Did you wonder if fast food megaconglomerates

were beginning to chafe at the bad press? Yes, they paid off Congress, but now they have a counterinformation site "Consumer Freedom." It's hilarious. It's a parallel universe. You know like the one that touts KFC as diet food. Goddamn anti-sodaists! F*cking Mothers Against Drunk Driving! Matt LeBlanc Not Fat Expose!

The "Center" goes after food activists, who, frankly, I have no patience for, but can you really deny obesity in America? Have they never been to the Eiffel Tower in August?

I want to say

DOOCE

I just love this blog so much. It's about everything I don't know anything about, except of course wanting to jump out of your skin, which apparently affects something like 98% of female bloggers.

I'll give you candy, give you diamonds, give you pills

This week's NY Magazine has an article about teen-agers and pills. This is a subject close to my heart, because as a teen-ager I loved pills.* Loved, loved, loved them. (Still do actually.) Luckily I was born just before the national obsession with healthy, natural living. My third grade teacher told us that chemistry would make life better, and I still firmly believe that. During my formative years, there were two kinds of cultures -- the acid and pot hippie culture and the pills and cocaine clubbing culture (heroin crossed all lines -- it is, after all, the little black dress of drugs).

I loved pills because they were so Valley of the Dolls Sharon Tate and bored Samantha Stevens cocktail-serving housewife. I was obsessed by Douglas Sirk movies (and Fassbinder, natch) and upper middle class surbuban life -- at least as portrayed by Hollywood -- in the fifties and sixties, and in order to live that life you needed at the very least:

1. diet pills
2. martinis (scotch for the husband's boss); and
3. sleeping pills.

So I went about replicating "the life" in the junkie-infested, rat-infested East Village. We all did. (It was really really like that.)

Rent was cheap, used 50s & 60s cocktail dresses were cheap (some girls made their own) and so were stilettos. My girlfriends and I would sit around our slum apartments, pop pills (and, I can't believe we did this), mix up some apricot sours and perform an elaborate cosmetic toilette in preparation for evenings out. We favored opera length gloves and chandelier earrings. We smoked -- nothing light. By midnight or one, sluttily, slurrily, shakily unsteady but powdered, perfumed and red lipsticked to the hilt, we would do a few lines of coke and teeter out. Sometimes we passed out. Sometimes we madeout.

When we did hit the street, we might have looked like adherents to The Rules (77 cents, ha!), but we fucked on first "dates," not necessarily knowing the guy's name and not necessarily leaving a trace of our own. Who cared? We didn't.

Somewhere in my twenties I came to and decided to become a lawyer. Christ, I should have upped the dosage.

*Red-and-blue Tuinal bullet capsules, lipstick-red Seconals. See, Fight Club.

If anyone had ever told me

I'd even think of leaving New York, I would have surely thought them certifiable, but every time I see more "luxury housing" I recoil. The last assault came when I passed by 3-bedroom-floor-through renovations on 17th and Park Avenue South. By the time they're built they'll be 8 million bucks apiece. It's just too dreary to consider. So I'm thinking of giving the old rent stabilized apartment to No. 2 and his girlfriend and moving elsewhere. To this:



This Glide House is a little like an IKEA house, but if I furnished it differently, more like this -- those stainless steel sink bowls are horrible and that blonde wood has to go -- it would be okay. (100k for the house, 500K for the decor -- that would be typical). On the plus side, we can put one anywhere -- like on the boyfriend's parent's property in HAWAII. It's not like I haven't done every damned thing here. God knows, I've done it twice. Maybe, I'll even get married again. Three's the charm I hear.

2nd Acts in American Life

The New York Times reports that Rocco Di Spirito has been removed from Union Pacific.

Rocco was such a buffoon on The Restaurant, it may be difficult to remember how sublime Union Pacific was. It was great.

That much overlooked moment in fashion history

"1986: Valet Parking Chic."

o 

One of the perks of having dissolute and neglectful parents

is that one is essentially left alone. Nobody checks your homework or makes sure you brush after meals. In my case, my parents had no idea what I was reading. That was great, because I tore through every sexually explicit book in the library by the time I was 12 or 13 years old. People with bad parents are largely self-created -- a wonderful and horrible prospect.

A book I loved when I was 13 was Bonjour, Tristesse, incredibly appealing not only for its frank sexuality, but also because the author was "the chic and bohemian" 19-year-old Francoise Sagan. Even though I lived closer to the cote de coney island than the cote d'azur I became a spoiled teenage petite bourgeoiseuse frankly perplexing most of my classmates, too many of whom were inordinately named Beth and Amy. Francoise Sagan died on September 25, and her death caused me more than a pang grief. She and Jean Seberg were instrumental in creating the character that ultimately became me.

Of course the New York Times wrote an obituary, but I find that this post in Book of Joe is more descriptive. I too am a litte heavy on the vices. But, she's right: It ain't nobody's business if I do.

In the 1970s there was nobody more fatally elegant than

Angelica Huston

Style in the 1970s got really out of control, but from 1971-3 or so, which was the real the end of the 60s, there was this excellent 1930s Marchmain House-wear with a hint of Rain-like tropical indolence thrown in. People looked great. Everybody was vewy, vewy bored, had super thin arched eyebrows, snorted tons of cocaine and relaxed afterward with opium. Girls looked great in 30s rayon dresses dripping over the cushions of velvet couches and chaises longues all protruding hip bones and beaded eyelashes. I was too young to wear that stuff -- although I did wear rainbow wedgies, short pants and cherry lip gloss . Very hello daddy, hello mom.

Anyway, the guy in the pic? Manolo Blahnik, before he became MANOLO Blahnik. In those days he designed dynamite edgy hip shoes. I got my first pair -- and of course his name was meaningless then -- at a store called Manic Panic. The owners bought odds and ends here and there and they had significant taste.

I bought two pair -- both the same short boots, very high slender heel in suede, leather lace up (no gromets, sewed on) with frivolous fur trim. One pair was red w/black fur/laces the other was black w/ purple fur/laces -- they were incredibly, sluttily, hot. When paired with an ice skating skirt, the ensemble shrieked fuck me. I was good with that.

Tickled Pink and Caught Red Handed

I am delighted that Alizinha, the Brazilian Muse, will be performing at WYSIWYG. I would urge a big turn-out, but since she is about the only one who reads this blog such an exhortation would have zero effect. I also wouldn't mind seeing a knife fight between Eurotrash and Trembles, but that's probably unlikely.

I have worked for so many psychos, I've lost track (with lawyers there's just such a wide selection). I wish I had something to read there, but I don't. So, in honor of the show, here's a tiny anecdote (character sketch really) about my last psycho boss and her son:

Nearly every day my boss, who I have written about here and here, asked me if I thought her balding 30-year-old son (the one with the severe gambling problem who was our "office manager") had a future as a model. Mr. Unemployable But For Patronage just barely towered over the unfiled briefs at about 5'6", so I was daily perplexed by her question. It was only later that I realized she was desperately casting about for a career for him that would require absolutely no skills at all, and the only thing she could come up with was model. I was so naive.

He was an incredibly inept employee. I couldn't imagine what he did all day. After a while it became apparent. All office paperwork remained unfiled as he perfected a scheme that would make Gus Van Sant proud. This guy bought thousands of pounds of paper clips (and other office incidentals) from Office Depot on the company dime and returned them for cash. He used the proceeds to bet on basketball -- and badly. He was a one-man office-supply-laundering racket -- having long since cleaned out mommy's bank account the day his bookie came around the office threatening to break his kneecaps. A fine turn for his incipient modeling career that would have been. On the other hand, how does one explain Chloe Sevigny?

Actually, in an "only in New York kids, only in New York" kind of way, the bookie really wanted Misdemeanor Boy's rent-stabilized apartment with option to buy. The apartment had been secured by -- you guessed it! -- mommykins. The old lady fought like only a lioness could for a 24-hour doorman, prewar building. Alas, he lost it anyway during a particularly mad March. The lesson being, never bet against Duke, however you might feel about their alumni's fashion sense and blog hegemony, or there will be a guy named Sal redecorating you or your L- shaped studio with dressing area.

When I asked the BiPolar Harridan about the Berlin Wall of paper clips in the supply closet, I realized she was a collaborater in the scheme -- an efficient little operation intended to rip off her husband and partner, it being the very height of convenience that they were one and the same. Better to save the truly superior efforts at dissemblance for the clients my dear. Ah Clytemnestra! Ah family! The firm, too, suffered. One need only to have worked on the archaic computer system and be imprisoned in their unfortunate digs to know that. (And what perks! Medical benefits that rivaled those of the Gulag Archipelago.)

What would a self-respecting lawyer do? What is a self-respecting lawyer anyway? Of course, I agreed the monosyllabic lout had a brilliant future with Imitation of Christ, ignored the gel inkgate that was undoubtedly forthcoming and surfed the net for a new job. As far as I know, they are all still dog paddling along, and the kid still has his thumbs.

Some day I'll write about spending New Year's Eve in the Hamptons amid walkers, dentures and enough restylene to mortar the Elgin Marbles back on to the Parthenon.

I was watching the World Series of Poker Shootout

on ESPN last night. Often in high stakes, no limit poker players wear sunglasses and hats to better hide their tells. There aren't too many women on the high stakes circuit, and if I expect to be the first woman who wins the world series of poker, I must hide my tells. With all due respect to my observant Muslim sisteren, I do think a Burka would do a great job -- not only freaking out the fundamentalists, but significantly unnerving my male opponents. On second thought, probably alternating between a Burka and low-cut tank and Wonderbra would be better.

Also, I need a cool nickname, okay well the nicknames aren't so cool -- Fossilman, Professor???? -- but I need to think of something.

Aloof Imperious Condescending

I heard on the news today that Kerry is behind in the polls because he is aloof, imperious, condescending and other adjectives like that. What does it matter if he's aloof? I mean one thing I want in a president is for him to be aloof. If the president meets the leaders of other countries do we want him to be aloof, imperious and condescending or loutish, coarse and big mouthed? I dunno.

The presidency isn't a popularity contest -- or is it? What I wouldn't give to be more aloof, imperious and condescending. (In my experience the only Italian-American who was aloof, imperious and condescending was the Godfather. He couldn't even be condescending. My whole life has been in pursuit of the aloof, imperious and condescending.)

Don't people feel intimidated by people who are a, i & c? I am. Shouldn't the president be intimidating? I don't get it. I'm missing something. You don't have to LIKE the president; he needs to LOVE the country and give a shit about the people. I bet FDR, in fact I'm sure FDR, was aloof, imperious and condescending -- my loud, warm, friendly Italian grandmother thought he was saint. She said without him our family would not have survived the depression -- she never mentioned whether he was likable. She was too grateful.

In real time

Dan Rather says "I'm sorry," but he's silent re: internet sources.

So given today's admission by Dan Rather

that the memos he relied on were fakes -- doesn't he owe an apology to bloggers like this who discussed the issue in good faith? Mr. Rather said, among other things, the bloggers who discussed this were "partisan operatives." It's unfathomable whether or not he will cost Kerry. Such a careless error.

I hope it's over for Rather. Really over.

Greg "Fossilman" Raymer

was a lawyer too -- BEFORE HE WON $5 MILLION DOLLARS playing poker.

i'm going to become a professional poker player

I'm not shitting you. This is where I'll be playing. This is where the winner of the 2004 Word Series of Poker Champ Greg "Fossilman" Raymer qualified.

I actually believe that

Jesus is with you always -- but notice not lawyers. Thanks to Cynical-C, a great site.

Happy 5765

No more Easter for Esther.
She's going to party like it's 5745.

Harvard Law School graduates have no fucking dignity

The Apprentice

American Candidate

Survivor

Mediocrity comes in on little cat's feet

She is the embodiment of virtually everything I loathe. I was going to qualify that by inserting " in food criticism," but really, that's far too narrow.

I rarely leave the house,

but last night I went to the Cupcake reading series conveniently located at Lolita a mere $5 cabride from the apartment (no talking was involved). The readers -- Jami Attenberg, Eurotrash, Emma Garman, Blaise K., Rachel Kramer Bussel, Maccers and Elizabeth Spiers and emceed by Maud Newton -- are freakishly talented, and I envy every one.

As I proceeded down 2nd Ave, I came upon the foundation of the Great Wall of Avalon-Chrystie. On the way home I passed the many Bowery projects. It occurred to me that for some reason the East Village was being walled in, and shortly I would be living in the equivalent of a medieval burg.

Not your mother's political operative

I have been irritating the fellows over at this site recently. They are desperate for women over there. So after you get the really important things out of the way -- having children and mocking the "stylish" -- go right there and give them a piece of your mind. (They could use it.)

I know something about love

I always enjoy reading Overheard in New York, but September 13th is priceless.

Tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him right now.

Hard-core Republican Bachelorettes!

Tagline: The New White Meat.

Thanks to Standard Deviance, Lusty Lady and Eurotrash.

(Good luck on Wall Street girls; give me a call in 10 years after the kids are in school and you want to resume your career.)

11 September 2004

Mr. Kevin Walsh

The Gothamist interviews Kevin Walsh of Forgotten New York and although anyone reading it will love the site, it is particularly sweet for those of us who remember when you could be really broke and living large in NYC.

10 more horrifying facts about the Bottomfeeding Harridan and her husband for whom I used to work (with illustration)

1. This is pretty much what she and her husband looked like (but shorter).
2. He had no idea how to turn on a computer.
3. She knew how to use a computer, but did not know how to save. So she typed things up, printed them out, ignored them, and then gave the printout to the secretary to retype.
4. She forced me to go shopping with her in the afternoon.
5. She bought suits at least two sizes too small and always had cameltoe (even in court) ouch!
6. He got mad when I went out with her shopping.
7. He was jealous of her because she made more money and his clients were in the late stages of altercockerdom.
8. She had more pictures of dachshunds in her office than of her kid.
9. She hated kids.
10. Her kid worked for her.

Hee Hee

Hee via Maud Newton.

ten cents a dance and flights of angels to sing me to my rest

Despite the fact that his politics are completely antithetical to my own, I read Manhattan Transfer with familiar glee. Recently he has written a captivating little enchiridion on meridial inebriation (forgive me for that but i crack myself up) which reminded me of my own little taxi dance with that habit. It's blurry but it went something like this.

Rise at 11:00.
To the bar by a respectable 11:30.
Order a double margarita no salt no ice.*
Drink.
Order lunch -- usually grilled chicken with bacon.
Order a double margarita no salt no ice.
Drink.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
[A couple of times a week I would order a huge bowl of trifile -- lovely lovely macerated fruit; cake laced with the most fragrant of golden rums and lovely clouds of pastry cream and chocolate curls -- that was always a kicker.]
High myself home high (sorry again) and into bed at about 2:30ish.
Nap.
Wake early evening.
Shower.
Dress for dinner.
Go to dinner.
Some postprandial nightspot.
Drink.
Drink.
Drink.
Drink.

I don't recommend this lifestyle as I had to go to Antibes to dry out and I ended up shortly thereafter in law school. Too much penance for too little sin I think.

*Note this was a mixed cocktail and did not contain any premix etc. It seemed an adequate afternoon drink. In the summer outdoors it was boodles and tonic triple lime. At dinner martinis, bordeaux and lilet. (I loved antique drinks: I fiendishly drank sidecars for a whole season and even admit to a couple of Bronx cocktails when feeling particularly sluttish.) In the winter indoors I drank perfect Manhattans. For outdoor winter activities I drank cognac from a little engraved flask.

First couple of absolutely true things

The last partner I worked for bore a striking resemblance to Cindy Adams. She had 3 dachsunds and an elderly husband and partner whose senile meanderings seemed to be culled from the very worst of 1950s borsht belt schtickle.

He was sure everyone loved him. The receptionist? She LOVES me. The two 22-year-old associates he insisted on greeting with a hug? They LOVE me. The managing partner at the firm next door? He LOVES me. They LOATHED him. His bald pate bore a sprinkling of age spots and a couple of whispy strands of combover. His wife knew she was much hipper than he. She told me so all the time.

My former partner, what should I call her? The Bottomfeeding Harridan ("BH") seems appropriately descriptive. She was younger than springtime -- 60 at a minimum and hyperbarically preserved. The BH offered to take me to her plastic surgeon. She LOVED plastic surgery. Said so every day. Restylene she'd crow, much better than collagen!

They were a matched pair at about 5'2". Like a greedy urban salt and pepper set living way beyond their means in a museum of an apt on the UES (but I really must save a little for later). More on these eminent jurists to come.

veritas

Someday soon I'm going to tell the whole fucking truth. I'm working up to it.

Guaranteed overheard verbatim:

"Surely there is no shame in hating the law."

...but it's dry heat.

[the following is guest-blogged by the b/f]

The Earth receives a tiny fraction of the Sun's output, but most of that falls directly on Phoenix, unmitigated by clouds, shade or tall buildings. As the locals are fond of saying, it's dry heat, which means the 110-degree weather only feels like 104. You can get a tan in about 20 minutes, and a really nasty sunburn in 30. La Depressionada was out by the pool for about 27 minutes, and it shows.

The summer heat is a constant factor, and you have to incorporate it into your life the way the scientists stationed at McMurdo learn to deal with the cold. For example, you should try not to leave the following items in your parked car:

-Geeky gadgets that use batteries, which will overheat and burst
-Gas receipts you hope to be reimbursed for, the ones using heat-sensitive paper
-Chocolates purchased as a surprise for the g/f

If I had a pet or a baby with me, I'm sure you'd be reading my name in the news right now.

I can't take it; I really can't

GWB: Many of our most fundamental systems - the tax code, health coverage, pension plans, worker training - were created for the world of yesterday, not tomorrow.

GWB Translator: Fundamental entitlements are so yesterday.

GWB: We will offer a tax credit to encourage small businesses and their employees to set up health savings accounts, and provide direct help for low-income Americans to purchase them.

These accounts give workers the security of insurance against major illness, the opportunity to save tax-free for routine health expenses and the freedom of knowing you can take your account with you whenever you change jobs.

GWB Translator: Forget health insurance, you can save (along with saving for retirement) for your health expenses.

it went like that.

Do it Do it Do it

Great American Shout Out.

Will someone tell Ron Silver he's a shonda for the goyim?