Archive for June, 2012

Jeffrey Campbell “Cleata”

Thursday, June 21st, 2012

Customer  review:

“I loove this shoe! I purchased it for my bday and wore it with vintage ripped shorts and a collared, quarter-length, oversized, pale yellow shirt and it BANGED!! However, I must add that this shoe is very versatile and can be dressed up or down. It gives every outfit a very polished, futuristic look! Worth every penny :):

(Solestruck, $159)


Great News For Hypochondriacs!

Tuesday, June 19th, 2012

I love the word neurasthenia, and found a nice history of it here.

I discovered it in a dictionary during my late teens, and I remember feeling relieved and somehow vindicated by finding a condition that explained my chronic lethargy, lack of ambition, and vague existential malaise. It was even more exciting than my discovery of the word weltschmerz.

Nobody believes in neurasthenia anymore, except the Chinese. It was omitted by the American Psychiatric Association’s DSM in 1980.

I like Barbara Ehrenreich‘s theory that neurasthenia was caused by Calvinist gloom, and healed by the New Thought, through replacing the “puritanical ‘demand for perpetual effort and self-examination to the point of self-loathing'” with a more hopeful faith. I don’t agree, though. I think that labels have changed, making the diagnosis seem antiquated, like smelling salts.

But there’s a new overarching condition that not only includes the symptoms of neurasthenia, but also aversion to exercize, dizzy spells, migraines, irritble bowel syndrome, anxiety, depression, blurred vision, and – best of all – fibromyalgia:Dysautonomia.

This is the one I’ve been looking for. It covers the entire spectrum of mental and bodily complaints that make one feel defective. I’ll bet it even includes itchy skin, which I sometimes have, and what about dry hair?!

The conversation here about fibromyalgia continues to stir bitter enmity between sufferers and doubters. The douters are inordinately enraged by the diagnosis, regarding it as merely an attempt to get out of working. Personally, I feel that if you can get out of working, go for it. Working is just a big nuisance.

I think we should all move on to Dysautonomia. This is where the action is.

Showtime and Death

Monday, June 18th, 2012

Anyone watching Showtime tonight was assaulted by death in a one-two punch.

On The Borgias, the Pope was devastated by the death of his knavish, syphilitic son. He carried the son into the woods, envisioning  him as a beautiful little boy. As Jeremy Irons began to dig a grave, I scolded my television and turned to my computer.

But then, on Nurse Jackie, the mean new hospital administrator was stunned when his drug-addicted son arrived in the ER on a gurney. I watched in horror as Bobby Cannivale tried in vain to revive his dead son. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

While I sobbed hysterically, Nurse Jackie cut away to a happy scene in the maternity room. In real life, we can’t cut to another scene. The attempt to reassure us with a birth, as if to say “Turn turn turn, there is a time for birth and a time for death!” was cheap and sanctimonious.

I think about death constantly but I don’t want it shoved in my face, Showtime. The death of children is literally unbearable. I realized that the specter of the shattered parents is what drives home the tragedy. The children have flown away, but the parents are left with eternal suffering.

Some of my friends and family wish I would cut to a new scene. One of them has even blocked me on facebook. What’s good on Showtime is less good in real life. If people could watch me on TV, they would switch to another channel.

My husband knew that the Housewives of New Jersey would make me feel better. We marveled at Theresa’s hairline, which threatens to devour what’s left of her forehead.

What would I do without my husband! We went to the Los Angeles County Museum on Sunday, and while we wandered through a dark spiral corridor in the Japanese Pavilion, he remarked, “This is kind of like Disneyland for adults.” Yes,” I answered, “if the Pirates of the Carribean was an adventure in dread, with no pirates.”   He sticks with me through everything, all the adventures in dread that my life has become.

Madonna, I’m Begging

Thursday, June 14th, 2012

I can’t take much more of Madge’s provocations. Obviously the UN is helpless, just like with Syria.

Who would think that she’d still be so insistent about bothering us! Has the competition from Lady Gaga driven her out of her mind? Has she forgotten that she’s already showed us everything in that book “Sex?” Does she have any sympathy for her children? Does she even remember that little baby she bought in Malawi?

I need her to go away. I’ve needed this for so many years. There is no escape from her. I thought I had transferred my hatred to Ms. Gaga but no, now she will have to flash her 53 year old nipple if she wants my attention.

It seems like people are going out of their way just to make me mad! That fucking Gwyneth has been working overtime on twitter to get me going. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of responding.

Gwyneth, go ahead and call people Niggas! Keep working on Goop! Make as many country records as you want. I am focusing my wrath on Madge only, and hoping I can manifest a little “accident” for her if I concentrate hard enough.

All other irritants pale next to Madonna but here are some you can add to if you like.

Pierce Piers Morgan
Lana Del Rey
Kristen Stewart
pictures of cats, pizza, and hippies cavorting in the woods
Snow White movies
people who say “Rye rye rye” in agreement, instead of just saying “right,”
diminutive names for Justin Bieber
ostentatious neck tattoos
band names like “Foster the People.”
Mitt and Anne Romney

RFK Jr: What a Fucking Cunt!™

Tuesday, June 12th, 2012

This is a story of unmitigated fuckery, replete with cunts, bit I will focus on Robert Kennedy Jr as the Cunt in Charge, so to speak.

When his wife Mary hung herself last month, it was a tragic event that naturally shocked the public and was covered by the press with all due sensitivity. The Kennedy’s were in the middle of a difficult divorce and one could infer that Mary Kennedy suffered from depression.

But apparently,  RFK Jr couldn’t take the rumors that it was his womanizing and financial bullying that led Mary to  despair.

Now, his private affidavit in the divorce procedings, documenting his accusations against Mary and his reasons for wanting to restrict her access to the children, has been “leaked!”

And Newsweek (i.e. Tina Brown) has employed “Kennedy historian” Laurence Leamer to write a sordid piece on Mary Kennedy’s “Tragic Last Days,” based on the leaked affidavit and some out-of-context quotes. The Newsweek piece cites a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder, which Mary’s family flatly denies, and RFK’s accounts of being punched by his wife, “a trained boxer.” He contends that he was so frightened of her on one occasion that he jumped out a second-story window to escape her blows.

As if. But the story is so much worse. And Mary’s family says, in part:

The scurrilous affidavit, which is the entire basis for the Newsweek article, was written by Bobby Kennedy as part of a contentious custody battle and was nothing more than a brutal psychological weapon in the divorce case. The affidavit, which Mary repudiated at the time, is full of vindictive lies. This latest piling on is proof perfect of the unbelievable emotional and psychological abuse that Mary endured during the last years of her life, and now in death. The false claim that Mary suffered from BPD is also an insult to those who do struggle with this serious mental illness.

Meanwhile, no one denies that RFK was rampantly unfaithful throughout his marriage, including a long affair with Cheryl Hines, the actress who plays Larry David’s wife on Curb Your Enthusiasm. (I don’t know why this fact bothers me but it does.)

Fuck RFK Jr and his funny voice. Fuck him for “leaking” his sealed affidavit. He’s just another Kennedy who thinks he can use his name and his money to cover up his bad behavior. Fuck Tina Brown for stooping so low to publish this shit. Fuck Laurence Leamer for making a career out of Kennedy hagiography. Fuck the Kennedy clan for refusing to let Mary’s family take custody of her body.

And fuck the housekeeper, on RFK Jr’s payroll, who says that her husband bought Mary some rope because “she said she needed it.” This after stating that Mary was always threatening suicide.

Poor Mary! May she be be somewhere peaceful, and free of the Kennedys, for all eternity.

Lost Earring

Sunday, June 10th, 2012

Last night I realized that one of my favorite earrings is missing. It so happens that I only wear one of the earrings at a time, because Keith Richards is still my fashion muse. It’s a long safety pin earring and it would look stupid to wear one in each ear.

Nevertheless, I want that missing earring! Where did it go? Why is it missing? Who would take it, besides Keith Richards?

I’ve looked everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It’s not with my other jewelry and it’s not in that little tray in the bathroom where I sometimes put my earrings.   When I looked in the tray for the third or fourth time, I recalled the story in The Boy Who couldn’t stop Washing about a woman who slashed her couches in a manic search for a lost hairbrush or something. I don’t want to be her. But I feel the seeds.

Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost things, but as we all know, he never helps. You can pray your ass off but he won’t return your lost thing. I can’t even count the socks he has failed to return.

Remember when I lost my gold watch? Still missing. I have a hunch that it was stolen by a crazy Chinese nurse, but that’s a whole story on its own. This is about the earring.

I remember buying the earrings at Macy’s, where my purchase was rung up by a tired elderly black woman who was missing a critical tooth and couldn’t calculate the 20% sale discount. I bought the earrings at full price rather than give her more stress.

If I practice The Secret, will my earring manifest itself? Does Saint Anthony know about The Secret?

When I chose the image above from a rudimentary google search, I was startled by its projected violence. Can everyone see that he’s about to throw that baby into a river or cut it in half on that table? It’s so obvious! Maybe god told him to sacrifice the baby a la Abraham and Isaac, or maybe Saint Anthony is just nuts.

Maybe he’s nuts because he can’t find the lost things and he finally snapped, like the hairbrush lady with OCD.

Questions or advice, anyone?

Betrayed by Shopbop

Friday, June 8th, 2012

One of my few pleasures in life has been cruelly eradicated by the fuckers at Shopbop. They have completely changed their format, replacing our favorite models with a bunch of Nobodies and removing the boxes that separated the images.

Where is Starving Girl and Sad Redhead Girl?!? There are a few token picture of Goony Bird, but they have airbrushed her distinctive tummy deformity and you can see that her heart just isn’t in it.

This is a real slap in the face after all my devotion.  Aside from the matter of my personal distress, I think this is a terrible business decision. They have broken the unique bond between viewer and model that made shopbop such a joy.  There is no one to connect with now, no subtext, and god knows the merchandise is awful on its own.

Fuckers! Idiots! I was so mad that I started a petition on but decided that perhaps it’s not a human rights issue after all. It’s more of a consumer betrayal, I guess.

Can anyone suggest a shopping website offering a perverse joy on the level of the sadly departed original Shopbop?

June 6

Wednesday, June 6th, 2012

In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.

–Sir Francis Bacon

Rocking the Prom Dress

Monday, June 4th, 2012

I wore this silk chiffon prom dress on Friday night and felt like a fairy princess. I was smugly thinking “Ha, not bad for 68!” but then I remembered that I’m 58.

At the end of the evening, I had eaten three kinds of french fries and felt like a giant red whale.  Nonetheless,  I think I rocked this pop of color very nicely.

Anthropologie dress, Chanel bag, a letter I still haven’t mailed, Re-mix shoes, ba&sh leather jacket, enormous push-up bra by DKNY, and a leopard printed panty-girdle.


Friday, June 1st, 2012

I’m not afraid of snakes, spiders or bees. I’m not afraid of death. I’m just afraid of everything else.

Today, I was afraid to walk down my driveway because I saw a Thing that looked like a cat but wouldn’t move when I honked my horn at it. I’m terrified of possums and  raccoons and squirrels, all of which inhabit my urban neighborhood. (Signs of the apocalypse, obviously.)

I’m so afraid of falling that I dread taking a walk. I fell last week and skinned my knees but it was traumatizing to hit the pavement. After breaking my pelvis and hip by falling, I feel deeply unsafe about my body. Why don’t other people fall and break?

I’m afraid of hospitals, now that I know what happens there. I’m afraid of lice, rodents, thunder, large knives, and medical disorders like fistulas and prolapse of the uterus or bladder.

I hate being so fearful. Many of these fears are new ones, and I’m not  including the universal ones like clowns and cancer. It’s strange to be vulnerable to so many fears at a time when I contemplate every tall structure with the question of whether it’s high enough for jumping, should I choose to depart.

Fears or diagnoses, anyone?