He's in the House

The 44th President of the United States

Mood management.

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.

Vote.


Early, often and gleefully.

And more to come...

Yes.

We.

Will.

epic win

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

And, yes, it's totes for real.

5 days...

Maria Sibylla Merian & Daughters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daddies Dearest

[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?!

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?!

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

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.

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

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

More femme, yes?

Must be that maternal certainty thing.

The Dublin Women's Mini-Marathon!!

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

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

Thoroughly ensconced therein.

Madness Takes its Toll

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

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

More Confectionery

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

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

Weeping Beauty

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

I am in love with her.

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

A Directive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

“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

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.

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.