I have a number of things on my mind today which I would like to share.

1. Again with the back pack strapped to the chest. No. No. No. Also, to quote the lovely POTES, if it's cold enough for a zipped-up, mock turtle neck jacket, it's probably cold enough for pants.



2. When entering a train, or bus, or other transportation device, one should move on to the center of the car, or take a seat or do something other than STAND IN THE FUCKING DOORWAY! Christ, people, it is not rocket science. It's barely more than breathing. Diagram to follow.

3. ANTM. Jade wins a challenge by kissing a giant Madagascar Hissing Cockroach. Is anyone surprised? It looks like her brother. She also tortured the gently bewildered and speech impedimented Gina with the roach. And you guys got your knickers in a twist when Lisa peed in a diaper? Head shaking is all I can do.

4. Finally, who wants a t-shirt or a coffee mug? I'm thinking, what with my ability to master new things (Pandemonium Midnight Uploading podcasts are available on i-tunes, remember?) that maybe what this site needs is a Cafe Press offering.

I was really shocked to note that Mr. Cassini's death went virtually unnoticed by fashion bloggers such as Manolo and the lovely Dress A Day.

Of course, his obituary was buried below the fold on an internal page in a secondary section in the Herald, not even featured in the celebrity obits.

But, people. Oleg Cassini? He invented Jackie O's style. The coronation inauguration gown? The Nobel Prize dinner gown?


That, people is Style, with a capitol (pun intended) S.

Do you remember the 1974 Matador? Do you even remembe the Matador? It was an incredibly fashion-forward auto design. I don't know of anyone who actually had one, but it was sleek, and racy, and just so so so ahead of its time. Oleg Cassini did a designer edition of that car.



Here's more about the Matador.

Earlier this year, a couple of retrospective books came out about Cassini and the Kennedy years. Every fashion junkie should own them.

There. I feel better now.

My very own Miss Congeniality, the fabulous Centerstage Josephine Baker is featured today on The Daily Puppy.

Check her sweet little self out.

So, why does everybody get so freaking stupid over St. Patrick's Day?

It's not like we all need another excuse to drink. Christ, I never need an excuse, I just need a bottle. And, maybe, a glass. Maybe not.

I mean, really. Cubans who, all year long, vie to out-Cubanisimo each other, show up on March 17 wearing green and "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" buttons.

People who don't know the difference between single malt and chocolate malt wear shamrocks and call out for over-cooked cabbage.

Where were these people earlier this week when it was Purim? Nobody offered me a cookie. Nobody wore costumes to work. Nobody got shit-faced drunk in public, even though that is a tradition of Purim, just as much as it is of St. Paddy's day.

Me? I just grouse and complain and quote Christopher Moltisanti: "Hell is an Irish bar where it's always St. Patrick's Day."*

*With apologies to RJ and MJ, who make wonderful Irish food, and throw great St. Patrick's Day parties, and I'd gladly go to another one. But then, RJ refuses to dye food green, and that, as we all know, is a Very Good Thing.

How many times must we review the rules, people?

Here's a clue: If, even though I have my i-pod at full volume, I can hear every single word of your inane conversation, you are definitely talking too loud. Christ, woman, the nut case who was talking to himself on the other side of me got up and moved because you annoyed him!

Two bodies cannot occupy the same physical space simultaneously. This means, in real life, that you cannot shove your fat ass onto the train while someone is trying to exit through the same door. Let me put it in images you might relate to:
When Larry, Moe and Curly all try to get through the door at the same time, what happens? Right. Moe slaps the shit out of the other two until they move and he can get through the door. Do you want me to get all Moe on your ass, and slap you?

Teenage boys: Nobody, and I mean NOBODY wants to see your skanky underwear hanging out over the tops of your too-big, baggy shorts. (Which, by the way, make you look like you are wearing a skirt. Do you even realize that?) If you have to keep them on by holding your dick all day, well, what's the freaking point. You aren't going to listen to me. You don't listen to each other.

Another thing I'd like to say to teenage boys, particularly the gaggle of them on this morning's train: talking about "raping" your friend's 12-year-old sister is not amusing to me or any of the other adults in the train. I bet the twelve year old sister wouldn't be entertained by this, either. Nor would any of your mothers. Assuming you still have mothers who give a shit about you. Judging by the way you look and act in public, I'd have to guess no.

Next time, I'm going to pants you, and damn the consequences.

I'm walking out to the train last night, and there, crossing Biscayne Boulevard, heading my way, is a guy in a NEHRU suit.

A beige Nehru suit. With tan shoes. Tan shoes with those big, ugly square toes. He's sporting a haircut very much like Johnny Depp in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory".

Rounding out his ensemble were a pair of euro-trash glasses.

The scary thing was that the guy was absolutely rocking the whole look. If I hadn't been having an unnecessary and unnecessarily loud conversation on my cell phone? I would have gotten a photo for you.