Here’s a phrase you’ll never hear me say – “I’m going to Burning Man.” Burning Man is “an annual art event and temporary community based on radical self expression and self-reliance in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada.” Translation: The “I’m too old and too sober to attend shit show of a festival.” Last night however I did attend a small art show in an obscure section of Los Angeles – featuring artists who will be attending Burning Man. The gallery was set up to sell art to help these folks earn money to fund their BM projects. I walked in to see a young woman and a young man standing on platforms both in dresses. They each had a jar and a pair of scissors in front of them. The concept was – put money in their jar and you get to cut a piece off of their dress. Huh? Okay. I can kind do this at home or watch Project Runway but whatever. Someone had taken a giant swatch from the guys genital area proving – even Art lovers can act like immature assholes. I asked him what happened and his female counterpart said “Some jewish guy did that” proving even artists models can be racist idiots. Most of the women at the event were dressed like weird circus whores and a whole bunch of the guys had those Snidely Whiplash/Salvador Dali twirly mustaches. I asked my friend what the outfits were all about and she said that a lot of people who attended BM chose a style of dress called Steam Punk – like the guy in the circus pants and top hat. See what happens when you don’t go out people – you miss this stuff. I like art and all – in fact – I try to support all of my friends who paint or sculpt or draw or whatever it is they sell – I buy – but this was not my bag. People who all dress alike seems to say the opposite of “I’m an artist.” Expressing yourself exactly the same way as someone else doesn’t seem to jibe with the free thinker I assume all artists are. But what do I know. Maybe I’m fashion schizophrenic since I can’t seem to pick just one style. But this steam punk business mixed with the idea of spending days in a desert with no shower, no high heels and melting lipstick , did not sound like a fun idea to me. And then, I saw him. The Ryan Gosling of the Steam Punk world. He was wearing a suit vest and suit pants. No shirt. Biceps for days and a Dali mustache. And suddenly I knew – that’s why girls go to Burning Man. This guy was worth sleeping in dirt and smelling like pee. This guy could make any girl feel okay about standing in line for a porto-potty in a hippie dress and a bad beaded necklace you bought for the occasion at Forever21. Suddenly I remembered the days of what I would do when faced with someone like that. I’d throw back another shot, waltz up to him and just start making out. I had courage when I drank. I also made really bad choices in men because I had liquid tolerance for weird people in circus clothes and usually ended up somewhere like Burning Man. Not so much anymore. Last night I didn’t try to make out with Ryan Steam Punk Gosling. I didn’t make a date to meet him under the art tee pee by the iron gorilla sculpture in the desert. I took my Valentino shoes and Chanel purse home where they belong. I think I’ve been burned enough.
Turns out Billy Joel was wrong. There is no place in the world for the angry young man because he’s no longer at home with his back to the wall and his intentions are not good – he’s out there on the streets, blowing people up , shooting school kids, and his intentions are clear – he’s going to murder people because he’s lost his fucking mind. I think we need to spend a little less time trying to figure out how much weight Kim Kardashian has gained in her ass and figure out what the hell is going on with the young people in this country – whether they started here or moved here – something is awry with their brains and when they go all screwy – we’ve given them ample opportunity to arm themselves and take out whomever they choose. Remember the old days when a nerd got pissed? He didn’t get a gun. He didn’t build a pressure cooker pipe bomb. He became Bill Gates and learned how to say fuck you with his brain focused the right way. Maybe we should legalize prostitution and set up whore houses on high school and college campuses? Is it possible we’ve got a killer semen back up situation here? Get turned down enough for a date and some men will get a little heated. Perhaps free makeovers for nerds? I think if you have a nice haircut, clear skin and a cool pair of kicks – you might not feel like killing anyone. What about a psychology class where the teacher is actually analyzing her students? I’m all for free speech and blah blah America but maybe if you keep searching your internet for weird shit like how to build a bomb or how to kill a whole bunch of people at once – somebody gets to come to your house and check you out… for real. Enough eight year old boys dying and six year old girls losing their legs. Parents barely have time to grieve the deaths from one psychotic episode before another unfurls. Where the hell are we living anyway? I feel bad for Muslims in this country – every time they take one step forward – some nutbag whips them ten steps back. Today however – the angry young man takes a backseat to his female counterpart – the angriest sorority girl in America from the University of Maryland’s Delta Gamma chapter. She’s pissed. Super pissed. And she put it all in an email and sent it out chapter wide to all of her so called whiny little sisters. It starts with this…
“If you just opened this like I told you to, tie yourself down to whatever chair you’re sitting in, because this email is going to be a rough fucking ride.”
Well, you can’t say she didn’t warn them. I don’t know who this chick is but I think she needs a major time out. “Fuck you you fucking fucks with your shitty shit faces” she writes. First of all – I love her writing style but she seems a little over the top just because her fellow delta gamma’s fucked up with a bunch of fraternity brothers.
“Newsflash you stupid cocks: FRATS DON’T LIKE BORING SORORITIES. Oh wait, DOUBLE FUCKING NEWSFLASH: SIGMA NU IS NOT GOING TO WANT TO HANG OUT WITH US IF WE FUCKING SUCK, which by the way in case you’re an idiot and need it spelled out for you, WE FUCKING SUCK SO FAR. “
Actually, I’m quite certain that Sigma Nu doesn’t care about you at all… they’re too busy bonding in some weird homoerotic way that they’ll pretend didn’t happen later in life. I can’t wait till this chick leaves college and realizes everything she cares about is stupid and doesn’t matter in the real fucking world. She did call them “ass hats” which I commend but other than that – she needs a chill pill the size of Maryland.
Maybe we need to take a note from the airlines and pump some mellow gas into our global cabin. Can everyone please relax. You’re missing life. And it’s kinda rad.
Like the little voice inside my head – it was piercing and consistent. “You want Chanel? Louis? Hermes?” Granted – none of these names were being pronounced correctly but there was no denying the small Asian woman was still speaking my language. At first – I just kept walking. Why would I need a fake Chanel handbag when I already have four real ones? (I didn’t pay for any of them. They are blood bags. Different story for a different day.) But still – the word Chanel kept calling to me. What did they look like I wonder? And so began my dangerous and brief affair with the faux bag business on Canal Street NYC. I swore I’d never be that person but it seems even I can succumb to FauxNel. My friend Freddy and I peeked inside that first stall. They kept the Chanel under lock and key – apparently it’s illegal to sell knock off bags – who knew? She opened a drawer and there they were shining like rainbows and quite frankly smelling a little bit like cancer. I guess pleather has that distinct smell. She had every shape and size and color and Fred immediately pointed out a dayglow orange one that was to die for. I loved it but I had to explain to Fred that if you’re going to buy a fake Chanel – at least buy one in a color that the real Chanel actually makes. This made no sense to him. Everyone will know that your bag is a fake so why not get a cool color? Ha! Fred. You silly silly man. Why would anyone know my bag is fake? I purchased a small red one and took it out that night. I got a ton of compliments on it and no one was the wiser. The next day I decided I needed more. The faux bag business was a drug and I wanted to be high again. Fred and I returned to the same stalls and every time I asked if they had Chanel they said – No. What? How is this happening? Just yesterday you had scads of them? Did other cheap jews like me come to your stalls and buy you out? I told Fred maybe they think I’m a cop. So I started announcing that I wasn’t. I just wanted Chanel and I wanted it now! But alas, they weren’t biting. We went home dejected. I immediately got the CDT’s and I didn’t think there was a cure for this kind of detox. The next day I had to catch my plane home. I hatched a plan. If I get dressed and pack really quickly I can make it back to Canal Street and see if I can turn this shit around and pick up one more bag. I hit the streets at nine and voila – one man was open. “You got Chanel?” I whispered in his ear. No, he replied. I was devastated. Then – out of nowhere he said – “You watch Leo, I’ll be right back.” Leo was his 7 year old son. The man darted out the door . Leo looked at me like this wasn’t his first White lady rodeo. Five minutes later the man came back with three giant garbage bags filled with faux Chanel. Appropriate carrying cases I thought. But still, the heavens opened up. The birds sang. Leo and I danced. It was a miracle. I bought my new gold patent Chanel for 40 bucks and then tossed in a faux Louis Vuitton belt. Fuck it. Go fake big or go home. Back in Los Angeles now – I put my fake Chanel’s in the closet with their real counterparts. I figure maybe if they hang out together the phonies will learn something from their very expensive friends. It’s Hollywood. Anything can happen.
I can’t remember the exact moment I first met Amy but I knew even then – she was special. Amy was the first of her kind for our family so I didn’t have a lot to compare her too but for a baby, she seemed to be on the up and up. Sure she was just a blob that cried a lot but quite frankly at that point in my life – so was I. In fact, Amy and I had quite a bit in common. We both drank from a bottle and no one seemed to understand a word we ever said. The last would happily change for her – for me – not so much. This was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Amy is one of the few people in my life I have known since the very first day of her life – she is in fact – the first person to hold this distinction. She is also – one of the very few people in my life – I truly love – in a gut wrenching – full on no questions asked unconditional kind of way. She is beautiful, smart, quick witted and incredibly stylish… again – just like me. This kid is genius. Even if she no longer is a kid. She will always be one to me since I completely forgot to have any. Amy is the closest I’ll ever get. It’s a great system – I did none of the work but was there to watch it all go down. My sister Wendy grew this one – and she did one hell of a job. If you’re going to have a daughter – this is the cream of the daughter crop. She is sharp and kind. A rare combination. Trust me, I have all the edge the family had and it’s hard finding the nice button. This weekend – Amy is getting married. I can’t even believe it sometimes. How and when did this happen? Wasn’t I just at her first ballet recital? Didn’t I just wear goofy glasses and blow up shoes and dance at her sweet 16? Didn’t I just make fun of her friends at her college graduation? Wasn’t she just drunk at my house in los angeles meeting kenny G in a bar? Oops – sorry about that part Wendy. I burst into tears every time I think of it. I am going to be the hottest menapausal mess at her wedding. They may want to hide me in the back. Nothing says crazy Aunt like smeared mascara and tulle. I am quite certain I will look like the black swan. It is a great moment in Clements/Purnell family history and the good news is – I love her husband to be. He can handle the shit. And by shit I mean the kind of business a Clements/Purnell chick can throw down and trust me – we throw hard. We leave a mark. Dan – or Berman as he is known – is what they say when people say – oh you found your soul mate. He is the Ying to Amy’s Yang. They may both be Yangs actually but whatever it is, it works. They found each other. And they have the Jackson family to thank. That’s probably the first time anyone’s ever said – Tito is the reason I found the love of my life – but it’s true. At least those fame suckers did one thing right. They brought two jews together – other than their lawyers. Dan only needs to remember one thing about the women in this family – we don’t ask for much. Actually we do. But fuck it – we’re worth it. So, tomorrow night, while you’re doing whatever it is you do, say a prayer that I don’t completely break down at this most auspicious occasion – and wish this young couple well as they take on the world together. I could not possibly be happier and they could not possibly be more perfect together.
Last night I went to a taping of Dancing With The Stars and came away with two big thoughts. #1 – I couldn’t possibly hate the warm up guy more. He should be fired or killed. And #2 – I’m going to kidnap Jiggy the Dog from RHOBH. There I was innocently sitting next to my friend Melissa – an actress – who was there to promote her new show in one of those fun audience cut aways they do – with me next to her looking like her short weird lesbian friend – I’m 5’4”, she’s 6’29”. Suddenly the camera was shoved up inside her head and I didn’t know where to look. Do I pretend I’m not in the shot and stare straight ahead at nothing while Tom Bergeron continues to talk about her or do I turn and smile at her as I sit awkwardly inches away from her face and pretend this is something normal that we do everyday? I did both. Neither were successful. Thankfully I didn’t see how it looked on t.v. It didn’t help that both of us had just finished weeping at Andy Dicks performance which in itself was quite the quagmire. It’s probably the first time Andy’s made people cry for the right reasons but it’s hard to believe he’s actually going to keep his shit together this time when it’s a reality show where he’s proclaiming he’s a new man. Granted – I’m menopausal and everything makes me cry right now. I’m sure viewers are trying to figure out what it is about Melissa’s new game show that makes her cry but oh well. However it was moments later when things got really weird. Suddenly out of nowhere – Lisa Vanderpump’s husband Ken appeared in the front row with their little dog Jiggy in his little Jiggy outfit. I’ve seen the dog on tv a gabillion times but never up close. Yes, Jiggy the dog’s weird furry feet were sitting just feet away from me. It was then I realized the true reality of the situation, that dog died ages ago and is now just stuffed. It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. It was clearly the biggest scam pulled in reality tv history. Okay not that big. Then during the commercial break, Ken got up and placed Jiggy in Lisa’s dance set – a wedding gazebo which she was standing under with her partner. She was in her wedding dress and her partner in a tux. In front of them was a stuffed dog in it’s wedding dress and Jiggy was on a pillow next to her in his wedding tux. All I could think was – where is the Humane Society when you need them? Isn’t this a whole bunch of levels of wrong even if the dog isn’t really alive? Should Jiggy be forced into some weird television wedding with another stuffed dog? Am I the only one who thinks this is a travesty? Clearly I was. The cameras came back on – they got their shot of the creepy doggie wedding and Lisa went on with her dance. Thankfully when it was all over I finally saw that little doggie stick it’s tongue out – and I breathed a sigh of relief. Turns out Jiggy is alive and well and the only thing that died last night on Dancing With The Stars was Lisa’s cha cha.