first moved to Dublin I had a gentleman friend who refused to accompany me here because the place had recently been yuppified, and he, like many of us, would only frequent places of low repute.

What he never took time to discover was that the remodeling work was to no avail. The patrons continued, as ever, to be of thoroughly ill repute, and so nothing had changed other than the fittings were now more pleasant to the eye.

Caron smokes

2008-05-08T00:55:00.000-07:00

I thought it might be time to give the girls their due.

I love the suit, and I love her. Then and now.

2008-05-06T15:05:00.000-07:00

NOT live-blogging the Indiana and North Carolina primaries.

But the idiot-heads are on telly in the background, doing their idiotic best to make it look as if it's still some sort of close race and therefore millions of people should be glued to said telly.

My goal is to capture the silliest inanities spewed, at least on MSNBC and CNN.

7:03 - Just saw that Megan at CP is doing the same thing, but her blood alcohol level must be higher than mine since she's also watching Fox. Ah, Lou Dobbs just showed up. He should be able to provide me with something suitably insane.

7:19 - So Chris Matthews says that Obama is leading in the under-65's in Indiana, which he'll lose, but Billary is getting more than 70% of those over.

From here on, I'll keep it to the Comments to spare our sensibilities.

Not just food porn

2008-05-05T01:17:00.000-07:00

No, just places my heart inhabits. Various markets, where I used to buy my provisions, and where I shall again.

None of the pics feel right, but I tried, and here they are.

Les Halles in Biarritz.

Moore Street in Dublin.

La Boquerìa in Barcelona.

In Biarritz I would have to pass by a claque of silent, sturdy and stubborn Etaistas, and it gave me no pause. It was very, very clean, and one stunningly kind vendor had no issue with my Spanish, serving me exquisite dollops of cassoulet. Just the thing for nursing sick child back to health and me back to self.

The Molly Malones are long since gone from Dublin, and the real treasure is to be found in the butcher shops lining the street, not in the sad stands.

But La Boquerìa is beyond words. I would wish to live there if I could, curled up at night, consoled by all of it. Having lived so long in all the various rungs of Purgatory, I can truly attest that it is, indeed, Paradise.

Shape-shifting within the ranks

2008-05-03T23:41:00.000-07:00

Something for the boys and/or since, as we well know...

And, given that it's the weekend, I'm bored unto tears and there's not a book to be had, I thought a Page Six style pop quiz might be in order.

Breathlessly:

Which journalist of a most authentic nature has been busily reinventing himself, leaping from pond to pond in search of larger audience, adulation and expense account? I can also assume it’s much more ego satisfying to find one’s name in Vanity Fair, The Daily Kos and HuffPo than in various and sundry Indymedias and being fauned over by batshit children everywhere.

And which former media fave and soliloquist extraordinaire has not only declared his undying [and presumably unrequited] love for Angelina Jolie but has also gone to extreme measures to solicit her presence? Seriously. I know this. First-hand, more or less.

RIP

2008-05-02T00:11:00.000-07:00

A necessary homage to ladies and gentlemen of the evening everywhere.

It hardly surprises that the brutish thugs at Justice would go after Deborah Jeane Palfrey, nor that she would be found dead today, most likely suicided, as they say these days.

For those not in the States or those sans telly, Ms. Palfrey was busted in Washington last year for running a modestly profitable escort service. Her specialty was providing fantasy scenarios for deeply unexciting men, and her stated defense was that sex was never on offer, just the fantasy. If anything more climactic took place, well that was between the client and the escort/independent contractor. That rationale was obviously much too logical for the DOJ rodents, and she was found guilty 2 weeks ago.

I don’t want to belabor the obvious idiocy and immorality of Ms. Palfrey being incarcerated for up to 55 years while not one of the thousands of paying male clients were even charged. Or the fact that the one senator/john who was outed is still stoically wed and serving in the Senate.

Even though she was obviously a smart businesswoman, she clearly didn’t know how to play the game in DC. Sex - unlike money, position and circle-jerks - is not considered to be a component of power. Just the opposite: congressional pages, whores, interns, heavily sedated wives, all are viewed as passive vessels, serving only to service.

What Ms. Palfrey might have done was to parlay the cards she did hold earlier, before she was indicted. After all, having the salacious goods on Cheney, Vitter and Dick Morris could have brought her enough protection to survive for decades in that incestuous cesspool.

The mere fact that, after the fact, she tried to negotiate - with ABC, for god’s sake - for the sale of her client list [or their phone numbers] demonstrates what an absolute naïf she was, completely unaware of the circularity of power and how well the boys really do take care of each other.

So of course she chose to hang herself in a shed, next door to her mother's double-wide, knowing she would be discovered by said mother. All I can say is that if it wasn’t one more offhand hit job, there must be tens of thousands gleefully raising their glasses to the eternal efficacy of PSYOPS.

I heart Jean Gabin

2008-04-30T01:43:00.000-07:00

For the girls, the gayz and all sorts of unrequited everywhere.

Yes, JJJ, thank you.

French, rumpled, a tad difficult perhaps.

But, we would like to think, worth it.

Boys Gone Wild, Volume 3

2008-04-29T19:19:00.000-07:00

“…his smug overwrought self-righteousness became beyond unbearable. The endless rants, pompously stating the obvious, loving the sound of his own words to such a degree that the entire spectacle made me feel as if I’d caught some pathetic wanker en flagrante delicto.”

And guess what? That is actually a quote from another post below, about another boy whose descent into narcissistic frenzy had driven me to similar loathing.

So what in the hell is this new template? Boys gone suddenly crazy when given spotlight and adulation. Is it directly related to the new news cycle, endlessly looping, providing seemingly infinite platform for the infinitely inane?

Or does it have to do with our nonstop adulation of celebrity, stupidity and “reality,” urging everyone towards that glittering, climactic moment in the spotlight?

Probably all that and more. The simple narcissism of some who, sooner or later, start believing their reviews, their fans, their book jacket blurbs. Goodness, they think, I truly am the best of the best, the infallible one, the Second Coming of whatever came before, whether the First be Emiliano, Edward R. or Jesus himself.

I have the feeling that in the Reverend’s case he won’t end up fading offstage or being forced to fake a bit of humility as the previous two did. I imagine Robert Johnson [BET founder, billionaire and huge Billary surrogate who famously once referenced Obama’s hanging around the hood doing, you know, what those who hang there do] already trying to rustle up a gig for him. Pitching it as Dr. Phil meets Dancing With the Stars meets Tyra.

a very special gift

2008-04-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Mr. Robeson. And thank you, "V."

The audacity of smokes redux

2008-04-15T00:39:00.000-07:00

There was something about
the Obama pic below.

And it's not just the smokes.

Black and white, of course.

Almost oblivious to the camera.

As if they had more than enough going on in their own lives and minds.

Not distant, exactly, but serious, engrossed and engaged, but elsewhere.

No glitz, few props, except for Belmondo who was, after all, just playing at it.

And exceedingly comfortable in their own skins.

A very distant time and place.

Love at first sight

2008-04-14T16:41:00.000-07:00

Totally my bad. Today. Again.

Yes, totes my bad is my new mantra, and that is clearly not a good thing.

The insane, inane political brouhaha over the weekend has finally forced me to switch off the cable news networks [where telly is generally parked, for background noise, such a depressing admission, but a fact forced on me by current socioeconomic circumstances] and turn to other, ever so slightly less inane, noise.

I’m afraid the bastards, hacks and whores who make up mainstream media, in their usual collusion with their political cohorts, have finally orchestrated an endgame scenario of intolerable fiction, stupidity and unbearably endless loops. At least for me.

I hate them for it, it has me consumed and, god knows, I have to stop thinking about it. And, thanks to Robert Reich, I can! He said it, now I don’t have to, and, to make it all the more seamless, he even uses the same template!!

So be it, and now I can move on to other, less soul-stealing subjects.

The audacity of smokes

2008-04-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

Counterpoint.

The Max Factor Blues

2008-04-10T19:49:00.000-07:00

I think one of the major reasons the Clintons are running such a disastrous campaign is their thoroughly ingrained belief that American politics, non-parliamentary and divisive, is, by nature, a zero-sum game. The fundamental assumption that you’re either with us or against us is just as basic to the Clinton mindset as it was to Bush. One can only “win” by destroying one’s opposition since they are irrelevant and expendable anyway, both in the campaign and in governance.

The mere thought that there might be some sort of paradigm shift, of whatever duration, is too horrible for Clinton to conjure. The fact that Obama’s campaign and supporters seem to be already operating within that new paradigm could be why her own campaign has been so supremely off kilter and reactive. She simply doesn’t get it. It is impossible for her, and that entire wing of the Democratic party, to imagine a system without entrenched elites, $15 million dollar “speaking” fees, poll-driven positions and thuggery.

I would like to think that this is in some way generational and, therefore, inevitable. Her trajectory – from cowgirl-clad Goldwater supporter to Bill Clinton wife and regent – is typical of that sort of woman of that particular time. Some of them believed they had to cultivate a public persona of sweetness and light, overachievement and perfection. But they also believed, viscerally, that it was very much a man’s world, so, in her case, she hitched her wagon to one, all the while plotting her own place in that world.

And, since the playing field was crafted and populated by men, these women still believe that they have to play by the same old rules, much in the same way some women of a certain age cling to the same makeup, hair and fashion choices of their youth. In Clinton’s case, it’s still liquid eyeliner, orange lipstick and atrocious asexual St. John’s suits instead of, oh, probably Jonathon Logan jumpers from her salad days.

Once they entered the political [and business as well] arena, they clung to the old school ground rules , playing hardball as well as, or better than, the boys. So we have sweetness and light on the one hand, ruthless expediency on the other. And that, of course, is where her endlessly vaunted “35 years of experience” lie: learning, honing and practicing the Machiavellian arts of politics as usual. Thus that schizophrenic shape-shifting which only serves to strengthen the public perception of Clintonian duplicity.

I actually do know a few women just like her [and her cabal of Ferraro clone supporters]. Women who have no sense of their own core, who have been playing what they thought were the necessary [and sufficient] games all their lives only to end up enraged, embittered and confused. They have been so much immersed in whoring themselves out for a few crumbs of power and patronage they never noticed that the playing field, political as well as fashion, had shifted.

Sometimes, I’ve decided, a bitch really is just a bitch.

Blood Ties

2008-04-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

There are so many reasons I’ve never wanted to write about this. Or even think about it, although I do, almost every day.

I suppose for some it’s like having a serious, probably life-threatening disease. The healthy survivor’s instinct to not be defined by his illness, rather to set it in its rightful place, just one more piece of his psychological and physical baggage. Total bullshit of course, except in the sense of forcing one to get the hell off the couch and on with one’s life.

The blood wasn’t just on the water by then – 40 years ago today - it was everywhere. In the air, raining death. Splattered across every piece of paper legislation, speech, report, note to whatever front. Eyes bloodshot from weed, rage, pain, death, and so much more to come.

For me, as for many, it began on that ellipse listening to those words, the deep comfort of being surrounded by a quarter of a million decent people of like heart. I was very young, carrying a sign, as we did, mine about equal housing, a sign that was almost as tall as I was. An overwhelming sense of having found, and come, home.

In my own family I was already discomfiting outsider. Too uppity [precisely] with my words and objections and inappropriate observations. But I was also middle child, perfect in every other way. Perfect sibling, perfect student, trying to balance the rejection engendered by my “views” with approval for my “successes.”

The five year arc that ended 40 years ago today was, for many, more than just defining moment. It forged, defined, bloodied and, two months later, destroyed much of the best of the best of us. Minds, hearts and bodies.

A personal arc written in acronyms, SCLC, SNCC, SDS [the latter short-lived, as full of shit as stupidity, and so very much like what passes for the left now]. And, even within, the polarities of turf and power had already begun tearing the possibilities of hope apart. Newer sensibilities, not afraid to use the rhetoric and tools of the enemy, taunted the “idealistic” agendas of those old school acronyms.

Soon a sense of chaos and unraveling took hold. But then, suddenly, a tying up of sorts. An incipient recognition that the blood spilled and spilling on foreign shores and urban streets was of a piece. Collateral, and often designed, damage from the wider war that was being waged by common enemy. The language changed with this recognition and, with this recognition and these words, more blood.

Read those words from April 4, 1967, one year, yes, to the very day before that day and you can understand how the stilling of that voice was necessary requisite for the 40 years that followed.

But there it still is, a silent cancer that still festers and grows, extending its parasitic reach within. The friend who once manned barricades now wittily dismissing the fallen in Iraq as being, after all, just the children of Nascar dads. The other friend who once posed fetchingly in red heels atop a tank in Nicaragua during the war, now supporting Hillary and screeching angrily, just like her candidate, at anyone who asks her why. Those whose despair has ossified into creed or academia or corporate boardrooms or soundbites.

There are a few of us left who fear the arc might be repeating itself, the cycle of despair, voice, wisdom, strength, blood, despair, surrender masked as irony. But the only irony I can find is that this time the ones with the bullets, billy clubs and napalm are those who, crippled by the pain that has consumed them, traversed that arc and are now unable to bear the sight of others daring to walk it, or the very few of us daring to walk it again.

Three faces of eve or robotic programming error?

2008-02-28T22:32:00.000-08:00

Back again, god knows why.

I could almost be over politics if it were not for the unmitigated delight of watching HRC [or swampsow, her sobriquet over at my local] suffer the most nuclear, and televised, of meltdowns. Each moment is more precious than the next.

Trying to stuff Bill, her once vaunted silver bullet, back into the closet, most likely sending him comely interns to keep him occupied. Swerving in and out of various personas in that never-ending, and ever so pesky, challenge of “finding her voice.”

Should she cry, whine, bat her eyelashes and play the sweet Damsel in Distress being assaulted by the Big Bad Boys, the Unfair Media and, oh, that pervy Chris Matthews?

Should she play Schoolmistress Dominatrix, jabbing her finger, lowering her angry, angry voice to a testosterone-laced rumble?

Or how about Crazed Housewife Off Her Meds, arms flailing skyward, screeching at the top of her lungs, ranting maniacally about prophets of hope and the righteousness of despair.

It’s almost enough to get one out of bed in the morning.

A fitting tribute

2008-01-28T21:53:00.000-08:00

Totally my bad last night, and I promise to never go there again. I had no bloody idea who 95% of those persons were, and I think that’s a good thing. I would do Cannes, though. Hint, hint.

As for tonight, I will confess to having “watched” the State of the Union Address, but only because we were liveblogging it over at The Cynic’s Party, which has more or less become my local. A lot of politics, smart people, drinking and very foul language. What more could one ask for? There was a Friday Night massacre at wonkette last week, so the party has decamped to the new bar, as one does.

But the fun part of the day was watching Patrick, Caroline and Uncle Ted adopt Obama just as I was awakening to my day, Teddy passionately declaiming as only he can. Masterfully skewering Hill and Bill, sneering at, mocking and burying all their lies, racist remark s and stupidities. The couple-in-waiting had clearly forgotten that one of the virtues of that generation of Kennedys is/was their ability to wage righteous, earth-scorching war, especially in the face of fatuous, self-serving parvenus.

And parvenus they are. Hills thinks all she needs to do is put a pantsuit on a Rovian dirty tricks strategy, and no one will notice. They will never understand that some people really truly do believe in one or two of the things they say they believe in, even a [very] few politicians. And when Bill outed himself on Saturday with the Jessie Jackson comment, they were off the plantation [irony intended] forever.

Parvenus because they only understand poll driven positions, pandering and pretense.

Parvenus because "Few men are willing to brave the disapproval of their fellows, the censure of their colleagues, the wrath of society. Moral courage is a rarer commodity than bravery in battle or great intelligence. Yet it is the one essential, vital, quality for those who seek to change a world which yields most painfully to change.”

Not that they could ever understand those words, but the person who spoke them, if he were still around, would have ruthlessly kicked them to the floor, grinned and never given them another thought.

Luckily for all of us, his brother did it for him today.

Maternity couture

2008-01-27T19:33:00.000-08:00

It would appear that no one showed up this evening, at least no one who can dress themselves.

I also adore Cate, of course, and frankly this was the best I've seen. Balenciaga, I think, F2007, and you can't tell from the shot, but she's seriously preggers.

Also, my bad from the previous post: that was Jeremy from last year, although thus far my premise still holds.

Peacock alley

2008-01-27T18:37:00.000-08:00

Yes, the horror of it all.

Thus far, this is the most interesting example of sartorial splendour I've seen.

The shirt is horrid, the jacket "interesting," but what the hell is going on around Jeremy's waist? Some sort of old school punk truss?

Love the scarf, though.

Tilda

2008-01-27T14:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, one of my favorite actresses in one of my favorite films which was directed by one of my favorite directors. She's also apparently nominated this evening.

And just to make things even more exciting - not to mention easier - I just found another site that shall be liveblogging, but with [easily pilfered] pics!

A programming note

2008-01-27T14:33:00.000-08:00

As penance for my previous post, I thought I might address something with a bit more universal appeal and leave my rant on Hillbot for a later time. Perhaps sometime after midnight which, as some of you know, is Cocktail Hour in this particular purgatory.

I had thought of addressing the serious issues of whether or not the interwebs are destroying porn…how much I wish I could have been the PA for that French rogue trader and learned a truly useful trade…why Irish hitmen are so wildly incompetent…

But I’ve decided instead to liveblog the SAG awards tonight, sober, which should probably make any and all observations coherent but snarkier than they might have been otherwise.

Why I really truly despise Keith Olbermann

2008-01-22T16:34:00.001-08:00

[Let this note serve as a more or less permanent caveat: my deepest apologies to those lucky readers who are inhabiting other, more pleasant parts of my universe and who will not be familiar with some of my current topics.]

Yes, the boy started out as a welcome counterpoint to all the other cowardly whores on CNN and Fox and MSNBC. He was an unabashed geek, loved baseball and clearly saw himself as Speaking Truth to Power. No mean feat when all the others, in all mainstream media outlets, were twisting themselves into obscene pretzels, scared witless by the fear mongering, wiretapping, career destroying Powers That Be.

But then the sad metamorphosis into misogynistic, preening narcissist. Righto. Déjà vu redux, sigh, for those of you who might remember another with similar trajectory.

As he became the darling of the Left, his smug overwrought self-righteousness became beyond unbearable. The endless rants, pompously stating the obvious, loving the sound of his own words to such a degree that the entire spectacle made me feel as if I’d caught some pathetic wanker en flagrante delicto. Not that I would rule out the odd bit of voyeurism, but this sort of public self-pleasuring should be confined to private, or certain public , restrooms.

He is constantly self-referential, and I picture him googling himself every 5 minutes as he has need to note any mention made of him anywhere in the universe. His silly obsession with the O’Reilly twit serves only to provide mirror for his very own brand of twitdom. Then there are the very nasty, offhand and occasionally vulgar “jokes” about the fair sex.

Yes, let’s face it. The young dweeb, all grown up, basking in the spotlight of his own glory and moral superiority, not to mention now having a chance to get back at the legions of girls who must have recoiled in horror at his fumbling advances.

Over-reacting, you might ask? But of course. It’s just that I am finally totally sick unto death of fatuous, self-engrossed boys who start out useful and then, unmasking in public, reveal nothing but their childish insecurities and narcissistic overcompensation.

So there [flouncing petulantly offstage, Jameson in hand].

redux

2008-01-21T22:32:00.000-08:00

For a bit too long I’ve felt as if I’ve been scattering various discrete parts of my self all over the interwebs. Several too many blogs, each reflecting one small piece of the puzzle, an abundance of personas, avatars, sects, rants, passions and persons.

So of course we know the solution: one more bloody blog.

Some of the compartmentalizing was a necessary survival mechanism. The nature of my work, for example, often requires me to interact with real people in the real world who would hardly understand or appreciate my other passions.

And many of my most fervently passionate friends might be unsettled at the thought that I do, in fact, exist in the real world.

Since I spent my formative years inside the beltway – and many of the subsequent ones manning various barricades – politics will always be in my blood and heart. And I have always moved, rarely comfortably, between both worlds. Both worlds demand a kind of allegiance, a strict adherence to proper thought and agenda, a kind of obedience that I will always find abhorrent and impossible.

So I suppose I see this as some sort of coming out – disrobing as we might have said in the Parlour. And, yes, there will still be room here for foolishness. Sex and gossip, Balzac and low blows, footwear and flora, harlots high and low.