Godammit, I’m Mad!

Two weeks after I turned fourteen, I hit the road with my boyfriend. A day or two earlier, my mom had issued an ultimatum: Either I stop seeing him, or she would call the police. I had brought him home to meet her, and the sight of a scruffy bearded 26 year old man, assuring her that he was serious about me, must have been horrifying.

I was filled with excitement when he suggested that we run away together. He was a Pied Piper figure on the Sunset Strip, with plenty of followers eager to help in our getaway. In no time, we had fake IDs and a guy to drive us to San Fransisco. Our birth certificates belonged to an 18 year old girl named Debbie and some guy named Warren. For the next few weeks, we had to call each other Warren and Debbie, names I still hate to this day.

I stopped at a phone booth to call my sister. I told her I was leaving, and I’d be back in four years. She was furious and threatened to tell our mother. When I said she could have my over-the-knee boots, she backed down, clearly surprised by her good fortune.

For some reason, I wasn’t wearing my contact lenses. It was annoying but I guess I resigned myself to being blind. It was already after midnight and our first stop was Tijuana, to get married. He must have wanted to make an honest woman of me. I remember waking up some guy in a shack who didn’t speak much English. My bridal attire was one of my every day outfits: an awful brown satin dress that looked like a civil war costume, and bare feet.

From Mexico we went to San Francisco, our driver’s original destination. He let us off near a Goodwill thrift store, where I bought a black velvet opera coat for fifty cents. The plan was to dress like a “straight” person, but I had to rebel. It was a reflex or an instinct; it was all I ever did. My husband went to a barber who cut his long hair and shaved off his beard. I was stunned by how unattractive he looked without the hair and beard, but it was too late. I was stuck with him.

Catching up with Sea of Shoes after her whirlwind visit to New York, we now find her back in Texas, specifically, at an exclusive sale of Mom’s “vintage” wares at some shop in Dallas.

Sea and Mom spread the joy of hideous animal-themed costume jewelry, most if it sourced from eBay at a fraction of the price charged to their hapless groupies. Years from now, Texas woman will be wondering what came over them when they gaze upon their gigantic monkey and elephant pendants.

Jane stood around in her Anne D. shoes, perhaps daydreaming about Asian boys or Martin Margiela. Meanwhile, Mom has posted about her love of studded shoes, featuring at least $4,000 of  her carefully edited collection.

Would you like to leave a comment for Jane, who doesn’t care what you think? I will go first:

Dear Sea, I saw a video of an interview you gave in New York, and I realized that you are just an average looking girl who doesn’t seem to grasp the implications of anything at all. I see that Mom is the brains behind everything, and I hope one day you can move on to a ‘transitional object‘, like a blankie, before finally breaking free of Mom for good. Meanwhile, I think you guys have enough shoes. Love, SW.

In recent days, two idiots nice individuals have cited my hatefulness as a moral flaw in my nature (not to mention my blog.)  I will point out yet again that the title of this blog is “Godammit, ‘m Mad! and I’m Getting Madder,” not “Look What I Love.”

However, just to remind anyone who doesn’t know what a fucking cornucopia of love I am, here is a list of fifty people I love, in the order they popped into my brain:

Patti Smith, William Borroughs, Van Morrison, Vermeer, William Bouguereau, Aretha Franklin, Thomas Hardy, Elvis Costello, Edith Wharton, Flaubert, Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, Kingsley Amis, Mervin Peake, Johnny Depp, Ingrid Bergman, Chris Rock, Richard Feinman, Arthur Lee, Bob Dylan, George Eliot, Amy Winehouse, Denton Welch, Balzac, Vivienne Leigh, Brigitte Bardot, Prince, Amanda Palmer, Donna Summer, Paul Erdos, Frida Kahlo, Bert Jansch, Fred Neil, Iris Murdoch, Joan Armatrading, Tolstoy, Otis Redding, Ravi Shankar, Oscar Wilde, Karen Horney, Derek & Clive, Neil Young, Tim Buckley, Leonard Cohen. Robert DiNiro, Alice Miller, Yukio Mishima, Ricky Gervais, Larry David, Tony Duquette.

See?

Now, who do you love that I should love too?

I believe that Bottega Veneta had me in mind when they designed this suit for fall 2010. If they would now kindly hand it over, I would be eternally grateful.

Not just a fucking cunt, but a TOTAL fucking cunt. If you didn’t already hate him, it’s time to get on board.

Sting was offered 2 millions pounds to perform in Uzbekistan for the glamorous daughter of  its brutal dictator, whose human rights violations are deplored around the world.

When asked to defend his decision, after the fact, Sting issued a statement that explained: “The concert was organized by the president’s daughter and I believe sponsored by Unicef.”

But Unicef says they were “quite surprised” by Sting’s claim.  Oh, snap!

Sting still wants to have it both ways (i.e. to indulge his greed and to pose as a humanitarian.) Here is his argument:

“I am well aware of the Uzbek president’s appalling reputation in the field of human rights as well as the environment. I made the decision to play there in spite of that. I have come to believe that cultural boycotts are not only pointless gestures, they are counter-productive, where proscribed states are further robbed of the open commerce of ideas and art and as a result become even more closed, paranoid and insular.”

God, what a fucking cunt™.  A ticket for his concert cost more than 45 times the average monthly salary in Uzbekistan.  Look at him sitting with Gulnara Karimova, the dictator’s daughter and anointed heir. Don’t they look cultural together? Poor Trudy.

If you hate Sting as much as I do, listen to the eloquence of journalist Miles Raymer:

“You gotta hand it to Sting: the guy just doesn’t stop. Most people who inspire the hatred of literally millions of people for a long list of entirely valid reasons—from his shitty music to his preternatural self-regard to his insistence on planting in my mind, even for the briefest of horrifying seconds, the image of him having hours-long tantric sex—would probably rest on their laurels.”

Sting brings being a cunt to a whole new level. He is definitely Cunt of the Week™, unless someone somehow manages to out-cunt him.

A shoe that lives up to its name. Wrong on so many levels.

And yet somehow I feel that Erin Wasson would love them.They might even be worse than the Gladiator Converse. Both signal the end of civilization.

Neiman Marcus, $495

Inspired by the mom-woman and her what-I-wore pictures, I’ve decided to share my carefully curated collection of Black Jackets.  I only had time for five of them. Believe me, this is just  the tip of the Black Jacket Iceberg. The jacket above is a leather jacket by Rachel Roy, around 4 years old. Check out the peplum thing in the back.

Here’s a wool motorcycle jacket and notice how I didn’t use “moto” in my description.

Here’s another wool motorcycle jacket that’s kind of quilted and shorter.

This one is a cashmere jacket by Richard Tyler…my very first eBay purchase. It has a beautiful embroidered lining in peach satin.

Here is the Plein Sud jacket that I got at the UCLA Cancer Thrift Shop a few years ago. I once used it to sit on at a Patti Smith concert at the pier, that’s how awesome I am.

Would you like to see some more Black Jackets? There are two more leather ones, two cotton ones, and I’m afraid to  remember if there are others.

What the hell is wrong with me? (Oh shit, I just remembered the Ann D. jacket I got from Yoox.com!) How many times do you have to buy the same thing before you feel satisfied, you know what I’m saying?

Or maybe it’s my life’s work to curate Black Jackets? I hope not.

Now tell the class what item you are doomed to keep buying. And if you choose to gush over any of my jackets, please call me “Judy”, just for fun!

If you’re an active member of PAP Smear, you already know about the newest evidence concerning Trig-gate. If not, you can check it out here and here.

The original Trig has a deformed ear. The current Trig does not. Nobody is saying where Mrs. P procured those Trigs, or even how many Trigs there might be. Nobody has yet seen a copy of any birth certificate.

Real Americans want Real Trigs, goddammit!

* cartoon from here.

A friend  sent me a link to a woman who has a blog and documents what she wears every day. My friend ’s question was: “Why?!?”

God. I have no idea. Has everyone gone nuts? Who gives a shit what you wear every day, no matter who you are? I don’t even care what I wear every day, let alone some boring mom-woman.

I guess this mom-woman is the antidote to the Sartorialist.  The whole spectacle of what people wear has reached a tipping point, in my opinion.  Let’s start seeing everyone’s dental work or something.

Thanks to Hammie, I now know what actress should play me in the movie based on my life: Catherine Keener. Perfect choice, Hammie! She is definitely an idealized version of me…an attractive, mature hippie type. Or as I like to call her, the thinking man’s Demi Moore.

Years ago, my sister’s husband had an “adventure” that I won’t go into, except to say that afterward, my sister and I liked to secretly cast the movie of it. The title would be “On the Lam.” We figured that Karen Allen or maybe Debra Winger could play us, and Sam Neil could play her husband. I can’t remember how we cast the other characters in our lives, but it was a great game.

The other night though, I saw a movie with Debra Winger, who is now an old hag; she’s definitely out. And I have remarried. My husband can be played by Carlos Santana, since he’s been mistaken for Carlos Santana more than once.

If for some reason, Catherine Keener is too busy to play me, I would settle for Dita Von Teese.

Who would you cast as you in the movie of your life?