I stole this from Gawker's site – it came in their mailbag. If this isn’t a good example of people behaving badly, then slap my face and call me Anna – and I’m not talking about Anna Nicole Smith. Read on:
“Thursday, 8pm: I’m walking home from a friend’s house via 7th ave when I notice a woman about ten feet ahead of me stumbling in her heels. The straps were not staying put on her shoes and she kept getting her heel caught and stumbling, say, every 10 seconds or so. The man she was walking with never seemed to notice or care. But the best aspect of this story was that, as we approached a crosswalk, an ambulance came roaring down 7th avenue, with horns and lights and sirens blaring. It had its blinker on indicating it was going to make a left turn, cutting in front of me and this woman and her companion. Well, this lady was having none of it. She stepped right in front of the oncoming ambulance, as it attempted to make a turn, and put her hand up, shouted, “I’m crossing!!!” and proceeded to cross the street, stumbling in her heels the entire way. I’d say the rescue was delayed maybe 30 seconds due to this, and perhaps someone died. The woman? Anna Wintour. I guess the devil crosses when she sees fit!”
June 26, 2006
June 25, 2006
Feed Me
If it’s Sunday, I must be thinking about food. Ever since I was a little girl, Sundays were for one thing and one thing only: making bets on how soon after lunch Mama passed out from her highballs. I kid my mother. She waited till right after dinner to pass out.
No seriously, Mama may have devoted Sundays to Jack Daniels, but she also had her priorities straight. Starting on Saturday afternoons, she would take out the latest issue of Gourmet and she and my father -- who, when it came to food, was metrosexual before his time -- would flip the pages and ooh and ahh over photos of Soufflés the way some people flip over expensive jewelry.
My parents were Captain Ahabs in their own right. Their Moby Dick was not a whale, not even a seared Ahi Tuna. It was Soufflé. Damn, I have never eaten so many bad Soufflés in my life as I did during the late seventies. Where did bad Soufflés go when they died during those days? My mama’s oven. They came out as flat as my hair during the awkward years (which I’m still living, evidently).
We were southern, yet we couldn’t eat green beans like normal southerners. During those experimental food days of the late seventies, we had to eat French Bean Almandine. I longed for a simple canned bean casserole smothered in Campbell’s mushroom soup and topped with a can of French Fried Onion Rings. While others ate Jell-O mold, we learned the benefits of a fire extinguisher when my mother made Bananas Foster. I swear, she wanted to make that desert because of the alcohol involved (Drink your Desert!). Having heard that alcohol could kill, I almost turned Baptist that day and left behind my Episcopalian principles of “drink up” as the 11th commandment. That day alcohol nearly killed us all -- and no one had had a sip. What was worse is there were a few terrifying seconds while the flames licked uncontrollably across the kitchen table as my father struggled with the nozzle on the extinguisher. Metrosexuals, then and now, are not good with equipment.
The only saving grace back then was my grandma. She also liked to cook, but she didn’t need Gourmet magazine to tell her how to do it. She was a no-nonsense southern cook who understood you could win more friends with salt pork than you could saffron.
When she cooked, the Sunday table groaned and sighed from the weight of all the food. We had lima bean, cooked straight up thank you, Parker House rolls, asparagus done the proper Southern way: right out of a can, damnit. We had roast beef that fell onto your fork it was so tender, we had mustard greens that had percolated in the pressure cooker along with the aforementioned salt pork. Grandma’s served corn on the cob that had been boiled, not grilled the way Daddy liked it, but instead, she would infuse the water with Zataran’s crab boil to give the corn the impression we were in New Orleans. She also served rice and a thick brown gravy made from the juice of the roast beef.
Seconds were mandatory. When Mama made Soufflé and her French Beans Almandine, the only seconds were leftovers from Grandma’s Saturday night meal.
It bothered my mother that she couldn’t cook as well as my grandmother. Of course, my grandmother never tried to make a Soufflé. If she had, she may have failed, too. But asking her to cook something like that is like asking W to consider an opposing view. It just wasn’t in her nature.
Eventually, my parents moved on from their Gourmet magazine phase – though they never cancelled their subscription. When my father died, there was a chest filled with them that Mama sold to a local antiques dealer for a few hundred dollars. After the excitement of making complicated food wore off, they did what other culinary-challenged Southerners – and everyone else – does: they simply went out to eat.
I moved to San Francisco, and developed for a few years a tradition of going to the Mission District and having burritos, before meeting my husband, an Italian. Now winter Sundays are all about wine and good pasta. In the summers, we grill, as if obligated to do so once the temperatures rise in our new town of Las Vegas. Mama’s Jack Daniels is replaced with spring water. We have to watch our calories, you know. Today, as the sun baked Vegas to 111, we grilled Jamaican Jerk Flank steak and had a cucumber and green onion salad, a slight nod to my Southern roots. We also had corn on the cob. We grilled it. Just the way Daddy would have liked it.
No seriously, Mama may have devoted Sundays to Jack Daniels, but she also had her priorities straight. Starting on Saturday afternoons, she would take out the latest issue of Gourmet and she and my father -- who, when it came to food, was metrosexual before his time -- would flip the pages and ooh and ahh over photos of Soufflés the way some people flip over expensive jewelry.
My parents were Captain Ahabs in their own right. Their Moby Dick was not a whale, not even a seared Ahi Tuna. It was Soufflé. Damn, I have never eaten so many bad Soufflés in my life as I did during the late seventies. Where did bad Soufflés go when they died during those days? My mama’s oven. They came out as flat as my hair during the awkward years (which I’m still living, evidently).
We were southern, yet we couldn’t eat green beans like normal southerners. During those experimental food days of the late seventies, we had to eat French Bean Almandine. I longed for a simple canned bean casserole smothered in Campbell’s mushroom soup and topped with a can of French Fried Onion Rings. While others ate Jell-O mold, we learned the benefits of a fire extinguisher when my mother made Bananas Foster. I swear, she wanted to make that desert because of the alcohol involved (Drink your Desert!). Having heard that alcohol could kill, I almost turned Baptist that day and left behind my Episcopalian principles of “drink up” as the 11th commandment. That day alcohol nearly killed us all -- and no one had had a sip. What was worse is there were a few terrifying seconds while the flames licked uncontrollably across the kitchen table as my father struggled with the nozzle on the extinguisher. Metrosexuals, then and now, are not good with equipment.
The only saving grace back then was my grandma. She also liked to cook, but she didn’t need Gourmet magazine to tell her how to do it. She was a no-nonsense southern cook who understood you could win more friends with salt pork than you could saffron.
When she cooked, the Sunday table groaned and sighed from the weight of all the food. We had lima bean, cooked straight up thank you, Parker House rolls, asparagus done the proper Southern way: right out of a can, damnit. We had roast beef that fell onto your fork it was so tender, we had mustard greens that had percolated in the pressure cooker along with the aforementioned salt pork. Grandma’s served corn on the cob that had been boiled, not grilled the way Daddy liked it, but instead, she would infuse the water with Zataran’s crab boil to give the corn the impression we were in New Orleans. She also served rice and a thick brown gravy made from the juice of the roast beef.
Seconds were mandatory. When Mama made Soufflé and her French Beans Almandine, the only seconds were leftovers from Grandma’s Saturday night meal.
It bothered my mother that she couldn’t cook as well as my grandmother. Of course, my grandmother never tried to make a Soufflé. If she had, she may have failed, too. But asking her to cook something like that is like asking W to consider an opposing view. It just wasn’t in her nature.
Eventually, my parents moved on from their Gourmet magazine phase – though they never cancelled their subscription. When my father died, there was a chest filled with them that Mama sold to a local antiques dealer for a few hundred dollars. After the excitement of making complicated food wore off, they did what other culinary-challenged Southerners – and everyone else – does: they simply went out to eat.
I moved to San Francisco, and developed for a few years a tradition of going to the Mission District and having burritos, before meeting my husband, an Italian. Now winter Sundays are all about wine and good pasta. In the summers, we grill, as if obligated to do so once the temperatures rise in our new town of Las Vegas. Mama’s Jack Daniels is replaced with spring water. We have to watch our calories, you know. Today, as the sun baked Vegas to 111, we grilled Jamaican Jerk Flank steak and had a cucumber and green onion salad, a slight nod to my Southern roots. We also had corn on the cob. We grilled it. Just the way Daddy would have liked it.
June 24, 2006
Don't Ask
This one is making its way around the Web:
George W. Bush goes to a primary school to talk to the kids and score some points with parents. After his talk, he offers question time. One little boy puts up his hand and George asks him his name. "Stanley," responds the little boy.
"And what is your question, Stanley?"
"I have 4 questions:
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?"
Just then, the bell rings for recess. George Bush informs the kiddies that they will continue after recess.
When they resume, George says, "OK, where were we? Oh, that's right, question time. Who has a question?" Another little boy puts up his hand. George points him out and asks him his name.
"Steve," he responds.
"And what is your question, Steve?"
"Actually, I have 6 questions.
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?
5. Why did the recess bell go off 20 minutes early? And ,,,,
6. What happened to Stanley?"
George W. Bush goes to a primary school to talk to the kids and score some points with parents. After his talk, he offers question time. One little boy puts up his hand and George asks him his name. "Stanley," responds the little boy.
"And what is your question, Stanley?"
"I have 4 questions:
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?"
Just then, the bell rings for recess. George Bush informs the kiddies that they will continue after recess.
When they resume, George says, "OK, where were we? Oh, that's right, question time. Who has a question?" Another little boy puts up his hand. George points him out and asks him his name.
"Steve," he responds.
"And what is your question, Steve?"
"Actually, I have 6 questions.
1. Why did the USA invade Iraq without the support of the UN?
2. Why are you President when Al Gore got more votes?
3. Whatever happened to Osama Bin Laden?
4. Why are we so worried about gay-marriage when half of all Americans don't have health insurance?
5. Why did the recess bell go off 20 minutes early? And ,,,,
6. What happened to Stanley?"
June 17, 2006
Happy Birthday Robby
Today my pal Robby turns 23. Again.
It’s more an anniversary than a birthday. We both stopped counting years ago. This must be the 20th anniversary of Robby’s 23rd birthday. As for me, I’m only on the second anniversary of mine. Robby counts better than I do.
To call Robby a good friend is too weak. He is a part of my life, just like my left hand is a part of my life, or my split ends are, or good cabernet and expensive moisturizer. Prada is not as much a part of my life as I would like it to be, but I have Robby to cheer me up.
Robby is the last of the renaissance men. He can do it all: he is a great photographer, the kind who captures the essence of a moment, whether it makes you want to laugh or tugs a little at you somewhere deep inside.
Years ago, he was a very good poet, but he has either stopped doing that or hasn’t shared of his work in years (maybe he got tired of me asking how he could do that without rhyming). I remember he got a poem published in college, and everyone told him how good it was. He later told me how surprised he was at the poem's success because all he had been doing when he wrote it was sitting around the house eating Cheetos.
Robby can dance, and his talents have landed him on my childhood heart-throb’s talk show: Donny Osmond. Robby even sings, and once he wrote a song to the tune of “Don’t Cry for me Argentina.” He called it “Don’t Cry for me Marlon Brando.” He sang it for me one night, too many years ago, in LA at a cabaret that I'm not sure exists anymore. It was one of those perfect nights that in retrospect makes you feel that magic does exist.
Among his many talents, he is one of the funniest people I know, and nothing makes me laugh like his imitation of an old Southern woman, or of Blanche Dubois, whom we both consider a viable role model. After all, she had such great lines.
He can cook dishes that will give your mouth an orgasm. He’s an actor in LA who doesn’t have to wait tables. He not only acts, but he produces, and when he tells you he produces, it’s not just a line at a cocktail party. He produces theater, real theater, not puppets in the backyard like I used to do and called myself a producer. Critics love his work. That in and of itself is an achievement.
On top of all that, he has the talent to do the most important thing anyone in life can ever do: throw a great party and make you feel like the honored guest.
Robby has done a lot in his 23 years. But talent doesn’t make you a good friend. It doesn’t make you feel that someone is a part of your life, like your hand or your jar of Erno Lazlo. To do that, a person has to be there for you. He has to put up with all your phases, hang in there with you when you go from thinking that you will be the next William Faulkner, to maybe the next Nora Ephron, to the next writer who wrote that one book that climbed up to about #50 on the NYT list and then it fell off and we haven’t heard from her since.
For a person to be a part of your life for 20odd anniversaries of your 23rd birthday, he has to call you when you haven’t called him in a while. He has to not give up on the friendship, even though you haven’t lived in the same town for over 20odd years. He also has to be the person you call when you are in desperate need of either a really good laugh or a really good conversation. He’s the therapist who doesn’t charge, he’s the go-to person when you have an odd question, like, “Who sang ‘Boogie Nights’?” And he’s the person you miss when you realize, “I haven’t spoken to him in three days.”
So Happy Birthday, Robby, my fabulous friend. You don’t look a day over 23.
June 15, 2006
Southern Gal Don't Need Them Around Anyhow
You’re two years into your party’s second term. Polls are low (but up a tad lately!), the deficit is huge and the war is hell. What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do? (Imagine Keaunu Reeves saying these last two lines. It works better.)
You are going to publish a list of the 50 greatest conservative rock songs! National Review did just that. Mr. John Miller, who compiled the list, defined the criteria: "The lyrics must convey a conservative idea or sentiment, such as skepticism of government or support for traditional values. And, to be sure, it must be a great rock song."
Who’s at the top of the list. No, that’s not a question. The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again," which Miller calls a theme song for "disillusioned revolutionaries" who've forsaken their naive idealism. Also in the top 10 are "Wouldn't It Be Nice" by the Beach Boys (for its pro-abstinence and -marriage message, which is ironic because I lost my virginity in the back seat of someone's car fifty milion years ago to that song), "Gloria" by U2 (that Bono is such a neocon) and "Revolution" by the Beatles. Other selections include songs by Bob Dylan's "Neighborhood Bully", David Bowie's "Heroes" (Republicans can be heroes, but just for one day) and John Mellencamp's "Small Town".
Okay, I am an iTunes freak and I just compiled my favorite list of classics, with “Heroes” right at the top. So kudos to David Bowie. I almost put the Who’s “My Generation” on the CD, but nixed it in favor of Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.” Speaking of Neil Young, I am reminded of “Southern Man,” also on my classics CD, which reminds me of “Sweet Home Alabama,” and I have to say, I’m not surprised that one made NR’s list. “Southern man don’t need him [Neil Young] around anyhow,” sounds like Trent Lott waxing poetic.
My list won’t be as famous as NR’s, but my liberal friends will enjoy listening to the compilation. So will my conservative friends -- all three of them.
June 11, 2006
Work: It Does a Body Bad
I have been at two back-to-back trade shows for nine days. On day ten, rather than resting, I drove our PR people around town to different destinations while a film crew followed. We were filming a video news release for my company. On day eleven and day twelve, I rested. God may have rested in the Bible only on one day, but God didn’t have to put on a fake smile and pretend that she was having fun selling her wares at a trade show in a badly lit convention center filled with recycled air. Not to mention wine and dine strangers at night, all the while, ooing over photos of their ugly-ass offspring.
Work ages you. According to my new best friend, my massage therapist - the person I see more than any other living being outside of work - my work is wearing my body down. I don’t even do manual labor, so I’m not sure how my job is killing my body, but judging by how I feel – like I have a hangover without the alcohol, I believe her.
This would all be bearable if there were no jackasses at my job. But there are. There’s Chickpea, the much reviled garbanzo bean of our organization. He can’t control his bodily noises, he picks his noise, he brags how men hit on his mail-order bride, he sits on his fat ass and cruises the internet, he berates those underneath him because it is the only work he can manage to do, and he exists. If you call him on his behavior, he tells you, “you know that is just how I am.” You want to say, “how you are is not good enough,” but you don’t, because he can fire you. So you blog anonymously and hope that there actually is Karma or a God and that one or the other will do him in. In the meantime, you see a message therapist and wonder why in your blog you shifted from first person to second in the middle of your post about your work. Is it lazy grammar or is it some psychological mishap kicking in, shielding you, I mean me, from the harsh realities of life with a chickpea?
Hubby tells me I have another year or year-and-a-half to go before we retire to Baja. I keep thinking: I’m too young to retire. Then I remember my aching muscles, my brain that is mush from too much thinking, my cheeks, which hurt from smiling (I have new respect for beauty queens) and, of course, I think about the chickpeas of the corporate world, and I realize, screw this. Hand me a shot of tequila, pass the sun-block and say Buenos Noches. I’m cooked. I’m done. I don’t even need Ambien to sleep I’m so tired. On the other hand, I still need my Prozac. I do have another 18 months of this, after all.
Work ages you. According to my new best friend, my massage therapist - the person I see more than any other living being outside of work - my work is wearing my body down. I don’t even do manual labor, so I’m not sure how my job is killing my body, but judging by how I feel – like I have a hangover without the alcohol, I believe her.
This would all be bearable if there were no jackasses at my job. But there are. There’s Chickpea, the much reviled garbanzo bean of our organization. He can’t control his bodily noises, he picks his noise, he brags how men hit on his mail-order bride, he sits on his fat ass and cruises the internet, he berates those underneath him because it is the only work he can manage to do, and he exists. If you call him on his behavior, he tells you, “you know that is just how I am.” You want to say, “how you are is not good enough,” but you don’t, because he can fire you. So you blog anonymously and hope that there actually is Karma or a God and that one or the other will do him in. In the meantime, you see a message therapist and wonder why in your blog you shifted from first person to second in the middle of your post about your work. Is it lazy grammar or is it some psychological mishap kicking in, shielding you, I mean me, from the harsh realities of life with a chickpea?
Hubby tells me I have another year or year-and-a-half to go before we retire to Baja. I keep thinking: I’m too young to retire. Then I remember my aching muscles, my brain that is mush from too much thinking, my cheeks, which hurt from smiling (I have new respect for beauty queens) and, of course, I think about the chickpeas of the corporate world, and I realize, screw this. Hand me a shot of tequila, pass the sun-block and say Buenos Noches. I’m cooked. I’m done. I don’t even need Ambien to sleep I’m so tired. On the other hand, I still need my Prozac. I do have another 18 months of this, after all.
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