Archive for February, 2006

Shopping Review: The Address

Saturday, February 25th, 2006


Few shopping experiences are more depressing than a sale at a second-hand designer clothing store. I went to the sale at The Address, in Santa Monica, in response to the tempting postcard they sent me, describing price reductions of up to 75%. The storefront resembles a miniature Roman Colosseum, with banners proclaiming classic high-end designer brands. Gucci! Prada! Chanel! Versace! Fendi! Inside it’s a cluttered mess, filled with racks of clothes that get progressively more expensive as you work your way toward the closet-like rear of the store.

The sale had been in progress for five hours when I arrived. An exhausted woman was slumped on a small couch, next to a sad half-empty platter of complementary cookies. An elderly couple tried without success to explain to each other some problem regarding a pantsuit on a rack marked “$30 and under!?”   None of the three salespersons took notice of me, busy as they were cooing at a customer modeling an awful jacket back in the communal dressing area.

I looked through a rack of jeans, impressed by the many outmoded styles and ridiculously high prices. I did see a noteworthy pair of jeans with purple fur appliques on the widely flared bottoms, but I was too shaken to look at the pricetag. Next, I tried sweaters and shirts, finding a collection I would pass right by in a thrift shop. Likewise a shelf of tired handbags, including two fake Chanels and a beat-up alligator bag priced at $125 and marked “Vintage?”.

With bated breath, I approached a rack of purported Chanel suits. Most were huge but there was a garish red plaid from the 70s or 80s in my size. Luckily, the jacket was much too long for my taste, and the price was a fearsome $690. The evening-wear was mildly interesting in its eclectic array of styles, most suited to a showgirl or prostitute with a penchant for black. The decadent snake-skin pantsuit by Fendi , however, was priced at $2,100 and worth every penny.

As I began to accept that the party was over ( for me, anyway,) I steered away from a pair of half-undressed Asian girls chattering in irritable tones, and found myself mesmerized by a short muscular woman preening in front of a mirror. She seemed to be evaluating a huge gold chain belt that did nothing to help her skintight, psychedelic mini-dress, which she had chosen to accent with painful looking stiletto heeled shoes. I was annoyed to notice that she had managed to find a nice handbag, which she now inspected. Her hard, tanned features displayed doubt. Oh goody, I thought, maybe she’ll put it back on the shelf. Instead, she presented it to a salesclerk and lied: “I thought this was a Dooney and Burke, but now I see it says Dior. Do you think it’s really Dior? I’ve never seen this style”. Of course she assumed it was a genuine Dior, but hoped to get away with paying less. I fought the urge to intervene, and walked out into the blazing sun.

To sum up, I’ve learned that it’s far more rewarding to look for affordable designer clothing on ebay, or even Marshalls, than to waste your time at The Address, located at 1116 Wilshire Blvd. in Santa Monica, and on the net at

Men are from Mars, and They Want you to Stop Talking

Sunday, February 19th, 2006


As we all know, women like to talk and men want us to shut up.

I’m sure this was an issue for Adam and Eve: She wanted to talk about her day, but he just wanted to unwind and space out. The most common complaint of married women? “He doesn’t listen!” Husbands are typically frustrated by wives who describe problems but don’t seem to welcome instructions on how to solve them.  Smart husbands will pretend to listen at least some of the time, but their body language says “Hurry up before I explode.”

We’re talkative but we’re not imbeciles.

Recently, feeling starved for conversation, I called a male friend, Dr. Larue.  At some point, he complained about his wife’s habit of describing her day. If she had to talk, why couldn’t she do it with less emotion? Her expressiveness annoys him.

I pointed out that I only called him because my own husband doesn’t want to converse with me.  We discussed another couple whose ratio of talking to silence is creating a problem along the same gender lines.  We wondered why so many expressive women wound up with such uncommunicative men. (Probably because that’s the only kind of women and men in existence, it occurs to me now.)

So here is my business proposition, hatched with some suggestions from Dr. Larue: A telephone service for women who want conversation with a man!

Nothing sexual, obviously, since that service is already covered. This is about active listening. The ad campaign would be something like, “Women, Save Your Marriage! Need to talk? Call Bob, The Man Who Listens!”

There will be options like “For sympathetic listening, press one. For fascinated  listening, press two. For Slightly Combative but Still Supportive listening. press three” and so on.  There won’t be an option for advice, because, duh, you can get that at home.

I love this idea! I’d call “Bob” right now, if the price were right. The only problem would be finding the Bobs. When I asked Dr. L. if he’d sign on, he laughed heartily. “Are you kidding,” he said, “I can’t stand to listen!” I reminded him that he’d been listening to me. “Well, you’re entertaining,” he responded.

Ha! Tell that to my husband.


Friday, February 17th, 2006


Whoever you are, you want Angelina Jolie. You can deny it, but you know it’s true. If you resent sharing such a popular  fantasy and wish you could resist her appeal, I’m here to let you off the hook.

You can’t help wanting Angelina, and this is why: Man, woman, baby, mother, warrior, Angelina is all things to all people. Her body is both male and female, angular and rounded. Thin but full. If you had sex with her, you would have the thrill of a threesome without the awkward morning-after!

Scientific theory maintains that women with baby faces, such as Kate Moss, who has big eyes, a small, full mouth and small nose,  are attractive because they trigger the warm protective feelings we have towards small children. Think of Bambi, or Manga characters. When you gaze at the face of Angelina Jolie, you are looking at an exaggerated baby. Look! Look at that big head and lips and button nose! It’s the cutest, biggest baby ever!

Devil temptress and homewrecker, Saint and mother, humanitarian and nutcase. Angelina cannot be denied. Jen never had a prayer, did she? If Angelina were after your husband, your wife, or even your baby, you would be toast.

Let’s  all give in. It’s Angelina’s world.  We’re just living in it.

I Love Dick!

Thursday, February 16th, 2006

Busta Cap


Ultimately, I’m the guy who pulled the trigger. That fired the round that hit Harry. And you can talk about all of the other conditions that existed at the time. But that’s the bottom line. And there’s no, it’s not Harry’s fault. You can’t blame anybody else. I’m the guy who pulled the trigger and shot my friend. And I say that’s a moment I’ll never forget.

WHAT A MENSCH! Dick Cheny sits right down on Fox News and says straight up: “I take the blame.” This is leadership, godammit. He could have blamed the planetary allignment, but no. He could have blamed Saddam, but he didn’t. He is very very clear about NOT blaming his “friend Harry”, and that’s the part I love most.

Even a moron (ie, someone slightly more sentient that George W) could deconstruct that sentence. “It’s not Harry’s fault” in this context means “It’s Harry’s fault!”   And the mawkish “I shot my friend” confession is so much better than the factual “I never met the guy before.”  

I fucking love this development and I’m not afraid to say so! If that old millionaire dies, they’ll reanimate him with Mary Cheney’s heart and kill two quails with one stone.

I can’t wait for more on this, but in the meantime, there’s the super-wacky Blogs for Bush  to  pass  the time. God bless America!  


Head Lice : Too Icky for the Rich and Famous?

Tuesday, February 14th, 2006

louse   Hair Fairies is “the only full-service salon in Los Angeles and Manhattan dedicated to removing head lice in a kid-friendly environment” and whoever came up with the idea to offer this service is a godamm genius.

Head Lice is an equal opportunity parasite that tends to plague young schoolchildren. If you think of it as a malady of the lower classes, then you don’t have kids. Outbreaks of head lice are now more common than chicken pox, and in a way, a lot more upsetting. At least, for the parents.

When your kid’s school sends home a flyer telling you to check his or her hair and scalp, chances are you will freak out. If it’s the first time,  expect to  feel a combination of outrage and disgust. Lice?! Eeoow! If it’s not the first time, one is more likely to curse: SHIT, NOT AGAIN!   The bottom line of head lice is that it’s a huge pain in the ass to get rid of them. You have to apply a toxic shampoo that will strip off your nail polish, and then you have to search through the hair for nits (the tiny eggs that cling to each hair and have to be picked off with a special comb.)

When my kid had head lice, he attended a swanky private school and rubbed heads with the children of the rich and famous. My husband and I took turns picking the nits out, and we offered our child a penny per nit, to entice him into sitting perfectly still under a lamp for hours. I think he made almost a dollar. I became very adept at scraping off the nits and drowning them in one graceful movement.

Now, if you have money to throw around, you will never know the unique teduim of picking  nits out of your kid’s hair.   Why should you?   Just pay someone else to do it, like you pay for everything else. Call the Hair Fairies!   They’ve hired some very talented folks who have the patience and financial desperation to slave over your child’s lice-ridden head while you run around getting Botox injections and screaming into your cellphone while you head for yoga class.

I think it would be fun to call the Hair Fairies at 1-877-285-0069, and make an appointment for Connor, Lourdes, Maddox and Apple. In fact, if you call in the next 15 minutes, I’ll throw in a free set of steak knives!  

Ventriloquist’s Dummy Phobia!

Monday, February 13th, 2006

There’s nothing better than a weird phobia, don’t you think? While Fear Of Clowns seems pretty common, it’s nice to know that Ventriloquist’s Dummies inspire enough dread to be listed in the pantheon of modern phobias. “Imagine what your life would be like without Automatonophobia, Fear of Ventriloquist’s Dummies, Animatronic Creatures and Wax Statues!” challenges the heading on a website offering therapy. Wow, I CAN’T imagine that, but it sounds great.

At present. I have just three operational phobias: rodents, freeway driving, and midgets. I have a friend whose phobias are jewelry, wigs and mimes. I’ve told him that mimes don’t count because it’s a universal aversion, but he insists on calling it a phobia.

Not to brag, but I used to be terrified of armlessness. More specifically, I was afraid of people with only one arm. Even more specifically, I was afraid of seeing people with one arm, not the people per se. Sometimes I would approach a kid with his sleeves dangling empty, and my heart would freeze. After several close calls, I figured out that kids like to wear sweatshirts with their arms inside against their bodies.

Obviously, phobias can come and go. I plan to cultivate, if possible, both lutraphobia (fear of otters) and apeirophobia (fear of infinity.)


Be More Afraid

Sunday, February 12th, 2006

Two employees of a surveillance company have been implanted with microchips, using the same technology that tracks supermarket items.   VeriChips  are Radio Frequency ID tabs that track an individual item (or now, person) by transmitting information to a “reader device” that can be located ANYWHERE.   Gillette is leading the pack with this technology, having placed an order for 500 million RFID tags from a company called Alien Technology. Gillette already uses them on some of its products ( Ha! I knew the Mach 3 was too good  to be true)

Great, a whole new world of paranoia has opened up for me. Just when Cheney cheered me up with his shooting “accident!”

Oh How We Laughed!

Saturday, February 11th, 2006

Sophisticates that we are, my best friend and I nearly killed ourselves laughing at this clip from a British game show. I just tried watching it again: same result.

Most Sickening Sentence: Frontrunner for 2006 Award!

Friday, February 10th, 2006

It’s only February, but reading about the James Frey debacle in the Los Angeles times, I came upon this stunner, describing Frey’s literary  manager (who has dropped him like a hot potato):

“Kassie lives in a world of smart and tasteful writers, and she has handled the situation with grace,” [ Brillstein-Grey Chief Executive Jon] Liebman said.

Wow. Fantastic. How did that little scumbag worm his way into Kassie’s world? My goodness! Why, by all accounts, Frey is an absolute vulgarian!

I don’t know. Maybe I’m too sensitive. But when I read that sentence, I thought “Holy shit, bring me the smelling salts.”

The Walrus Was Paul

Friday, February 10th, 2006

Sure, you know that, but did you know that HEATHER IS JOHN?!   Just get a nice photo of Heather Mills McCartney and with your black sharpie, darken her hair and add some little “granny” glasses. Voila!   Paul married John!   True love never dies…

Heather is John  paul with heather/john