Whenever I walk to Whole Foods with friends, we have an adventure, and not just the one where tall thin women ram you with their shopping carts.

This time, it was a guy with an enormous didgeridoo.  We had been drinking coffee, watching the circus that is Whole Foods, Venice. My friend asked the guy if he had made his didgeridoo, and he said Yes. He added that he used it for Sound Therapy.

Just a couple of weeks ago, I saw a documentary called Kumare, about an American-born Indian guy who decides to pose as a guru, to see if people will fall for it. Sure enough, everywhere he goes, people lap up his idiotic impersonation of a Mystic, exclaiming how they can feel his powerful energy, etc, etc. I found it depressing. People are so stupid. Or as my husband put it, more charitably, “People want someone to follow.”

Anyway, there is a Sound Healer in Kumare who uses a didgeridoo, and he looks alot like the guy at Whole Foods. “Were you in that Kumare movie?” I asked him accusingly. He seemed baffled and said no. He wanted me to sit down and let him demonstrate his therapy. He instructed me to focus on “an intention.”  I asked him if he was going to find out what’s wrong with me, secretly thinking “If he only knew!”

A handsome Black man intervened cheerfully, “Why does there gotta be something wrong with you?” He was wearing a fedora and eating a cup of Whole Foods ice cream. He looked as contented as a human being could be. I didn’t want to spoil his mood by answering him.

The Sound Therapist started blowing into his didgeridoo, moving it slowly up and down my back. It felt great! I could feel the sound waves vibrating through my body and I pretended they were evacuating evil spirits. It was extremely pleasurable.

When he was through, he asked me if I had pain in my lower back, noting that he could sense this with the didgeridoo. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I told him that while I had pain everywhere, my lower back was a place that sometimes hurt.

The truth is, my lower back is probably one of the few places where I don’t feel pain. I don’t believe in any kind of New Age healing. I don’t believe in gurus, gods, angels, the I Ching, the Secret, Tarot Cards, reiki, colonics, or anything else.

Time doesn’t heal either, as we know. But coffee is wonderful and so is Whole Foods, if you don’t buy your groceries there.

I’m too old and sad to enjoy mocking death the way I used to. But Death Row trivia continues to fascinate me, even though it’s politically incorrect to express anything but outrage on the subject of the death penalty.

Photographer Henry Hargreaves has recreated the last meals requested by some notorious killers in a project called No Seconds. Looking at the photos, it’s hard not to form conclusions about each meal and the man who chose it. The meal above, for example, increased my disdain for John Wayne Gacy: “What a pig,” I thought.

Timothy McVeigh, on the other hand, limited himself to his favorite ice cream. Clearly, he was more focused and less self-indulgent.

Look at what Victor Feguer asked for. What a cunt. Or maybe he was being a smart-ass. I can’t decide. I ‘d like to have told him ‘No way, buddy. You’ll eat a pitted olive or nothing at all.’

My reactions probably say more about me than the meals say about the convicts. That’s why this is art.

Here’s more to think about:

In Louisiana, the prison warden traditionally joins the condemned prisoner for the last meal.

In September 2011, the state of Texas abolished all special last-meal requests after prisoner Lawrence Russell Brewer requested a huge last meal and didn’t eat any of it, saying he wasn’t hungry. His last-meal request was for two chicken-fried steaks with gravy; a triple-patty bacon cheeseburger; a cheese omelet with ground beef, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, and jalapenos; a bowl of fried okra with ketchup; one pound of barbecued meat with half a loaf of white bread; three fajitas; a meat-lover’s pizza; one pint of Blue Bell Ice Cream; a slab of peanut-butter fudge with crushed peanuts; and three root beers. The abolition followed a complaint by Texas Senator John Whitmire, who called the meal “inappropriate.”  (Thanks Lawrence Russell Brewer, for ruining things for everybody else!)

You can read more about last meals here.  If I end up on Death Row, I plan to ask for a Fatburger with fat fries and a vanilla milkshake.

Feel free to place your order or rant about the death penalty.

I was excited to see this competitor of Tragic Fashion Boy on Disney Rollergirl’s blog tonight.  He’s as thin and miserable looking as anyone could ask for, isn’t he? I need to name him. Suggestions?

So I looked around for more pictures and discovered that this fancy embroidered jacket from the new Saint Laurent Fall/Winter collection is priced at $62,000.  But obviously it’s worth every penny.

Now I need to know how much they want for this fancy cape. Which is beyond perfect with the ingeniously ripped jeans.   Who will curate these items, do you think?

While I tried to adjust to all of this decadence and starvation, I stumbled across a “pop star and fashion icon” called G-Dragon who is like a Korean punk Barbie only male, but just barely. I won’t spoil the excitement by posting any photos of G-Dragon. Google him and feel the joy.

I know it’s not very interesting to hate Gwyneth, but how can one ignore her this week? It’s like she WILL NOT REST until every single person on earth detests her. Is her work done yet? If not, we’re getting very, very close.

Today’s revelation (for me, anyway) is that she advises women in troubled relationships to stop fighting and give their man a blowjob instead. Really, Einstein? You think that might work?

What a fucking imbecile. I love the pictures of her feigned embarrassment even more than I love that awful see-through dress she wore recently. But not as much as I love the time she tweeted something like “niggas all in Paris!” to indicate her down-ness.

There is so much to love, i.e. hate, that it’s almost redundant, like denouncing Hitler. Wait. Am I comparing Gwyneth to Hitler?! Sure, see Godwin’s Law. But if you need to catch the latest Iron Man movie and your revulsion for Gwyneth is getting in the way,  here’s a guide to putting things in perspective.

I don’t need to see Iron Man, so I’m good.

If you believe you were at the forefront of the anti- Gwyneth movement, let’s hear about it! (If you don’t hate Gwyneth, you shouldn’t be here at all, just leave quietly.)

After days of watching death and mayhem in real time on TV, I have a question:

Aren’t the owners of the disastrous Texas fertilizer plant every bit as guilty as a terrorist bomber?

“West Fertilizer Co is a retail facility that blends fertilizer and sells anhydrous ammonia and other chemical products to local farmers. It stored 270 tons of ‘extremely hazardous’ ammonium nitrate, according to a report filed by the company with the state government.  The plant was last inspected for safety in 2011, according to a Risk Management Plan filed with the federal Environmental Protection Agency.

“The company, which has fewer than 10 employees, had provided no contingency plan to the EPA for a major explosion or fire at the site. It told the EPA in 2011 that a typical emergency scenario at the facility that holds anhydrous ammonia could result in a small release in gas form.

“The EPA fined the firm $2,300 in 2006 for failing to implement a risk management plan. The plant’s owner could not be reached for comment.”

Why would you have a fifty unit apartment building right next to this place, not to mention a nursing home? And what is a $2,300 fine to a profitable company? Now there are a bunch of dead fire fighters and streets of houses reduced to smoldering ruins.

But wait: The West plant is one of thousands of sites across rural America that stores and sells hazardous materials such as chemicals and fertilizer for agricultural use. Many are near residences and schools.

I find these companies guilty! I find the EPA guilty! Their disregard for human life makes them worse than terrorists, who are usually driven by a spiritual belief system or perverted moral code other than financial profit.

Thoughts, arguments, insults, anyone?

“Layered stitching lends a repaired look to these slim, two-tone skinny pants from 3.1 Phillip Lim, while tied sleeves and a sweater overlay add a clever element.”

Got that? These pants have a sweater SEWN ON to them! You can’t take it off if you get cold. It’s just there to add a clever element.

$595 at shopbop.

I’d like to work for a circus, but I’m not going to grow a beard.  I’d like to have thicker eyebrows and more armpit hair, even if it didn’t involve a circus job. More realistically, women my age should be busy signing up their best friends to care for their chin hair should they end up incapacitated in a nursing home.

Mariam probably knows that Alice B. Toklas was known for her luxuriant mustache.

I happen to love bearded ladies. I didn’t know they still existed, although I remember seeing a bearded lady in line at Toys R Us around thirty years ago. If only cell phones had been invented!

It’s easy to accept a woman’s mustache when she is Frida Kahlo. Other women might want to think twice. Even my Special Sister feels a personal bond with Frida, as she states so eloquently in her own blog: “I have always felt a strong connection to Frida Kahlo. She embraced her natural hairiness and even broke her pelvis…whadda coincidence! As much as a painter, I look to Frida as a style icon. “

Alas, I see no resemblance.

Many of the famous bearded Ladies who toured with circuses in the late 19th century look suspiciously like men wearing dresses. And that’s okay with me, because I love a man in a dress.

Ladies, are you ready to grow a beard, or will they bury you with a tweezer in your cold dead hands?

My youngest sister is an anomaly in our family: she is a blond bombshell.  I didn’t meet her until she was 16. One night, she asked me to help with her geometry homework. I was excited to get the chance to act like a real big sister! But the geometry problems seemed to be written in Chinese. I was horrified that anyone was expected to understand that shit. I tried finding a tutorial online but it was way beyond my limited Girlie Brain.

When our dad’s health declined, I slept at his house and got to know my sister better. I already knew that our dad had won custody of her after  years of neglect and abuse by her mother. Being raised by a father in his 80′s must have been hard for her.

She told me abut the time her older sister, who I will call “Tennis,” read her diary when she was 14 and snitched to our dad. This caused a huge commotion, after which Tennis convinced our dad to put his daughter in a foster home.

Eventually, our dad changed his mind and let my little sister come home. When he was dying, she tenderly manicured his nails. He had always liked a good manicure, even a hundred years ago when I was a kid.

Now that our dad is gone, my little sister is on her own. Tennis and their brother, the Weightlifter, keep their distance from her. They don’t like responsibility.

I’m glad I had a chance to briefly bond with her. I think she’s a “survivor,” like I am apparently, often to my dismay. I hope so.

Look at this crazy ring! I love the concept of a ring that looks at itself. You can buy it here.

Now look at Kitty, Daisy and Lewis. They are siblings from England whose band includes their mom on bass. They don’t want to be pigeonholed as Rockabilly, so don’t use that word if you meet them. Their style is reminiscent of East L.A and the Ronettes. I can’t stop looking at them. They are flat-out gorgeous. Watch their latest video here.

It hurt my heart to learn that Matthew Warren, the son of Pastor Rick Warren, ended his life at age 27.

I didn’t even need to read the story to assume that Matthew’s death was caused by lifelong depression. Too often, suicide is the outcome of this kind of unrelenting pain.

Rick Warren is a homophobic cunt whose stance has done harm all around the world. He and his church have had a presence in Uganda, whipping up anti-gay fervor and violence.

But no one deserves the loss of a child. Pastor Warren probably did his best to help his son hang on. Sometimes your best isn’t enough.

Meanwhile, Matthew’s uncle led a prayer at the Saddleback Church, thanking his god for something or other.  As if some god had a secret plan for poor Matthew, and could still be relied upon for anything.

I wish someone had at least made sure that Matthew didn’t have a gun! Is that too much to ask?

I have no one to pray to. I can only mourn the loss of another sweet vulnerable soul who couldn’t stick around. The world needs more of them, not less.