Godammit, I’m Mad!

If you haven’t heard this recording of Dr. Laura yelling “Nigger nigger nigger!” to a caller who asked for advice on dealing with racism, turn up your speakers.

This bitch is clearly out of her fucking mind and needs to be fired. There is no excuse for her, unless she can prove she was off her medication.  Her “apology” the next day is fatuous posturing.

Please join me in bestowing upon dumb bitch Dr. Laura Schlessinger her richly deserved Cunt of the Week™ award!

Listen, I don’t know who “Cyril Style” is either, but he’s a complete cunt. In describing a series of photos by Julia Chesky called “The Original Hipster,” featuring a homeless guy in New York, Cyril notes:

Personally I have always found the homeless to be a great source of inspiration and totally agreed with Julia’s title “The Original Hipster”.

A great source of inspiration?!? Who the fuck does he think he is? Erin Wasson?

Cunt.

***UPDATE:  Cyril is a double cunt for modifying his statement with the words “specific details about” after I posted this.  I copied and pasted his statement last night.  I would never edit a quote just to serve my purposes.  Cunt².

Today, I came across the term “achingly cool” three times. The first time, it was applied to these striped shoes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before, but like “effortlessly chic” I think it’s a description that label’s the user an idiot.

Why “achingly?” It never hurts me when something is cool. Is it supposed to connote yearning? Do you yearn so much to own these shoes that it causes an ache?

What about “traumatizingly cool?” Or “gut-wrenchingly cool?” I don’t like these fucking adverbs! Make them go away! I was looking for a photo of the grotesquely stylish™ Daphne Guinness wearing her spiked Gareth Pugh outfit when I found it at Grazia. Sure enough, she was described as achingly cool.

This photo makes me want to kill someone. It is everything I hate about hipster fashion and the cult of celebrity.  This woman could wrap herself in toilet paper and everyone would fall over screaming in envy. Ten years ago she was just a normal billionaire’s wife.  She is the Lady Gaga of socialites.

There must be someone else in the public eye who is more insanely rad than Daphne! Whose style do you admire, and what term would best describe it?

Have you noticed lately that there’s no escape from boobs? Every other fashion editorial sneaks in a model’s boob, if not complete nudity. Is this the Terry Richardsonization of fashion photography, or just the continuing of The End Of Innocence brought about by the internet?

I like to see beautiful nudes, but sometimes I’m just not in the mood. Sometimes, I just want to see the clothes, or the make-up, or the photography in a fashion layout. I want to have a choice about seeing boobs.

I was saddened by a photo at Susie’s blog, showing an older gray-haired model who still had to show her boob. I guess this was a win for feminism or agism. For me, it was a reminder that boobs have become de rigueur in fashion. Everyone must be willing to expose their boobs.

I’ve probably posted photos with boobs in them but from now on, this will be a boob-free zone, unless the subject is specifically boobs.

A beautiful way to not see boobs is the handmade silver pasties above, by Leah Ball, who just got funding for her Pasties Project. Yay for Leah!

On a rare night out with my husband, we drove to an independent bookshop where a guy we like was reading an excerpt from his new book. I felt tentatively hopeful. I almost never go out in the evening.  I was pleased to be doing something arty for a change.

We sat in the front row of chairs, since there weren’t many set up in the aisle at the back of the store. An affable guy read from his book about encounters on the bus.  Then, the guy we came to see introduced himself and read a short chapter of a charming, offbeat memoir of his childhood in New York.

Another guy quickly replaced him and introduced himself. His name was Chris D. I should have been warned by that D.

He gazed at his shoes and began a rambling account of his various artistic endeavors:  He was involved in music for 20 years, he had written several unproduced screenplays, poems, and short stories. He noted that some of his stories were based on dreams. He introduced a story about a couple of  war veterans from Vietnam, describing their convoluted situation.

He began to read the worst piece of writing I have ever heard in my entire life. He read in a deep-voiced monotone. Some GI was shooting dope with a Vietnamese prostitute named “Lucky.” The dope-shooting was described in lurid, over-the-top detail.  Veins, blood, abscesses, verbs, more blood, adjectives, then sex. “They fell to the floor and fucked each others brains out.”

I stared at my hands and played with my hair. I wanted to kill that fucker. I imagined a question and answer period after the reading, where I would confront him with the question: “Are you a junkie or just a fucking idiot?”

He read for close to 30 minutes. No cliche escaped him: It was hackneyed melodrama, both dismal and pointless.

We left the second he stopped reading. Outside as we walked to the car, I exclaimed, “What a fucking motherfucker!” My husband agreed. He added that the guy had once been in a band called The Flesh Eaters.

Back home, I googled Chris D and saw how important he was to the L.A. punk scene.

Nothing is sacred, not even old punkers.

I am left with these two thoughts:

1. I am fucking Tolstoy compared to that bastard Chris D.
2. I can’t even enjoy a simple night out.

Neither do I!  But a whole lot of people are working hard at this very moment to perfect their gait and spruce up their saddles in preparation for some exciting “ponyplay.”

Why am I the last one to find out about stuff like this?? My husband showed me an article in the LA Weekly about a 50 year old woman who dresses up like a pony and makes a good living at it. She goes to crazy pony events where ponies and masters hope to hook up, and others where the ponies compete for awards.

Listen, I understand role-playing. Naughty schoolgirl, fine. Cantering around with a bit in my mouth and a tail in my butt, I’m just not feeling it.

Here are some hooves you can buy….”Nice look, clip-clop sound when used on the floor.”

What the fuck is wrong with people, you know? Life is so difficult and complicated and so easy to screw up, why try to live it as a fake pony?

This Hermes Birkin bag is available at 1st dibs for $85,000. Can we figure out why?

You could get this pink one for only $65,ooo.  That’s a whopping savings of $20,ooo. But maybe you’d feel like a cheapskate if you bought the pink one.  Why quibble about $20,000 when you’re shopping at this level? Grey Himalayan Crocodile says you really care. It says “Classy!”

But!

You could have this blue one for only $12,500! With your savings, you could buy a luxury car or feed all the orphans in Haiti. But now the blue one looks like crap, right? Who wants a crap Birkin bag?

I’d love to hear women justifying the purchase of a Birkin bag, or any bag that telegraphs wealth. “It’s so iconic!” “It’s an investment!” “I’ve always wanted one!”

The only honest explanation is that some consumer goods signify status to other consumers. Other women will admire and envy your wealth, or so you think.

How much of an asshole do you have to be to buy one of these stupid bags?!? It’s almost unfathomable. The only people who would be impressed would be other assholes. If Louis Vuitton made bags that didn’t look like Louis Vuitton bags, would anyone buy them?

From now on, when you see someone wearing anything with a big, high-end logo, point at them and laugh, “HAHAHA, Chanel!” (or Prada, YSL, Dior, whatever.)

Sister Wolf Says:  Even a tiny act of subversiveness can brighten your day.

This week, Sea posed in an ugly sweter and blamed it on Mom. I sense a rift between them, an overdue separation of their creepy merged identities. They no longer link to each other’s blog and they’re making subtle digs at each other.  I am hoping for a titanic war with no holds barred. Don’t they owe us that?!

Meanwhile, Sea declared herself a tragic know-nothing would-be hipster by foolishly writing a post about “Bad Art.” She doesn’t know the difference between kitsch, outsider art and folk art. All she knows is that stuff that looks crude is cool to like. Like, omg, Bad Art! It’s so funny! My own definition of bad art would be that crap in Sea’s living room.

Sea won’t publish your comments, you worthless proles, but you can leave them here. I will go first:

Dear Sea, Please don’t write about things that are way over your head! Stick to Miu Mui clogs! Go find out about Reverend Howard Finster, Adolf Wolfli, Renaldo Kuhler, and then read Jim Shaw’s mission statement in his book on Thrift Store Art.  What will it take to make you feel ashamed? This is a real question. Love, SW

Please force yourself to watch these two minutes of  gibberish, as they will raise your spirits even as they insult your intelligence.  Keep in mind that she’s speaking at a college and yet denigrates college students.

I love this stupid bitch! It’s fun to watch her self-destruct. Cross your fingers that she’ll run in 2012.

The only good thing about buying expensive shit is that you can sometimes recoup some of your wasted money on ebay.

Look at this Kate Moss ‘Groupie Coat!’ Why did I buy it from Topshop? Because I’m stupid, that’s why. I imagined myself as a 20 year old living in a cold climate, walking around like a big Yeti, looking insanely rad. Now, it’s on ebay.

Why did I buy this Marc Jacobs sequin thing? Because I’m so stupid that I must have pictured myself going somewhere and impressing people with my glam fashion sense. I haven’t worn it once, just like the Groupie Coat. A complete waste of time and money. For sale on ebay.

Ooh, what about these Paul Smith “Kings” biker boots. Wearing them would prove how moto, how tough-chic and just plain killing it I am. So what that I already had a million pairs of biker boots. Soon to be on ebay, and I’ll only get a fraction of the purchase price.

I have been out of work for nearly a year. What I’ve learned is that I am a big idiot who spent money as fast as I could, because I’d never made so much of it.  Every story I wrote brought me $500, so a pair of boots equalled only one story.  I forgot to worry about the future, or the people starving in Africa. My shame and my unpaid bills aren’t punishment enough for being so stupid.

However. While at ebay, I treated my self to a look at Mom’s recent purchases, and I was reassured to find that, yes, someone else is stupid, too! Join me in weighing up the stupidity.

This massive anchor pendent was $295 plus shipping. Gargantuan, isn’t it? I think size is key, for Mom. At least it isn’t a monkey or cockroach.

Now we’re talking! Pre-owned Prada open-toed boots, just $199 plus shipping. Are these for Sea or Mom? Would they wear these if they didn’t say “Prada?” I’m already feeling a little less stupid, but what do I know.

Another bold statement piece of junk jewelry for Mom, $85 plus shipping. Nice and big, even “glitzy” I would say. There are many, many more acquisitions of this nature that you can look for at Mom’s shop or perhaps adorning herself or Sea.

The thing about shopping and hoarding is that it distracts one from the void, from oneself, from the horror of the human condition but in the end it fools no one. In the end, you’re just an idiot with too much crap that no one wants, not even you.

But at least my crap is good crap.