Godammit, I’m Mad!

I’m still looking for that Special Something to give myself for Christmas!  I have sacrificed my valuable time to locate these gift ideas and share them with you. Some are really good and some are really awful, but they all make me happy to look at or think about.

Here is a nice penis bone necklace that you can order here.

This series of souvenirs called Buildings of Disaster includes this awesome rendering of the OJ Simpson car-chase, a must for anyone who lives in Los Angeles.

These golden capsules promise to turn your ‘feces’ gold. Finally!

Here are some diamond studded sunglasses that are a steal at only $8,000. The same company makes a style that sells for $55,000 but that’s kind of vulgar, I think.

If only I could figure out kroners, I might be able to get this cool gold lame skirt by Stine Goya, from this great Danish website.

May all your shopping be joyous and extravagant!

The time is ripe for Oprah Studies, and an essay in The New Republic is a perfect synthesis of all the ways we might regard Oprah’s impact on our culture.

I was enjoying the essay until I came upon the dreaded ‘paradigm shift.’ There is no getting away from that damn paradigm shift: I was reading an article about Otis Redding the other day and boom, there it was.

That said (little smiley face thing!), it’s a great essay, filled with incisive observations. Here are a couple:

In TV terms, Oprah’s multiplication of herself into simultaneous actual, fictional, and didactic selves was on the order of Picasso inventing cubism.

For all the show’s seesawing between horror and inanity, and precisely because of its cunningly orchestrated subtext of racial catharses–a la the exchange with Julia Roberts–”The Oprah Winfrey Show” is a racial utopia based on the exchangeability of colorless human pain. There is something beautiful and profound about that.

Oprah! How can we ever grasp the reach of your influence? I know one way. The night I sat on my couch like an enormous slug at 2:00 AM and watched a repeat of Oprah’s ‘Bra’ show was a pivotal moment in the narrative of my lingerie.

Oprah and her expert berated everyone for wearing the wrong size bra, even allowing themselves to feel up the unwitting victims who had agreed to try on the new sizes.

The revelation was delivered like the sermon on the mount: You need to go smaller around the back and larger in the cup! Every volunteer found that this was so. It was a joyous experience for all concerned.

I went out and got a new bra, following the holy formula. Sure enough, my bra fits better and my boobs have never been happier. 

I will do anything Oprah wants, except vote for Barack Obama.

Marc Jacobs attended his annual Christmas party dressed as a camel toe. I hope it was a costume party!

Marc exclaimed “I thought it would be completely ironic and funny to be a camel toe.”

Hahahahaha! It is funny, isn’t it? But I don’t see the irony. Perhaps he’s one of those people who don’t get what ‘ironic’ means, like Alanis Morissette.

Or maybe he meant ‘iconic!’ Whatever. As long as he stops designing stuff, I’m happy.

This photo is from the December issue of Italian Vogue. I found it at the very first fashion blog I ever came across, Fashionologie. This picture makes me want to pile on some eye make-up and get a bunch of new tattoos.

I’ve been thinking of a tattoo that means or signifies ‘warrior.’ I think it might give me strength.

But on the subject of tattoos, here’s some a advice: Never get a tattoo in Chinese characters unless you can read Chinese. Here is a whole blog about tattoos that don’t translate to the intended statement. Ha ha! Serves ‘em right, doesn’t it?

Look, they got Sad Readhead Girl to smile! This is a fantastic triumph for me personally and for the rest of mankind.

Unfortunately, we must temper our pleasure with concern for Starving Girl, who looks even thinner. The space between her legs is a call for help.

My first thought upon hearing that Amy Winehouse was nominated for several key Grammy awards was “Yay!” My second thought was “Oh no, Kanye West will win, because of his Mama!”

No one could be more upset than I was about Kanye’s poor Mama. What a terrible tragedy! That bastard who botched her surgery should be sent to prison for allowing this to happen. Oprah should apologize to the world for featuring the doctor on one of her shows. She can deny all responsibility but she knows that she screwed up. She’s probably too busy apologizing  for her poorly run school in South Africa, or campaigning for Obama.

I can’t begin to imagine how Kanye feels, losing his Mama. He is obviously devastated. But still, it’s not fair to Amy if people take this into account when giving out Grammys. Amy herself is a good candidate for the sympathy vote, but since she’s viewed as a parody of self-destructive behavior, people seem increasingly hostile toward her. Personally, I just want her to go on living. As I’ve said many times,  she is a goddess and I love her more than words can say.

I think the best way to conduct a fair Grammy situation is to give an award for Best Dead Mama. It would be a wonderful tribute to Donda West, and there could be a montage of her and Kanye through the years. Kanye could accept the award and join the audience in a cathartic fit of weeping, leading right into the commercial break.

Then and only then, there would be a fair contest for record of the year and album of the year. Nothing has or will come close to Amy Winehouse as a compelling and distinctive new force in pop music. Amy Amy Amy, may the world enfold you in its loving arms and lift you up and away from that awful little scumbag you married!

Look at these beautiful photographs by Pieter Hugo. He travelled in Nigeria with a troupe of animal charmers, and his series of photos, The Hyena Men, is at the Yossi Milo gallery in NYC through January.

Here is Pieter Hugo’s website. Be sure to read the text that goes with these amazing pictures.

Hannah Martin is a young British designer whose jewelry makes me go weak with desire. Please, please, I don’t want to live without at least one of her pieces. You can adore them here or here.

I can’t get enough of Rumor Willis. Is it just me? I like to look at her, but I can’t look for too long. I have to turn away, either because I’m a compassionate person or because I’m afraid of turning into a pillar of salt.

What is Rumor thinking as she poses on all these red carpets? She seeks attention, but why?

I like the lowcut dress. It’s a nice attempt to distract the eye.

Should we feel sorry for her or admire her for saying, “This is my face, world, deal with it!”

I believe that Rumor Willis is a metaphor or an allegory or a paradigm. She is a test of some kind, anyway, and I’m worried that I’ve failed it.

The other night, I came across a made-for-TV documentary about sex, starring Kim Cattrall. I would have skipped right over it if I hadn’t heard her say the word Cli’ Taurus. Whenever I hear this word pronounced like this, rhyming with “Sit, Borus” I hear nails on a chalkboard. Why can’t Kim say it to rhyme with “Twitter this?”

Well, the ways of Kim Cattrall are mysterious. In this documentary, she is the ultimate cougar, and I mean that in a bad way. She emerges from a lagoon or something wearing a gold lame bathing suit with cutout sides and huge hoop earrings. She reminds us that no other animal has a Cli’ Taurus. She would certainly know, if anyone would!

There’s a nerdy male doctor who speaks about the neurology of sexual desire, gasping between sentences like it’s all too much for him. There’s  a guy named Thomas Moore who talks about sex in mythology, looking very, very depressed about the whole thing. There is Betty Dodson, a scary gray-haired lesbian who wants mothers to tell little girls about the clitoris as the counterpart to the penis.

Most of all there’s Kim, smiling smugly throughout everything, letting us know that it’s okay to fantasize about geese. I know from good sources that Kim does in fact get a lot of sex, demanding it from any nice looking guy who crosses her path. Not that I’m against this! You go, Kim, and if you and SJP ever get in an actual fistfight, I’m in your corner.

Why can’t we have a documentary about male sexuality, starring George Clooney? He could discuss the vas deferens and the glans, and he’d probably pronounce them correctly. He could paddle around a lagoon, and then confide his weird sexual fantasies, assuring us that they’re perfectly normal. Maybe John Travolta could talk about his penis, and how much he loves having one.