Monday, January 31, 2005

Lady Foot Locker

I had drinks last night at the Park with my friend Robert, his squeeze John, some of John's friends and another friend of Rob's named Alex. Alex and I talked a lot - mostly about how we weren't exactly meshing with the crowd's demographics - and as it turns out, Alex is currently working on a project at Condé Nast, and I once upon a time worked there as a freelance designer. We shared war/horror stories of the usual sort (on skinny, backstabbing bitches, etc.) and I got to retell my absolute favorite Condé-Nasty story:

On a certain summer day, a group of (Vogue) women were complaining in the elevator about why the cafeteria had to be closed for such an extended period of time. As it turns out, the over-the-top Frank Gehry eatery had floors that, although deliriously sheen, were so slick that people had been falling and, consequently, injuring themselves in attempting to walk from point A to point B with their lattes and lunches (they were to eat in theory anyway). The cafeteria had to be closed for about six weeks to turn the floor into a more, shall we say, $500-pointy-heel-friendly surface. The ladies moaned in the elevator about the inconvenience, concluding with this exchange:

VOGUE A: "What's the problem anyway?"
VOGUE B: "Evidently, the floor's too slippery. People were falling down."
VOGUE A: "Could you imagine? Falling in there with a tray of food."
VOGUE B: "I would just die."
VOGUE A: "Omigod. I know."
VOGUE C: "Oh, please. I think it's such a waste of time."
VOGUE B: "What do you mean?"
VOGUE C: "I mean, if you can't fucking walk in your Manolos, you shouldn't be working here."

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Never Coming to a Performance Venue Near You

In the grand, artistic tradition of Mrs. B. Spears-Federline, I will be lip-syncing "I'm a slave for you" with a semi-elaborate, highly derivative dance routine involving a chair and a snake.

I will then proceed to: smoke, gulp down a sex on the beach, belch, eat some cheetos, eat a big mac, pick my ass, fellate Fred Durst, walk barefoot through a truck stop men's room and chew an entire pack of bubble yum to come down from the "performance" high.

Of course, all this is also done in the grand artistic tradition of the Britster.

Oh, for the days of Miss Peggy Lee, or at the very least, Cher.


Two years ago, I was out in Montauk with some friends for a long early spring weekend. Nice weather hadn't kicked in yet, so we were faced with a set of dreary, rainy days - perfect weather though for watching TV and bad movies without remorse. On day two of the weekend, "Enough" starring Jennifer Lopez wandered its mildly schizophrenic way onto HBO - at first, we weren't so sure if it was as worthy of our attention as - say - the E! Celebrity Profile on Jennifer Love Hewitt for an afternoon of the Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network. However, moments into "Enough", I was hooked enough to swing my friends into watching it. JLO was captivating despite the audible mechanics of an obvious plot (it's 30 minutes into the plot...insert act two turning point now), the blanched outlines of good actors paid too much to do too little and exotic locales like the northern peninsula of Michigan (can't they just call it what it really is - Vancouver?).

However, one thing about "Enough" though has burned itself into my psyche forever: JLO employs in one scene what can only be refered to as "wig-on-wig" acting.

Let me explain: since her character gets a short hair cut early in the film to throw off her hunky future ex-husband, JLO smartly dons a short wig (no method-acting need to get a real hair cut here...). Later in the film, her character - with the short wig that we're not suppposed to know is a wig - wears a wig to again disguise herself from her psycho-but-so-hot husband. Since Jenny is already wearing the short wig - the long wig her character dons is basically a sheet of shiny, scary bad hair.

Hence, she was "wig-on-wig".

Even years later, my friend Patty (also on the trip) refers to oddly or insanely dressed people as: "She is so wig-on-wig."

Friday, January 28, 2005

Down Dog

I have an ongoing joke about fashion-fag-yoga with my friend Torrey (he is one of many fags amidst a sea of shoulder-length blow-outs and expensive knee-high boots in the advertising department of...let's just say a major retailer).

Torrey is obsessed with yoga...because Christy Turlington is obsessed with yoga. One monday morning, he was all: "I just read the greatest book over the weekend."

Being who and what I am (read: smartass), I only had one response:

"Please don't tell me it was that Christy Turlington yoga book."

Torrey's reply: "Omigod! How did you know!"

Driving Miss Sandy

After being busted for appropriating Sandra Bernhard on Friendster, I remembered this story:

Late last spring, I was driving a rented car on 10th Avenue, heading out of town for the weekend. I was slowing down around 22nd Street to make a right turn when my friend Robert, sitting in the passenger seat, suddenly and rather urgently grabbed my arm.

He said, firmly: "Trevor, don't crash the car. Sandy's on the corner with her girlfriend."

Needless to say, as I jerked my head to the right to check out Miss B, I let out a near-shriek kind of whelp and almost drove the rented-midsize-whatever-it-was into the Empire Diner.

The moral of the story, kids, is this: when a celebrity of note, like Sandy B., is spotted while driving, pull over to ask for something - like inanely unnecessary directions, skin care advice, or a tampon - rather than put the lives of innocent, overcharged diners at risk.

Ann and Nancy Wilson

After over a year of having "old-fashioned, sweaty big-titty bitches of rock-n-roll" listed as "favorite music" on my friendster profile, I finally got busted for lifting (and using and abusing) one of my favorite lines of the forever talented Miss Sandy Bernhard. Props to Sam for giving me the f-ster smack-down. I'll take him to see Heart in concert next time they roll into town. And yes, the Ann Wilson On Tour T-Shirt will also be on me.*

*Peacock feather not included.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Sometimes, you feel like a blog. Sometimes, you don't.

I have a problem with this.

This, being the blogging thing.

I have had several funny (ok, more often than not, bitchy) conversations with friends about blogging and how silly it is, what would drive someone to do it, why any one would want to read someone's online journal (hey, I usually avoid other people's real diaries when confronted with the chance to peek - even though a diary is itself an admission of guilt, a begging of sorts for an audience to read it, etc.), and how there are so many other valuable things a person could do with their time.

Like masturbating.

I also have a problem with initially hating things I am secretly - sometimes shamefully attracted to.

Like the color teal...and Britney Spears...and Stephen Sondheim.

So, here I am.