Here we have—tied it to the fence at Madison Square Park as sort of an impromtu shrine to the thousands killed six years ago today—is a 9/11 commemorative beach towel. Ahem. That's right. A motherfucking beach towel. What was the thinking behind this particular product? A little something to dry off with after a fun day spent frolicking with your Holocaust frisbee?
While there's no need to forget what happened six years ago today, I think maybe we have enough merch.
Visionary/Factory Records founder Tony Wilson died this week. There's a very thorough and moving obit here, or, if reading's not your thing, you could just rent 24 Hour Party People (one of my fave music movies) and watch Steve Coogan play him.
Happy Birthday, Madonna! Knockin' on 50's door and looking good.
Damn. Elvis has been dead for thirty years. If her appearance on Larry King last night was any indicator, it would appear that ex-wife Priscilla has been mummified. Enjoy a greasy snack in honor of the King.
Adrien Grenier's weiner is thisclose to scabbing up and falling off.
Um, eww.
We are not related.
It's been my intention to keep this blog light and kind of funny. This way if potential employer types look at it, they don't know what a cranky slag I can be sometimes. But last week. . . maintaining my shiny happy veneer last week was a little difficult. Okay, impossible. So I started a list of just some of the things that are pissing me off, in the hopes that getting them off my chest would put me in a better mood for this week.
See what I mean? How can you be in a good mood when people are telling you you've got a mustache, one-night stands have veto power over the uterus they sperminated, and little old ladies are being evicted from their apartments?
Sure, he may have put hundreds of people at risk, but damn, how hot is that TB guy?!?
This is hand's down the lede of the day: "Rudy Giuliani yesterday fingered his former top emergency-management aide Jerry Hauer . . ."
Alright, there's more to that sentence, but the Beavis in me didn't bother reading it. I just love using "finger" as a verb. Heh.
When Brit housewife Jill Martin decided (incorrectly) that her husband was having an affair, she loaded his curry dinner up with dog poop as payback. You'd think she'd be apologetic after finding out hubby was actually faithful, but you'd be wrong. She instead shifted her motivation on the fact that he wasn't talking to her about his job as often.
So far no definitive word on whether it was suicide or cancer that killed fashion icon Isabella Blow, but, I kind of agree with her wacko husband that it doesn't really matter. If you're at all interested, do yourself a favor and read this interview with the bereaved widower—you won't be sorry.
Much to my disappointment, I discovered that I am fully Edina and not even a little bit Patsy.
"Date Lab" is my favorite feature in the Washington Post. This week the Post sets up two runners—one a vegan, the other a jackass. I can only hope that every single woman in the DC-metropolitan area reads this and boycotts this jerk, because it's a rare day when I feel sympathy for a vegan.
The barfiest story in the Times this weekend was that of "hip" and "edgy" fratastic finance drone, Beau Frank getting priced out of Manhattan and moving to a faraway land we know as Brooklyn. “From what I’d heard, Brooklyn was an O.K. place. I knew nothing about it, so I went off word of mouth.”
Frank's realtor, Lior Barak of Prudential Douglas Elliman, knew his client better than Frank knew himself. “He is a hip guy; he needs to be in prime Williamsburg,” Mr. Barak said. One look at Barak's gray Caesar cut and it's clear; Lior knows from hip.
So hepcat Frank shelled out 750k for a ground floor apartment in possibly one of the fugliest buildings in a nabe bursting at the seams with fug, Roebling Square. Unclear whether a pair of skinny jeans and ironic 70s concert tee were included in the purchase price.
One of the five-million things that really punches the life out of you after someone you loved dies is the emptying of the departed's house or apartment. In today's Times there's a touching essay where Sally Friedman writes about cleaning out her dead mom's apartment. The thing that really struck me was that the most important thing she took with her was her mom's ugly old tan shoes. The ones her mom referred to as "her old lady shoes."
It reminded me of the two most important things I have to remember my mom by—her broken eyeglasses and the last check she ever bounced (indicative of the financial ineptitude I inherited). The glasses are especially heartbreaking because when I look at them I'm reminded of my mom's giant brown eyes, made even huger by her substantial prescription. I'm not sure why or how they broke, but I remember bringing them home from the hospital with me, shortly before she died.
The overdrawn check was to a hairdresser we both shared. My mom was fighting off tumors, but was so mortified that she'd stiffed the lovely and talented Ann out of her fee, she made sure I walked over to the salon and made good on it.
Each of my sisters and I also got a piece of jewelry and some other stuff, but 13 years later, it's the "worthless" stuff that means the most.
He's all better now, but this past weekend, Frankenstein the Chug got sick. I'll let his mommy Tracey explain:
Frankenstein was sick all day yesterday. He had the runs, poor guy. I think he ate a hunk of tent worms that fell as a big mass of worm-web and caterpillars covered in Dr. Bronner's oil soap. I had to chase him around the yard to take it away.
I fixed him some chicken broth + rice and a side of banana. It firmed things up and he is doing much better. But he is all worn out from his big ordeal.
Phew. As you can see in this pic, our fearless friend eventually perked up. (What is up with the Dr. Bronners this week, though?!?)
He started feeling better, but Tracey knew he was completely recovered when. . .
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "But Judy, you hardly wear any makeup. Why on earth would you need a $2500.00 (excluding taxes and delivery charges), Oprah-endorsed, Marie Galante Makeup Trunk?"
While yes, I agree it's a tad on the extravagant—and some might even say frivolous—side, it also happens to be very cool. The thing folds up—just perfect for a tiny apartment like mine. If I woke up to this thing under my Birthday Tree I'd happily take my credit card on a romp through Sephora in order to fill it up. Then I would spend the rest of the day staring at my pores and looking for new wrinkles. Ah, birthday bliss. . . .
You might be unaware of this fact, but April 17th is my (and Posh Spice's) birthday. Yep. A little more than two short weeks away—not much time for shopping. Now you're probably wondering what to get me, aren't you? I figured that in order to alleviate a little of the Judy's-Birthday pressure, I'd post a different gift idea (maybe some days I'll get ambitious and come up with two or more!) each of the 15 days until my birthday.
First up is the Pete Doherty doll. I have no idea if this is a joke or not (April Fools?), but I'm hoping not. The doll comes with a light-up crack pipe and a syringe. I'm assuming the model girlfriend doll costs extra, but whatever. There's always Christmas for that.
