I have a brother, Biggus Dickus (he has a wife, you know). And regular readers of this blog know how rocky that relationship is. Love|Hate|Indifference|Resentment... and that's just how he feels about me! I also have a brother-in-law, the wonderful David Lee Roth clone, or as I like to call him, David Lee Cohen.

David Lee Cohen is in the hospital, having gone in exactly a week after his brother, the RLA, came home from one. He's been in there 6 days, and had at least 3 surgeries. Because of HIPAA, I can't get information from the hospital about him, and his poor wife is so fried by his hospitalization, her two little kids, and a currently invalided mother (who is also in residence) that I can't reach her to get any information, either.

The RLA and I are Very Nervous about David Lee Cohen. I keep calling the RLA and asking if he's heard anything, and that just makes everybody more nervous, because the answer is no.

I really don't know or care how you guys feel about prayer, but all the healthful, healing energy you can spare, I would appreciate you sending on to my brother-in-law. He's more of a brother to me than the one I was given by my parents, and I really want to see him up and around and yanking my chain again.

Thanks.

I blame Angela for this. I do. The bubble skirt part, at least.

But let's look at this in depth, shall we? It is not just a bubble skirt, it is an Afro-Centric bubble skirt. My mind is just writhing in agony on the floor of my skull over the convergence of those several phrases.

It is paired with gladiator sandals, which, I suppose, could be from the same continent, if the Romans were in North Africa, which they were. Only. Look.

They are knee-high gladiator sandals, complete with a millionty-twelve buckles, only they zip. up. the. back.

What was left of my brain, just leaked out of my ear.

All of this is accessorized with a giant bag (de rigeur these days) with studs. Lots and lots of studs. A stud on every fringe/flap. And diamond shapes, outlined in studs. Which, to be fair, duplicates the shapes of the batik on the Afro-Centric bubble skirt.

Here's the close-up.

Still and all, that was way too much to see on a Monday morning, when I hadn't had sufficient coffee.

So poor, gently bewildered Bradley was finally let go. The only mystery was how he had lasted this long.

No, excuse me, the only mystery was how he had gotten to 2006 without knowing anything about Cher. The woman is ubiquitous. She can, and has, worn anything and everything. The only thing she wouldn't wear is a cropped tin-foil bag with turquoise appliqued triangles, which is what Bradley designed for her. And a pair of cameltoe trousers with the fringe on the front of the leg.

That was such a monstronsity that it would have made the poor baby Jesus drink gin from the cat dish.*
I loved this episode. In theory. I mean, I loved that the models got to pick their own designers, and I loved that the models got to choose their own icons. That had to be a bit of a trick, because there were two conflicting desires at work.

1. To be their own fashion idol, and
2. To be a fashion idol that their chosen designer could actually design for.**

So, there are elbows and hair and photos flying around and when the dust settles, the pairs are revealed to be as follows:

Uli/Diana Ross
Laura/Kate Hepburn (DUH!!!)
Michael/Pam Grier
Angela/Audrey Hepburn
Alison/Farrah Fawcett
Kayne/Marilyn Monroe (is there another Marilyn?)
Robert/Jackie O
Jeffrey/Madonna***
Vincent/Twiggy
Bradley/Cher

Sketching, caucusing, shopping at Mood. We see Robert fretting over his image as boring and matronly. Is that Robert or Robert's designs? There seems to be some overlap here, and I don't know why. The guy's been designing for BARBIE, and we know that she's hardly the matronly type. Anyway, Robert buys some beautiful blue fabric that's somewhere between robin's egg and Tiffany.

Kayne buys black and leather and nude stretchy stuff. I know, sounds like that should be Jeffrey's choices.

Jeffrey interviews at length and ad nauseum about how he should be winning everything and he doesn't know why he hasn't and nobody can sew a lick but him. It seems that with Keith Malfoy out of the show, Jeffrey has been freed to step in as the resident assholevillian/delusional whiner. Over at TWOP, recapper Jeff pointed out that Jeffrey shaves notches into his right eyebrow, something that had, blissfully, escaped my notice up until now, but which I now cannot NOT see. Thanks for that, Jeff.

They sew. Jeffrey and Angela get into a pissing match over the sewing machines. Jeffrey says that Angela broke one. Angela says she didn't. Jeffrey rants for a while about how there are all these amateurs in the sewing room who can't use a machine.****

Jeffrey won't let it go, and there is some nastiness all around. Laura (who has five kids, remember) finally puts on the Mommy voice, and while she doesn't actually say "Don't make me separate you two" (and wouldn't that have been great?) she does tell Jeffrey to shut it. That works just as well as you would expect it to, and there is continued sniping and grousing.*****

More sewing, more bickering. Robert (unwisely, as it will turn out) decides not to use the Bob Dylan's eyes blue fabric, but takes some sand-colored linen from Vincent. The models come back for more caucusing and fittings and we discover that Kayne's model Will Not Shut Up. Ever. At ALL. Kayne has the best line of the night when he says that she's a good model, and he'll work with her again, but there is going to be duct tape over her mouth.

Michael (who gets more air time in this episode than in all the previous ones put together, including his bio and intro footage) talks to his Moms (awww) and then decides that his design isn't what he wanted. So he rips it apart from the waist down and makes a pair of formal hot pants. Tim Gunn isn't so crazy about that (does Tim read Go Fug Yourself?) but allows as how, yeah, formal shorts are hott these days, so go ahead and make them.

Michael is working with the most beautiful shade of cerise satin e-VAH. He then makes a pair of formal hot pants that actually work. I KNOW. Go figure. But they fit, they aren't too short, they make the model look like several million dollars, and Pam Grier would totally wear this outfit. CHER would totally wear that outfit, BRADLEY.

Jeffrey interviews on and on and on about how he's a rock and roll designer and that he could design for Madonna any old day and he's sooooooooo gonna rock this challenge and he's whipping up a stage ensemble that is just going to wahwahwahwahGwenSteffaniwahwahwahLovechildwahwaahwahh.

Finally, we get to the runway, and YEAH!!! Michael Kors is back. But he must have had a vay-cay or something, because he is not up to his usual level of bitchy. The guest judge is Diane Von Furstenberg who may have stolen Kors' mojo. Or his bitch pills.

In the interest of brevity (and of getting done some of the work I'm supposed to be doing as I sit here in front of the company computer) I'm only going to talk about a couple of pieces. As can be expected, Laura nails the updated Kate Hepburn. High-waisted pants, cashmere-looking faux-wrap top. Caramel and pink, long strand of pearls. Perfect.

Uli channels
Dianna Ross, and I love the purple leopard print at the waist. Diana would totally wear this. So would CHER, BRADLEY. Uli's style is starting to grow on me, but I do wish she'd design a different neck-line once in a while.

Angela does something with yummy fabric that is intended to be an updated version of Audrey Hepburn, and the judges absolutely come all over themselves trying to outdo each others praises, but in my own opinion, I don't think that she would ever have worn anything with a neckline that plunged to her belly button. And also? winning the last challenge seems to have given Angela the impression that people actually like those stupid flowers, so on this dress they have grown to in size to something that I think she called cabbages roses, only in French. She's also placed them all the way around the hem, another frou-frou touch that doesn't jibe with my image of Audrey. But, hell, what do I know?

Alison does something with a highish waist and chiffon and calls it macaroni. Farrah Fawcett. Whatever.

Michael wins with this,
and for a damned good reason. It is flawless, although when Diane Von Furstenberg says that she wore a lot of hot pants in her day, and she'd wear these, I have a vision that makes me want to poke my eyes out.

Which would have prevented me from seeing Jeffrey's black satin diapers and asymetric leather bustier, and that would have been a good thing. Did I mention that there were ribbons, too? Jeffrey, here's a clue, and I'm going to give it to you for the love of God and Fashion: that sucked. Your designs all suck. Quit shaving the eyebrow, get the neck tats removed, and get a job in accounting. You and the rest of the world will all be a better place for it.

Vincent trots out something that isn't horrible, and the judges go for him like he's an antelope with a broken leg and they are hungry, hungry hyenas. Granted, the makeup was beyond attrocious, and the color way of his plaid was a little on the Halloween side, as opposed to the happyhappyjoyjoy of the 60s, but he had the black tights and the bell sleeves, and it was cute. I would wear it in a heartbeat. I'd also like to defend him referring to Twiggy in the past tense, even though that made DVF's veins stand out (farther) on her neck and forehead. I watch America's Next Top Model, and let me tell you, Miss Twiggy is not a fashion icon today. She wears cardigan sweaters and pig tails, OK? Twiggy in the 60s, past tense. Nevertheless, Vincent gets to stick around. Plucky comic relief?

Kayne's Goth Marilyn got rave reviews from all the judges, but frankly, I thought it made the model look poochy in the ass and belly. I love ruching as much as the next guy, and maybe more, but that dress was just ho. If he'd put a color other than flesh under the sheer black, maybe it wouldn't have been so awful (to me) but, ick. It didn't do a thing for me.

Robert's Jackie was universally panned, and mostly for the fact that it was linen. Apparently Jackie would never, never, never have worn linen because it doesn't hold a crease. See? Should have stayed with the blue. The Tiffany blue would have caused the judges to not notice the lack of pressing. Or maybe, if Robert had made a self-belt instead of using a piece of rope, the judges would have thought his suit looked a little sharper.

Finally, we have Bradley and what is there to say about this?



Nothing, except, you know? That really, really, really sucked. In every way possible, and in some ways that were heretofore unimaginable. As much as I would have liked to have seen someone else leave the runway before Bradley, there was just no way to defend anything about this design. Not the fabric. Not the fit. Not the cut. Not the color. Not the style, such as it was. Bradley, you were sweet, and funny and completely out of your depth.

Until next week, then, keep the scissors sharp.

* I don't actually know what that means, but I read it somewhere once and I thought it was so funny that I swore I would use it myownself some day.

** See above, re: Bradley being clueless about Cher. I'm sorry, but that one is still causing me brain cramps. How could anyone not be aware of Cher?

*** Am I the only person who, when I see/hear Madonna, automatically see/hear Robin Williams in Birdcage going "Ma-DONNA, Ma-DONNA, Ma-DONNA"?

**** Didn't she get sent home in the first episode? And isn't there one every season?

***** Did you know that snipe and grouse are both birds?

I pre-ordered The Bob's new album this morning, before I even finished my coffee. The RLA himself drove me to the train this morning, the first day he's been out and about since last week's emergency appendectomy.

There were no disgusting people on the train, unless you count the Very Pregnant Woman in the belly-baring cropped, spaghetti-strapped t and those atrocious stretch-knit gaucho/capris that seem to be everywhere but the trash heap of fashion history, where they belong.

Then I got to work and everything went to hell in a hand basket. Yesterday I finished entering the data into the national hospice registry for all forty of our programs. Said data includes zip codes. All zip codes for all counties where we serve. We are in Los Angeles, and Phoenix, and Miami and Philadelphia and Chicago. We have 40 programs. They each serve multiple counties. Did you know that there are fifteen pages of zip codes for Los Angeles alone? It's been a fun three weeks.

Today I began the task of dropping cds, dvds and vhs tapes into envelopes for delivery to 150 people. That's 150 inter-office envelopes with the last name crossed out, the new name written in and a location if I have one. Some people get more than one copy of each format.

This mindless repetition is why I love my job. I know, you thought I was going to bitch about it, didn't you? But it isn't the endless pushing and pulling of paper that makes me wish I had another. No, it's the little things like the one person who won't take their phone off forward, making me trot down the hall every time someone calls for her. Or the power play of she won't gather information for another department her own self, she has me drop what I'm doing to pull the papers together for her. She's the person who talked to the other department. She's the one who knows what they want. She's the fucking media person, but I am the lowly dogsbody who gets to do the grunt work. All the grunt work. All the time. Sometimes even at the same time.

Having a sick hubby has shortened my already somewhat truncated fuse. So this morning, when the woman pushed past me to get on the train first, and then took the seat next to me and started applying her make up (of course) I said to the woman across from me who was rolling her eyes at the sight, "Well, at least she's not picking her face, I've seen that, too."

We both snickered and then the make-up applying woman got all offended and asked me if I had something I wanted to say directly to her. I did. And I did. I said: "If you need to wear make up to appear in public, shouldn't you have it on BEFORE you appear in public?"

She said that EVERYBODY does it. (Boy howdee, I haven't heard that argument from anyone older than 15 in forever.) I just gave her a supercilious sneer and said that, yes, and everybody picks their nose, too, but that doesn't make it right or nice.

Snap.

I've been staying away from this issue, but the Girl Cousin sent this to me, and I felt the need to pass it along:

"If the Arabs put down their weapons today, there would be no more violence.

If the Jews put down their weapons today, there would be no more Israel."

That, in a nutshell, is the truth of the situation. And I am soooo fucking tired of hearing about the death of "civilians" in the Arab states, and the death of "Israelis" in Israel. The implication is that all Israelis are... what, exactly? All soldiers? Not innocents? Deserving of their deaths in a school bus, or a pizza parlor or a shopping mall? Because those places don't sound like military targets to me. But to hear the world press yammer on about it, they aren't civilian targets.

I am sick of the Hammas and the Hezbolah hiding behind the shields of women and children and then claiming that Israel (politically correct phrase that really means "The Jews") are guilty of brutality and wholesale slaughter of innocents.

I am sickened by the whole Mel Gibson story. The arms-length intellectualism of analysis of his "alcoholism" and "non-anti-Semitism". Bullshit. The man, to quote my SisterFriendGirlFriend, "drank the bad Kool-Aid" and needs to be treated.

I am tired of the creeping tide of anti-semitism that is rising across the world. I am tired of the attitude that says just ignore it, it isn't that bad, it's only a few people, it's blown out of proportion, it can't happen here.

Oh, it is happening here. And there. And everywhere. And I am tired of it all.

Excuse me, but if you cheat, lie and bully your fellow contestants, whose fault is it if you get thrown out of the competition?

So Keith got clocked, finally. Last week he refused to dress the doggie, and lost for his arrogance. Then he complained that he should have won. Except that he didn't actually participate in the challenge. Whatever, huh, Keith? This week he also overspent his allowance at Mood, and then whined his way into a discount. Which looked like cheating to me, and probably everyone else who was watching when Kara Saun almost got tossed for using comped shoes.

For the last four weeks we've had to listen to this a-hole dis the other designers and wahwahwah about how his is the only piece on the runway with any decent construction skills. Or decent design.

This week, we found out why: he's had the cheat books under his bed. On top of which, according to the Most Excellent Tim Gunn, he also skipped off the set without permission and went to do a few hours of internet research.

Classy guy to the end, Keith left by bitching that by ratting him out to the producers, he -Keith- was made to look a fool and had his reputation ruined and is a laughing stock. Well, yeah, maybe. But it isn't like the other guys stuffed the contraband under your pillow while you weren't looking. You brought it all down on your own head. Asshat.

With Keith out of the way, the designers went about completing this week's challenge, which was to design a three piece set of separates for INC. Jeffrey-the-Shmoo and Alison were only slightly handicapped by the loss of their team leader. Laura and Michael were seriously handicapped by having as their team leader the yoyo-happy Angela. Bonnie (the other of the two sort of lumpy women who designed sportswear) was team leader to Bradley and Uli. Robert the Barbie guy headed up the final team of Vinny and Kayne.

And you know what? I thought all four teams produced some amazingly boring, trite and unattractive pieces. An ANORAK? PUH-leese. Who the hell is still wearing anoraks? The saddest part of this is that until I looked at the Bravo web site this morning, I still thought it was Bonnie's team who made that.

Angela won despite herself, but only because she listened to Laura and Michael who absolutely would have none of that bubble skirt/yoyo rosette crap. They managed to wrangle her down to only 6 rosettes. Four as buttons on the front of the cropped jacket (excuse me while I yawn) and two for no reason on the back of the popped collar.



Vincent played nice with others, even though he thought that Robert's design was lame. He just kept saying, "Well, Robert's the leader. This is Robert's vision, I'm just here to make it happen. Even if I do think it looks like a matronly stewardess." Which it did. Blouse with an overly-large Superfly collar. Pencil skirt with a slit up to the model's ass crack. And the lame-ass anorak.

Bonnie's work was so boring I can't even bear to think about it, but I will say that I last saw that cowl neck that ate Manhattan on Pam Dawber when she was on Mork & Mindy.



Jeffrey made some very nice pants, with buttons at the (tight) ankles. He and Alison also made the most disturbing top I've ever seen.



Would someone please tell me what the fuck that is? Are those leg holes? Wouldn't that make the top a crotchless body suit? Arm holes, for making the top a crop top by folding it up in half and sticking your arms through both sets of holes? Nasty. Just nasty.

Given the choices, I can see why Angela's design won, but that's kind of like saying that for a fat girl, you don't sweat much.

Next week is yet another American Style Icon Getting A Makeover. And it looked like the models got to fight it out for something. Which ASIGAM they were going to be? Which designer they want to dress them next?

I hate to say this, but I sort of don't care. Is the bloom off the rose for me and Project Runway? I hope not.

Very fast:

1. power surge on Saturday blew my internet connection at home and I haven't been able to fix it, yet. DItto on the answering machine

2. took the RLA to the ER at 2:30 AM (Sunday-Monday)

3. surgeon took the RLA's ruptured appendix out at 8AM Monday

4. I'm on dog/hospital/house/work duty until further notice

I haven't eaten, but I have had 2 martinis. All bets are off until further notice.

I wrote this last night, but upon sober reflection in the clear light of day, it's worthy of publication.

It was hardly Proust's madelaine, but after a Very Difficult Week, I poured a stiff apple martini. I poured a hot bath, and added some bath salts and a brand new sea sponge. I treated myself to a mud mask and a foot sanding by micro-bead glass "lava."

Drink in one hand, I sank beneath the water and with the other hand scrubbed my face with the wet sea wool.

And then...

"What IS that stench?" he asked, the first time he smelled it.

"Newport. In the summer." I replied, with absolutely no hesitation. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Mix two parts red seaweed, one part each of salt and mildew and hot summer grass, and you have Newport. At least the way it is in my memories.

And morning fogs. Salty. When my brother and I and our grandfather would go and pick wild mushrooms for our grandmother to fry in butter for our breakfasts.

And Daddy, taking me to the wharf, where he'd buy fried clams in little grease-stained paper bags. It was our secret, something we could never tell Grandma, who thought she kept Kosher. Or at least more kosher than anyone else (sharp look at my parents) in the family did.

And then I see my cousin Milton, from the vantage point of the front steps, looking down into the street. He is in his candy apple red Mustang convertible, with a white leather interior. There is blue hydranga in the immediate foreground, just at the lower left edge of my peripheral vision. He has come to take me to a horse show. I remember the pink and white ribbons. I didn't know that there were any colors besides blue, red and yellow. Who'd want to win anything below third place, anyway?

And of course, there are the gardens. And the raspberries. But that's another memory, and not one to be found in a sea sponge.

Just so you know, this morning I stood in front of my bathroom sink, Valium in one hand, coffee cup in the other. I took a swig of coffee, and put the emergency Valium back in its bottle.

But I am about two minutes away from a nervous breakdown.

My list of things I MUST do is about 20 items long, the list of things I would LIKE to do (such as get a haircut) is twice that.

Episode three offered us a plethora of cliches from which to choose:

1. It's a dog's life.
2. Going to the dogs.
3. Walkin' the dog.
4. Dog eat dog.
5. Every dog has his day.
6. What a bitch. (oops, maybe not)
7. Dog in the manger
8. You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

That last would be Laura, whom I do so want to adore, and yet, conversely, whom I am coming to loathe for the very same pretentiousness and twee that so appeals.

To be specific, when she thought that the year's hottest fashion accessory was going to be a horse (!?!), she immediately changed into riding boots and jodphers. She had riding boots and jodphers in her Louis Vuitton cases when she moved into the Atlas? She, or the producers, are definitely streching the limits of my credulity with that one. But. It's Laura, so, maybe she did.

When she found out that the accessory is a micro dog, she got all squeamish and put it in a purse so that she wouldn't have to touch it. She has five kids, and she can't physically touch a dog? Puh-leeeze. That dog has got to have a better pedigree than her kids, and is certainly as clean (if not cleaner) than an under-5-year-old boy.

Which brings us to the subject of old dogs/new tricks. Her design, while yes, very chic and all, looked almost exactly like her cocoon coat with the giant fur collar from episode one. And her palette seems to be all down there in the white/beige/grey/tan/ecru/mushroom/taupe/toast/greige neighborhood of totally boring. If she doesn't come up with another shape and some real color in the next challenge, I see her leaving sooner than later.

As for the little bitch fight between her and Keith? Excuse me while I snore, even through her painful attempt at a little ghetto-tude while explaining that she was protecting her man. Or boy. Or what ever.

I loved Kayne's ensemble, and his matching little doggie cape. The model's coat alone was a masterpiece of construction, with the lining made from the skirt material. I thought he should have won, since his was the most matchy-matchy of all the designs, and seemingly the most meticulously made.

Robert is still going through Barbie withdrawal, I think, what with the treacly pink boucle. Still, he nailed it perfectly when he said he was going for a Jackie O slash Barbie look. His little dog suit, with the constructed slot for the leash/halter was also perfectly acceptable.

Uli's look is another one-hit wonder. Again with the rope straps. She stole the back from Vincent's Miss USA (not Miss America as I said last week. RJ was outraged that I didn't know the difference between Miss America and Miss USA. Hey, I have enough addictions, pageants are not one of them. So sue me.) The three tapering bands going to the middle of the lower back? The very features that Miss Vera Wang and Miss USA loved the most about Vincent's olive green slip.

I will grant Uli major color sense and an ability to do pattern on pattern as well as the masters of the form: kimono designers. But how many times can I see a rope neck and a halter top before I spew?

Katy made the perfect little dog hoodie. Was there a dress too? I didn't notice.

Alison's piece was edgy and hip, I could see (and I'm sorry to have to say this... I may have to punish myself) the Dread Paris Hilton trotting around in it with her matching little rat dog. Of course, it was much too long for Paris, seeing as how one couldn't see the models "pink stuff", and we know that would never do for Paris. And the material wasn't trashy or see through or a horrible color, so that would have to be redone. But if you squint enough, you could see Paris wearing that.

Vincent's design was deadly dull, and his affection for odd hats and large sunglasses is beginning to pale for me. I think I'm the last person in all of PR fandom to actually have a soft spot for Vinnie the Tool, but, hell. He may be a burn out, but he's my kind of burn out. The hat on the dog actually made me laugh a little. The part where the dog did the catwalk rubbing his head the whole way, trying to get the damn hat OFF was fulling entertaining, and exactly what one wants from one's reality TV.

Michael's set of matching dresses was under represented. We didn't see him sketch, shop or sew. There was no lingering camera work. I for one wanted to see more of that. What was up with the interwoven neckline pieces? How did that work? What kind of fabric was he working with? Why don't we get more of Michael? And was that little doggie in the matching dress not adorable?

Bradley. What can we say about Bradley? He needs a shower. He needs to shave. We saw all that trauma of Bradley not getting anything together, (and who needed that claptrap? I would rather have seen Michael.) only to have the judges rave on the runway. And over what, exactly? A blue and gold version of Daniel V's "orchid inspiration" from last season. That bubble/balloon top over a pencil skirt? Pardon me while I stiffle a Very. Big. Yawn. I hated it when Daniel V did it, and it isn't making me any more appreciative this year.

Jeffrey did another raggy, asymetrical, overly long-sleeved schmata. Done and done again. For such a freakazoid ("All I know about pageants is Jon-Benet Ramsey"? EWWWW) he really doesn't have much in the way of an out of the box vision. Maybe it's the pin-point pupils that make it hard to have one.

Finally, I come to Angela and Keith. Holy shit. Which one of those two assholes is bigger? Keith, he of the My-Shit-Don't-Stink Brotherhood, or Angela, I-have-a-story? A story? Angela had an entire series of American Girl books in her head. Or not. Maybe not American Girl, maybe more like Nancy Drew on bad acid. Which could also explain her designs.

Keith refused to dress the dog. Flatly refused to participate in the challenge. "MY girl doesn't dress her dog like a baby doll. MY girl has an exotic breed and it doesn't NEED any dressing up." Well allrighty, then. Which was a pity, because that dress really was a magnificent piece of work, and even making a wide collar out the orange fabric would have been an acceptable solution to the challenge. But no. He refused to play with others. Heidi and Nina were not happy. Miss Vera Wang was not happy. Did we get to hear Ivanka Trump tell him "you're fired?" (Admit it, that would have been great.) No. They sent poor lumpy Katy home, and she at least dressed the dog. In a HOODIE! This refusal to participate really made me miss Michael Kors. You just know that he would have ripped Keith's head off and (figuratively) pissed down his bloody neck stump. Sigh.

Let me see if I can relate Angela's opium dream. It went something like this. My girl is an English headmistress at a summer art camp for children. In Paris. And she's throwing a big picnic for her dog's birthday. The children are very young, 5-8. (Question: if she's English, are the children English, too? Because I think even the Brits would balk at sending junior to sleep away camp in Paris at that tender age.) So Angela made a million billion little hand-stitched yo-yos and applied them on a purple version of her ubiquitous bubble skirt. (Ditto for doggie shirt). This skirt, unlike Alison's entry, WAS short enough for Paris-the-girl. Hardly what a British headmistress (even at an art camp in Paris-the-city) should be wearing while out with the tykes. It had a blouse. The blouse was sleeveless, belly-bareing, and breast exposing. Hardly what a British headmistress (even at an art camp in Paris-the-city) should be wearing while out with the tykes.

The fact that even Ivanka Trump knew that it was inappropriate attire says a whole fucking lot. And Nina gave the unhappy "We are concerned about your taste level" statement that does, and should, send ice coursing through the veins of the designers. Miss Vera Wang looked like she would have been happy to send Angela back to the "off the grid" organic farm she lives on. Again, I have to ask, where was Michael Kors when we needed him?

Until next week, keep your scissors sharpened.

One of the funniest things I read during my college years was the Deteriorata, a spoof of the Desiderata. It appeared in the National Lampoon, and was written by the great Tony Hendra. As my life slips out of my control, and I have to recite the Serentity Prayer over and over in my head, I thought the time had come to revisit something that is a little more relevant to me, and little more to my way of thinking.
Deteriorata

Go placidly amid the noise and the waste and remember what comfort there may be in owning a piece thereof.

Avoid quiet & passive persons unless you are in need of sleep. Rotate your tires. Speak glowingly of those greater than yourself & heed well their advice, even though they be turkeys; know what to kiss & when.

Consider that two wrongs never make a right, but that three do. Wherever possible, put people on hold. Be comforted that in the face of all aridity & disillusionment & despite the changing fortunes of time, there is always a big future in computer maintenance. Remember the Pueblo. Strive at all times to bend, fold, spindle & mutilate.

Know yourself; if you need help, call the FBI. Exercise caution in your daily affairs, especially with those persons closest to you -- that lemon on your left, for instance. Be assured that a walk through the ocean of most souls would scarcely get your feet wet. Fall not in love therefore; it will stick to your face.

Gracefully surrender the things of youth, birds, clean air, tuna, Taiwan; & let not the sands of time get in your lunch. Hire people with hooks. For a good time, call 555-4311; ask for Ken. Take heart amid the deepening gloom that your dog is finally getting enough cheese; & reflect that whatever misfortune may be your lot, it could only be worse in Milwaukee.

You are a fluke of the universe; you have no right to be here, & whether you can hear it or not, the universe is laughing behind your back.

Therefore make peace with your God whatever you conceive Him to be -- Hairy Thunderer or Cosmic Muffin.

With all its hopes, dreams, promises, & urban renewal, the world continues to deteriorate. Give up.

Copyright © National Lampoon. Written by Tony Hendra.


Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble, it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; Many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially, do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the council of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful - Strive to be happy.

'The Desiderata of Happiness' by Max Erhmann, Copyright © 1948 by Bertha K. Erhmann

Lots of new photos over in the photo blog. Check them out. Or not.

I'm off to watch Eureka, on the Sci-Fi channel. It's no Firefly, but it'll do.

I can't afford to buy out my brother's share of the parental units' home.

The insurance company no longer wants to insure it.

If I put the insurance in my name, I lose the homestead exemption on the house, and the only policy I can get would be state pool insurance, which would also mean that I couldn't afford it anyway.

If we put the house on the market, it is a dead market and we'll be looking at who knows how long until we see a sale.

If we put the house on the market, it would need to be completely emptied, a job which would take a couple of very hard weeks of labor. I don't have any more vacation time, and I can't ask my brother to do it, because it would be very, very bad.

So. What the fuck do I do now?

I'm going around in circles like Conan on the wheel of pain. I can't see any way out of this, except to sell the house (unwillingly) and take two weeks (at least) of unpaid leave to get the house ready.

This is not the scenario my parents planned for. There must be another option. What it is, I have no idea.

On the upside, however, this seems to finally be the stress level at which I stop eating. I should be down to a size 4 by the end of the year. A suicidal, anorexic, miserable and probably chain-smoking, two-fisted drinking size 4, but a size 4 nonetheless.

Wish me luck.