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.

Caron smokes

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

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

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

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

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

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.