Bad Advice

The search for the perfect caftan

I would first like to remind anyone who happens to be reading, that I am not a fashion blogger. I don't even play one on TV. I did recently write a story about wishing I could go back to dressing like a lunatic, but mostly my clothing choices run towards Boden, J. Crew, and heavily discounted crap I find at Century 21. I've written in the past about my love for Mrs. Roper wear and so for the past year, I have been looking for the perfect caftan. As I near the age where I surpass "old" and move into "really fucking old," I figure it's about time. So wasn't I excited to see a caftan on J. Crew's sale site today.

Excited, that is, until I started reading the description. Here are the problems with this garment:

1. It's white and not available in any other colors. White means I will either get my period in it, drop a blob of something covered in olive oil on it, or it will become covered with cat hair in no time flat. Three black cats and a white muumuu? Not going to happen.

2. It's silk! White silk. This thing would be done for like a tissue during allergy season in one day.

3. At full price it goes for the completely laughable price of $499. It's on sale for the still hilarious $299.99. And even though J. Crew is doing 40% off sale price it's still close to $200. For a white silk caftan. I may as well burn a couple hundies and save myself the shipping costs.

The butt of many a Seinfeld joke, J. Peterman has an entire caftan section and they have sales frequently. Unfortunately, they look a lot better in the paintings than they do in the photo reference they recently began providing. This is probably because they're all cotton, which is nice, but I need a little dazzle. Maybe some gold threads or sequins. . . .

Perhaps not surprisingly, QVC has a number of caftans for sale, including this Bob Mackie number. . .

. . . and this beaded leopard Dennis Basso (who's he?) caftan.

Fellow Millburn High School alum Rachel Zoe is apparently a "caftan addict," which is yet another on the long list of things we have in common (alongside a refusal to swallow solid foods). Here's her rather disappointing take on the muumuu.

Ebay is probably the most reliable place to spot some dazzle. Like this sequinned leopard garment—only $15.95

Of course finding the quality goods on the 'bay, means you have to sift through items like this wondrous homage to the cheetah. (Only $52 if you're interested.)

These are pretty, so Moroccan caftans might be the way to go. . .

Except they're sheer, which would just frighten the UPS guy.

This hand-painted baby from China is beautiful, but I worry that one-size-fits-all from Asia may not wrap around my ginormo American ass.

Okay, I think I'm in love. At $89, it's a little spendy, but how incredibly cool is this vintage explosion of fun? Should I do it?

Vacation!

When the going gets tough, the tough move their asses to Provincetown for a couple days. This is the night view from the deck of our hotel. In the morning the sound of seagulls wakes us up—that and the intense sunlight streaming into the room. I love our hotel—Dyer's Beach House—but no blackout shades here!

I spent the first part of the trip with my friend Julie. Where once we had big '80s hair, we're both sensible blondes now. Then El Spyro got to town for a few days. It's like having two different vacations in one. And I need at least two to get past the building bullshit and also losing two different sources of income. I'd like to tell you I used the time to contemplate the next chapter of my life and had actually come to the conclusion that maybe yoga might be the thing for me. I'm such a deep thinker. And then I read this story about the two most insufferable people who ever lived (and bred!) and realized all my scorn for yoga was well deserved.

There was also a little writing and researching. Like every asshole and their mother, I'm working on a memoir and found out some truly disturbing things about my past. So in the interest of enjoying the rest of my week, I put that away and had a hearty laugh over Julia Allison's book proposal instead. It's unintentionally hilarious and completely stupid, but I have no doubt that some publishing house will buy it and print that instead of something anyone with half a brain would bother reading. Lest you think I'm just a catty jerk, Marisha Pessl's book, Night Film, is completely riveting and Michael Cunningham's, Land's End, is a gorgeous ode to Provincetown. I'm reading the shit out of this vacation and loving every second of it. I just started Danny Bland's, In Case We Die, and I'm addicted.

We also some some art here in town. And go figure, I discover a New York artist, Harry Folsom, to love.

Today if the oceans allow, it's whale watching and more oysters! Tomorrow, home. And in case you're thinking of robbing the joint while I'm away, I have a live-in catsitter who'll kick your ass and leave it for Inky to devour.

You should listen to this

"Venice" is the latest album from Billy Hough, as Scream Along with Billy. It's available on Valentine's Day and I think you'll love it.

I realize it's February and I haven't blogged since December. Why is that? Am I depressed? Bored with blogging for no money? Or just burned out on churning out words? I'm not really certain, though a lot of the urge to share is satisfied by Facebook.

I've been thinking about how much I used to LOVE and HATE things as a kid. LOVED the Clash, HATED the Beatles. Black and white, there were no shades of gray. That fervor is mainly gone from my life and while that's sad, I guess a person just gets tired by their mid-forties. So anyway, this record is the first thing that really got me excited in a while. Well, that and Cynthia Carr's amazing David Wojnarowicz bio, Fire in the Belly. Oh, and How to Survive a Plague. Amazing documentary about AIDS activism that will most likely win an academy award this year. Oh, and Oscar, the latest kitten addition to the McGuire-opoulos home. I love that little dude like crazy too.

What's exciting you?

Christmas cheer, don't jeer!

As I may have mentioned, I just got back from Paris . . . well, I guess it's nearly a month now. The glow has vanished as quickly as my savings did, but hey, who wants to ride out their old age in comfort anyway? While we were in the City of Lights, I had this idea that we would do a Christmas photo shoot and then come back and turn the picture into a funny, obnoxious personalized card for all our friends. Well, procrastination prevented that from happening so here we are with Santa, in the midst of a Parisian Christmas market. I don't think any of us actually bought anything, but it sure was festive! The French Santa was everything I'd hoped for—scrawny, dirty, and possibly a little bit drunk. I only wish this was a close-up.

Toilet Triptych

This is what happens when you decide to get three cats. You no longer get to have solo bathroom visits. If you take longer than about a minute, everyone piles on in and hangs out. Nobody really gets along, so there's a lot of noise, forget about reading because Mitzi likes to chew on paper. Our bathroom is only slightly larger than a phone booth (remember them?), so it's really not a whole lot of fun, even though it is completely ridiculous. Just thought I'd share. And yes, my bathroom floor is filthy, but it's clean now. I promise.

From the mixed-up files. . . .

First off, could this kitten possibly be any cuter? I think not. If you're interested in adopting, please contact me. I'm fostering and while saying goodbye is going to be like a knife to the heart, three cats in one small apartment is just too much. Maybe if I could train them to use the toilet it'd be a different story, but for now, I can only have two.

In an effort to get rid of stuff, I was going through some old files and found my all-time favorite NY Times story, about a brother and sister from New Delhi, who slept with their mom's body after she killed herself by imbibing the "drink of silence." This lethal cocktail contained crushed remnants of the family's diamonds and pearls. I highly recommend reading the whole creepy piece.

There are Morrissey sweaters for sale. Unfortunately they're "vegan friendly acrylic," but they're so cute, I'll suffer.

The Large Greek and I are going to Paris next week and I'm a little nervous. In the eight years together we've never left the country together. Not even to Canada. He's a HORRIBLE traveler and I'm unsympathetic and kind of mean when stressed. And he will stress me out. Also, none of my clients have paid me this month, which means the trip will either be lean and mean or fun and cruel to my credit cards.

I'm still writing my column for the Seattle Weekly. If you're interested, you can read it here. I'm also still co-hosting The Mike & Judy Show. This week we welcomed Lincoln Restler and filmmaker Amy Nicholson.

Why I love a granny panty

I had a bad day this past Monday and my underwear had a lot to do with this. I was wearing a cute new dress and a pair of hipster briefs that may have been a little past their expiration date. They were nylonish and started giving me trouble almost the second I walked out the door. But, being late for my doctor's appointment—an orthopedist for my aching feet—I kept going. Mistake.

As I hurried down the subway stairs, my underpants started to hurry down under my ass. Ugh. I gave them a yank and got on the train. It was a beautiful early fall day. I got to the doctor and she told me I have unusually high arches, which is why jumping up and down like a lunatic hurts my feet and ankles. Because I'm old, I get to see a podiatrist next week who will x-ray my feet and likely prescribe me orthotics. Sigh. Anyway. . . .

By this time my underpants have had enough of me and are making a run for it. I leave the doctor's office, walking down the street, actually wrestling with my underpants through my dress with one hand. I walk with intent, certain that within minutes I'll be purchasing some new underwear and I'll quickly find a place to change into them. Duane Reade! Yes! I found a three-pack of plain Hanes for eight bucks. My plan was coming together.

Now I just needed a place to change. You'd think this would be easy, but there are no dark alleys on a bright, beautiful sunny day, so I stuck the Duane Reade replacement underpants into my bag and went downtown so I could pick up a Time Out Guide to Paris at Barnes & Noble and change my underpants in an unused row of books. I realize now this was a supremely stupid plan.

I got to the store and, despite the fact that nobody actually buys books anymore (at least not MY BOOK), the store was packed. But there weren't many people on the second floor, in the kids section, so I stopped there and furtively ducked down an aisle. Just as I had my hand up my dress, a mommy happened by and shot me a look. Duh. Grown-ass lady with her hand up in her business in the children's section at Barnes and Noble, news at 11.

Foiled, I ran out of there and went into the Starbucks across the street. The line to the bathroom was eight deep and by now I was in a rush. So I did the sensible thing and hailed a cab. You can do ANYTHING in a NYC yellow cab and the driver won't even blink. So I told him where I was going, yanked off those panties and stuck them in my purse. I didn't full-on change into the new ones, but just getting rid of those bastards felt so much better. Anyway, from now on, fuck the hipster briefs, the bikini bottoms and the novelty boy shorts. I'm going strictly granny panty from now on. Just thought I'd share, what with it being fashion week and all.

I'm having a book party tonight!

So please come! We're talking Thursday, July 12, from 7-9 pm, at Powerhouse Arena, in glorious DUMBO. Rich Juzwiak, Mike Edison, Princess Freakin' Superstar, Bob Bert, Erin Bradley, Eric Davidson, Zachary Lipez and Michael Gonzales will all be reading. Oh, and me too. There will be prizes, thanks to Babeland, my friend Leah, and my wallet. FREE BEER, courtesy Pabst Blue Ribbon!

Once they kick us out of Powerhouse, we're going around the corner to Superfine for dollar PBRS and fine music, courtesy my iPod. It will be fun, I swear!

Who Wants a Nacho?

Oh my, cuteness! My friends Ziss and J-Ro found little Nacho roaming the streets of Boerum Hill, thinking he was all that. They scooped him up, and unlike most of the ferals they've fostered, this little boy wasted no time making himself completely at home. He purrs, cuddles and is unspeakably cute. He went to the vet today and is in good health. The vet estimates he's between nine and 10 weeks old. Give little Nacho a forever home! If you're interested, go to J-Ro's blog—all the contact info is there.

Why I Quit Writing About Music*

This is a piece I wrote for a Vol 1 Reading Night called Three-Minute Punk Stories. Unfortunately, most of the readers didn't time their pieces, so it wound up being 20 people telling 10-minute punk stories and I didn't go on until nearly everyone had left the building. So I figured I'd post it here. 

It's always scary to meet people you admire as much as I loved Joe Strummer. So when I got the assignment to interview him in 2000, I was both excited and scared shitless. What if he was nasty or rude? I'd be crushed. And wouldn’t that kill White Man in Hammersmith Palais for me forever?

Sure, I’d had some good experiences with music journalism. Like when Shane MacGowan laughed in his publicist’s face after she instructed me not to let him talk about booze. Or when Jello Biafra asked me not to write about the weirdo green macrobiotic shit he poured into his water at dinner. Murphy’s Law were always a good time, Stanford Prison Experiment were sweethearts and even Skinny Puppy—who’d just lost a member to a drug overdose—were cooperative and nice.

But it’s not like those times like that had made up for the bad.