Archive for January, 2008

Female Actors

Tuesday, January 29th, 2008


Watching the SAG awards on TV, I laughed each time an award was given to a “female actor.” When did award shows become so pretentious?! Women who  refer to themselves as  “actors” seem much sillier than they need to be.

If you’re an actress but you find that term denigrating, doesn’t that mean you feel inferior to a male in the same profession? Why don’t actresses just insist that men call themselves “actresses” too?

I’m wondering whether anyone considers herself a ‘waitress’ anymore. There is a recent, critically acclaimed movie called “Waitress,” right? And you know why it wasn’t called “Waiter?” Because the eponymous person is a goddamned female, that’s why!

I see from a list of suggested gender-neutral words that “hostess” and “heiress” are not okay, and neither is “bondsman.” This is too much bad news for me to take. It is very, very upsetting. You’re not even supposed to say “bachelor’s degree!” I can only assume that “dominatrix” is out, as well. One would need to call a “dominator” instead, and who really wants that?

Ugh! I plan to continue calling actresses “actresses”, and to be polite to busboys and handymen. Anything else would be the kind of bullshit up with which I would  never put.

Hateful Stuff for the Discerning Hater

Monday, January 28th, 2008


How about a Hate Stamp Kit? You can buy it online here.


Here is a gold-billed crow you can buy from McKinley and Sons, who describe themselves as ‘London’s most dashing taxidermists.’ I have to admit I kind of like it, but I hate it too.

My hateful  term of the day is carbon footprint. You can find more words to hate here.

Chick Talk

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008


Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman, but sometimes it’s great. If only Tammy Wynette could have been with me today at my rehab group.

The other day, a good friend told me why she’d never pursued a relationship with a guy she called The Twenty-eight Year Old. It’s because he said to her, “Dude, that was a great blowjob!”

Hearing this quote, I wanted to cry in despair for my poor friend. What an awful thing to hear! How stupid, how classless, how deeply unromantic. What a fucking douche bag! I was traumatized on her behalf. We laughed about it, but still. When I told this story to another friend, she was even more traumatized. She looked as though she planned to enter a convent as she left my house.

Today, I shared this with the women in rehab, who are mostly in their twenties. I was amazed by their blank faces as I repeated the offending quote. One girl said, “I would’ve just said “Thanks, dude!” The others laughed. I realized that my two friends are in their thirties and forties. It’s a generation thing!

“Dude, that was a great blowjob!” is a nice complement in the year of our lord 2008. Who the fuck knew! For all I know, a blowjob is like a handshake in today’s market.   I have a lot to learn from the girls in rehab.

Then the subject turned to tampons and pierced tongues and labia cosmetic surgery. A room full of women trading quips on these topics is the happiest place on earth! Our differences fall away when it comes down to being a woman, all of us aspiring to give a great blowjob (so to speak) and be rewarded accordingly. It’s a chick thing. The feeling of solidarity is primal and exhilarating.

I described the group to my friend in her forties, and she shared my sense of enlightenment on the Dude issue, but commented   resolutely, “It’ll be a long time before I administer another blowjob, I can tell you that.”

Dude, I don’t even blame her. Ho’s before Bro’s, as far as I’m concerned.

Alexander Wang For Spring

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008


Oh no, not again. Some of us will be spending $290 for torn denim shorts this spring. You can pre-order them at Satine, in Los Angeles. Or I can buy you a pair from a thrift shop and tear them up for you, let’s say ten or fifteen bucks?

Acid wash jeans are next, and I wish I were kidding.

A Horrible Woman at Nordstrom

Sunday, January 20th, 2008


Yesterday, my friend Maxine and I went shopping at the Nordstrom in Woodland Hills. It’s a special Nordstrom with its own designer boutiques, and it carries a lot of high-end shoes.

While we tried on our shoes, a horrible woman seized our attention as she marched by us to the Dior  display and started shouting. Even if we were deaf, we would have stared at her. She was a living vision of everything that’s wrong with everything.

Long blond hair extentions, surgically flattened face with  swollen lips, True Religion Jeans, towering Chanel  clown shoes, a massive snakeskin handbag, an accent like Zsa Zsa Gabor amplified through a bullhorn, and a tragic sheepskin vest.

She commandeered our salesman, marching him over to another shoe display and making him hold her coffee. I was  fascinated by this display of  cartoonish obnoxious behavior, but Maxine just wanted to get the hell out of the shoe department.

When we saw the horrible woman upstairs, I felt compelled to get a picture of her, so I followed her around, pointing my cellphone at her. She raced around,  screaming “Size zero, that’s me! I want this! Get me a room started!”

She was amazing. The poor saleswomen scurried after her, trying to meet her demands.

We saw her once again, in the Chanel boutique downstairs, making someone  truss her with a chain belt. I wanted to hang around to see how much shit the Chanel people were willing to take, but Maxine wouldn’t let me.

Bye bye, horrible woman! It was fun shopping with you!

Understanding Tom Cruise

Sunday, January 20th, 2008

Have you watched the Tom Cruise recruiting video and wondered what the hell he’s talking about? Here is a glossary of Scientology terms to help decipher Tom’s important message.

I plan to incorporate some of these terms into my everyday conversations. Check out the following definition. I’ll bet you didn’t know that mental images have actual mass and exist in space! Uh-oh!

mental image pictures: three-dimensional pictures which are continuously made by the mind, moment by moment, containing color, sound and smell, as well as other perceptions. They also include the conclusions or speculations of the individual. Mental image pictures are composed of energy, have mass, exist in space and follow definite routines of behavior, the most interesting of which is the fact that they appear when somebody thinks of something.

Blue Satin by Chanel: Get it or Kill Yourself

Saturday, January 19th, 2008


I’d been reading how this new spring nail color by Chanel was an absolute Must, destined to sell out before you could say “Fashion Victim.”

So when I came upon a display case of it at a trendy Neiman Marcus spin-off called Cusp, I grabbed a bottle and felt the rush of triumph of a hopelessly brainwashed competitive shopper. I’ve got my Blue Satin, ha ha, the rest of you can wander around in the desert, looking for your bottle.

If only the formula wasn’t so goopy, but that’s Chanel for you: Crap. It’s 19 bucks but some of the nice people at ebay are already selling it for $45.

I Love Marion Jones

Friday, January 18th, 2008


I’ve always thought that Marion Jones  was a goddess, and I don’t care that she took steroids. I can’t believe the outrage heaped upon her. What a morally backward society we are!

Why don’t all athletes just take steroids, like bodybuilders and football players? Marion Jones wanted to break the world record set by Flo Jo, another user of steroids. Venus and Serena look like they’re on steroids, and god bless ’em, as far as I’m concerned.

Most women could be pumped with steroids and HGH and never have a fraction of Marion Jones’ ability.

Oprah was really mad at poor Marion, who has to leave a seven month old child to appease the need of some judge to make a cautionary tale out of her. Oprah’s steely gaze failed to prove that she’s a better woman than Marion, who she reprimanded for calling her “ma’am.”


I love you, Marion. You could have asked Oprah about Gail, but you were too classy for that shit. God bless you for your courage and dignity.

Fibromyalgia: Sign Me Up!

Monday, January 14th, 2008

A good friend of mine used to laugh about fibromyalgia, explaining that it’s a fake disease. Now that I’ve read about it, I am not only convinced that it’s fake, but that I have a severe case of it myself!

While the pharmaceutical companies have finally started advertising a drug to treat it, one of the doctors who first identified the ‘disease,’ Dr. Frederick Wolfe, now doubts its existence. He and other doctors point out that the condition actually worsens once a patient has been given the diagnosis, which causes them to “obsess over aches that other people simply tolerate.”

The FDA has approved the use of Pfizer’s “Lyrica” for fibromyalgia, and its side effects are severe weight gain and dizziness. This seems like a good plan. The fibromyalgia patient can then seek treatment for the new ailments, ad infinitum.

The fact that fibromyalgia sufferers tend to also be afflicted with other nebulous diseases like irritable bowel syndrome and chronic fatigue, makes it very inviting. Basically, its victims feel achy all over, with pains that don’t respond to advil or even vicodin. There’s no way to prove you have fibromyalgia, or that you don’t. But if it’s recognized as a disease, you can go around complaining all the time! I love it!

Many years ago, the term neurasthenia would have covered not only fibromyalgia but Epstein Barr syndrome, chronic depression, and a host of other ailments as well. The first time I saw the word in the dictionary, I thought Bingo! I’ve got it! And to a greater or lesser degree, so do many of the people I know.

We’re tired, achy, bloated, depressed, congested, irritable, listless, itchy, anxious and short of breath. We hate to work or walk up stairs. When it’s not our stomach, it’s our head. “Lyrica!” It’s like a song to our brains from the loving musicians at Pfizer. And they’ll love us even more when we’re fat and dizzy!

“Black Book”: Verhoeven Strikes Again

Saturday, January 12th, 2008


Black Book” is a WWII thriller by Paul Verhoeven, the Dutch director who somehow wandered from art films to “Showgirls.” It’s an action-packed melodrama whose Jewish heroine survives the Nazi occupation of her homeland through quick thinking and nearly super-human resourcefulness.

I watched it with mixed feelings. I can’t stand Holocaust movies and I’m opposed to them philosophically. Since the film was mostly a spy thriller, I tried to enjoy it on that level. I  liked the idea of a Jewish woman and a Nazi officer falling in love, without apology. It was a nicely perverse twist.

The leading actress was subjected to so much nudity that I could now identify her in a line-up of naked boobs. That was okay, since her character relied on her talent as a seductress. When she was captured as a Nazi collaborator and singled out to be bludgeoned and doused with a huge vat of human shit, I realized my terrible mistake.

Once again, I have let myself by traumatized by Paul Verhoeven! “Showgirls” sent me into a deep, inconsolable depression. It seemed like a travesty of filmmaking, acting, decency, everything. It was like being doused with human shit, in fact. I imagined that everyone who watched it would be seeking psychotherapy at the first opportunity. I finally got over it. Mostly.

The last episode of “Extras” by the brilliant and fearless Ricky Gervais, had a scene in which a struggling actress is told to prepare to have shit thrown in her face. No one thinks it’s too much to ask of her. Even though she needs the job, she walks off the set.

I think Ricky Gervais was telling us in that episode that one’s dignity should not be for sale. When his character sees how deeply he has compromised his own dignity, he is horrified.

I don’t know why Mr. Verhoeven elected to douse his actress in shit, even though it was probably mud or soup, in reality. I can’t help feeling that he violated her dignity, and my own, for no justifiable reason.   In “The Magic Christian,” a millionaire invites people to wade through shit to get his money. It’s a fair comment on greed by Terry Southern, a satirist of the highest caliber.

“Showgirls” is still described by some, idiotically,  as a sly satire. “Black Book” is no “Showgirls,” but the element of exploitation is right there, like shit in your face. Somewhere in the eternal hell for hack artists and cultural criminals, there’s a special place for Paul Verhoeven.