If Kim Kardashian Can Get Married, Why Can't I?

You won’t be hearing Maggie Gallagher railing on about how Hollywood socialites shouldn’t be allowed to marry.  When Kim Kardashian announced that she is divorcing her husband of less than three months, none of the usual voices promoting “traditional” marriage were front and center.  One of the most visible people in the world – so in-demand and well-known that photos of her lavish wedding fetched millions – talks of marital issues weeks into her marriage and ultimately files for divorce in just over 70 days.  Yet the silence of the marriage warriors remains deafening.

Well, why?  Why are they so quiet?  Why, when one of the most public people in the world lays to waste any conceivable notion of what marriage is supposed to be in the most public way possible, is everyone so quiet?  Where is the National Organization for Marriage?  The evangelicals?  Rick Santorum?  Why are there no grassroots uprisings about this threat to marriage.  Simple.  Kim and Kris Humphries have the correct genitals.  Crass?  Maybe.  True?  Definitely.

If one defines the bedrock of marriage as love, commitment, and honor…you know, the words virtually everyone says when actually getting married, Kim Kardashian’s marital sham should have awoken the ire and impassioned public pleas of the marriage warriors.  But that is not how those who have made their careers keeping marriage outside the grasp of the LGBT community define it.  They define it by genitals.  Anyone who’s seen Kim’s sex tape knows she’s all well and good down below and until (God willing) photo evidence arises (ahem) of Kris’, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.  

In the end, it’s not about kids (Kim and Kris don’t have any) or even the intention to have kids or even the ability to have kids.  It’s about genitals.

If anyone has eroded the foundation of marriage it’s those who insist on stripping away all that love and commitment rhetoric and reducing it to human anatomy.

There is not a single legitimate argument against same-sex marriage.  Some say well…it’s never been done that way, which of course, is moronic.  Everything was always done the same way until someone did it differently…its called progress.  Some say the divorce rate will increase.  Even if we take that at face value…what does that mean?  That closeted homosexuals will leave sham marriages?  That’s a GOOD thing…if, of course, you view love and commitment as the bedrock of a union.  But to some, it's better to have two people not in love and incapable of/disinterested in having sex with one another stay together.  To them, it’s about sex ORGANS…not about actual sex. 

Then there’s the slippery slope arguments that suggest one cannot tell the difference between a donkey and a human being.  On and on it goes. 

Kim Kardashian can have another sham wedding as soon as her absurd divorce from her never-in-love spouse is through.  By contrast, two guys who have been together for 10 years and are in love, cannot get married in California even once.  EVER.  Who's the real threat to marriage?

I’ll spend more time on this blog dissecting anti-gay marriage and people.  This is just the first installment.

Russell Armstrong, Richard Cory and Narcissus

Warning: Depressing (but possibly thoughtful) post ahead.

“You never know what happens behind closed doors.”  Of all the oft-repeated phrases in modern lexicon, this one is repeatedly proven true.  If the Pythagorean Theorem is the most proven precept in the mathematical world (I believe it is), then the notion that appearances say nothing of what’s going on beneath the surface has to be its counterpart in the social world. 

In fact, appearances are often carefully constructed deceptions designed to obfuscate the real truth beneath the surface (see Narcissus).  This week, Russell Armstrong, husband of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’ star Taylor Armstrong took his life.  If not for the show itself, he’d appear to have it all.  He had a beautiful wife and daughter.  He drives a Bentley and lives in a Beverly Hills mansion.  He had what on its face seemed to be a successful career as an investor.  He was not gorgeous by any means but a nice-looking guy.  The show, however, and the press surrounding it, revealed a very different person than the one he appeared to be.

In truth, he came off as an extremely emotionally detached husband and father.  Zero social skills.  Mired in debt and on the brink of financial ruin.  A possibly violent temperament…a notion bolstered by the fact that Taylor – along with Russell’s ex-wife and ex-girlfriend – all reported similar tales of physical abuse (everyone but Taylor had a restraining order on him).  In short…he was NOTHING like what he would appear to be.

People are often quick to blame the show or the publicity around it for driving this guy to the brink and I don’t buy it for a second.  He was a tortured soul.  He was being sued for possibly bilking a company out of $1.5 million to support the fictional lifestyle he put out there.  His relationship with his family was clearly strained.  His violent past existed long before the program did.  I truly believe that he was a ticking time bomb.  If it wasn't one thing, it would have been another.  Certainly, there are people who take immense challenges in life on the chin and find an inner resolve to go on.  Russell Armstrong, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.

His story…and  others like it…remind me of one of my favorite poems.  Simple and poignant.  It’s called Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson. 

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

People are rarely who you think they are.  That’s why it’s so special when you meet and get to know someone and they turn out to be someone you love for one reason or another.  All too often, you meet someone who’s great on paper but not so great in life.  It’s a lesson that many people unfortunately don’t want to learn.  I’d rather the real thing than the resume.   Show me an arrogant guy and I'll show you an insecure one.  Show me someone who brags endlessly about himself and I'll show you a guy who NEEDS to say those things to cover up massive insecurities.  Show me someone who takes his/her gifts and accomplishments in stride and doesn't care what others think and I'll show you something rare....a truly confident person.

Earlier, I mentioned Narcissus.  Years ago, my cousin had to read that story for class.  He was confused…saying his teacher talked about Narcissus being somewhat self-loathing while the story seemed to suggest he REALLY loved himself.   I explained that the story is that he loves his image…the face everyone else sees…the carefully constructed surface that belies the truth beneath.  He looks in the pool and sees his reflection.  It’s THAT he loves ….not his true self. 

Russell Armstrong.  Richard Cory.  Narcissus.  From time immemorial, the lesson that what you see is not necessarily what you get with people is as unchanging as Pythagorean theorem.  I admit it's a forced metaphor...but there you go. 

Is it a Bird? A Plane? No, it’s a door. And I Just Walked Into It.

Let me set the scene.  It’s a 93-degree day in Fire Island.  I am having a great time…annoying the crap out of everyone in the house by blabbing uncontrollably about anything I can think of.  I go in the house to get a cocktail…I am walking. I am a few steps away from the bar…and BAM!  I am entangled in the screen door…unable for a few moments to get out of it.  I can hear the laughter behind me.  I can see the drink I came for in front of me.  And for the FOURTH time in my life, I walked into a door.  Here are the other three:

Time number 1:  Camp Cedar Lake, Milford, PA.  Age:  12

Oh sleepaway camp.  Where Jewish parents store their children for Summer.  I can still see the gleeful looks on my parents faces as they dropped me off...knowing they had 8, blissful, Scott-free weeks ahead of them.  It’s also a place of wooden bunks with doors that cannot be missed.  Unless you’re laughing with your bunkmates so hard that tears obstruct your view and the door to Bunk Joseph 32 that is normally open is completely shut and you walk directly into it.  Now everyone BUT you is laughing and by dinner the entire division knows the story and all the British counselors are making fun of you and you swear you’ll never be so dumb again but then comes…

Time number 2:  My Friend’s Father’s Girlfriend’s House, Tampa, FL.  Age: 21

Wash U Senior Year Spring Break.  We all went on a cruise (see earlier post on cruises) that left out of Tampa so my friend’s father’s girlfriend (don’t ask) who lived there had us over the night before we boarded the ship.  She had a nice house that had a small sunroom leading to the backyard pool.  As anyone knows, I love pools, especially on a hot day . And this day was HOT! And Sunny!  So hot that I walked quickly to the pool!  So sunny, I didn’t see the glass door that led to the sunroom. SMACK!  I literally fell backward like out of a cartoon.  For the first 10-15 seconds, I didn’t even know what happened.    For the rest of the vacation and semester and even to this day, that is the single moment most of my close college friends remember most about me.   

Time number 3:  Garlic Bob’s, New York:  Age 24

This may have been the most embarrassing one yet.  I don’t believe it’s there anymore, but there used to be a pizza place on the UES called Garlic Bob’s that was really good.  I went to get a slice and bring it home on an unusually sunny day.  I’m not going to get all poetic and set this one up…because it was quick and horrible.   I walked right into a glass WALL.  Okay?  Not even the door.  The sun had so screwed me up I wasn’t even at the door.  Everyone was gawking at me.  I had smashed into the pizza I was holding so it looked like I was bleeding from my chest.  Inside, panic developed.  “GET OUT NOW!!!” was the rallying cry from my internal monologue.  I didn’t turn around to tell everyone I was okay.  Or even to get a napkin to clean myself off.  I just frantically hunted for the door and shot out of there never, ever, ever to return again. 

There is something uniquely embarrassing about walking into a door.  Being the person I am, I can take a lot of humiliating experiences without batting an eye.  Some of my jokes/stories fall flat.  I can handle the awkward silence.  When a crazy person stops me on the street (crazy people LOVE me and actively seek me out) – I can handle being asked if I have a bologna sandwich on me.  When I was 8 years old, I thought a microphone was off at an auditorium and began singing embarrassing songs until I realized everyone there could hear me.  I took it in my stride…coming out a mere 20 years later.  But when you walk into a glass door…or wall…there’s just no recovering from that. 

You’re just a clumsy moron who just broke something.

Smoking (Not) Hot

So, February 9, I decided to (finally) quit smoking.  I put out a cigarette and began walking, Pavlovian style, to the bodega to buy another pack.  Since I was already on Chantix (more on that in a moment), I decided not to buy the next pack of cigarettes and instead see how long I could go without them.  Today is July 15, more than five months later.  So, it appears I can go at least that long without them.  Actually, I can tell you I will never smoke again.

I remember my first cigarette.  In the woods behind Andrew Gade's house...my best friend.  We were about 14 playing pool at the billiards place nearby his house.  We carefully planned in advance how we would buy the cigarettes from the vending machine (we split the cost...which was around $2)...I would stand around on watch, Andrew would put the money in the machine.  We'd casually leave, get back on our bikes, go to Andrew's backyard (while his parents were still gone) and smoke at least one a piece.  That marked the beginning of a horrible life choice of mine...something I was still dealing with nearly TWENTY years later.

When you're 14...nothing seems long-term because nothing has been thus far.  To us, it was rebellious and cool...not self-defeating and stupid.  I remember it took me a while to get the hang of smoking...it took nearly 2-3 years encompassing various attempts to properly take a drag and not cough it up.  There are few things in my life that make me feel more stupid and pathetic than actively trying to get my body used to smoking...even as it consistently rejected it.  Finally, I won!  I smoked!  Congrats to me!!!  Every morning and afternoon, I smoked in the car with my friend Jay, who was one year-older, cool, good looking, and drove me back and forth to school everyday. 

Soon, I was hiding cigarettes in the headboard of my bed.  I suppose on some level, my parents knew I smoked.  I probably smelled of it sometimes.  I am sure they figured out the headboard of my bed had porn and smokes in it.  On a few occassions, my Mom found a pack of cigarettes in the pockets of my clothes (correction from before:  this may have been my stupidest move), which I promptly blamed on my friends. "Andrew asked me to hold them for him!"...hoping to God my Mom would be brain-dead enough to believe that.  She wasn't.  She was smart enough to know that there was little she could do about it and that she was herself a smoker and it was hypocritical to criticize me (she quit around that time and never smoked again).

By the time I left for college, going a few waking hours without smoking was perilous for me.  My Freshman year at Boston University was not an easy one (LONG story and I'm not getting into it)...which perpetuated my smoking.  I smoked literally nonstop for nearly 15 years after that. Long after college.  Long after New York (and many other states) banned smoking from bars, clubs, restaurants, etc.  I savored them.  Made people wait for me to smoke them.  Walked into the freezing cold to have them.  Spent an increasing amount of my money on them (they were once under $2...currently almost at $14).  I loved them.

About two years ago, I had a case of "walking Pneumonia"...a milder form of the full-on illness.  Had I waited one day longer to get checked out, my Doctor informed me that I would have been in the hospital.  When he took x-rays of my lungs, I remember panicking in the office.  What if it wasn't fluid (pneumonia) he saw in my lungs?  What if it was a tumor (lung cancer)?  That fear stuck with me...but wasn't strong enough.  I was still smoking...for a year and a half more until I finally had enough and a doctor friend of mine prescribed me Chantix.

You are supposed to smoke the first two weeks on Chantix, which works by blocking your brain from receiving pleasure from the cigarettes.  Once the pleasure is gone, you are supposed to kick the habit altogether.  Not for me.   Six weeks later, I was still on Chantix, still smoking.  I would walk to the back of Duane Reade and get my prescription for Chantix ($200) and then walk to the front to get my Marlboro Ultra Lights ($12.75).  $212.75 for medication to quit something I was purposefully perpetuating (correction from before:  THIS might be my dumbest move).   On February 9, I decided not to go to the front of the store again. 

Eventually, I dropped the Chantix, which made me nauseous, irritable  and provided some of the most lively, and realistic nightmares I have ever had.  "Warning!" it should say on the box, "Freddy Krueger is, now, real."

In the beginning, I was simply amazed I was actually doing it (I still am).  "Oh my God!!" I would think..."Two days...NO CIGARETTES!"  Sad to say, that was the longest I had gone without them, even in prior attempts to quit where I wouldn't buy them at a bodega but instead would pay someone $2 for one and convince myself I was weaning myself off of them.  But this time, I didn't do that.  And as time passed...1 week, 2 weeks, 1 month, 2 month....5 MONTHS...it became abundantly clear that I meant business. 

That's the hardest part of quitting I found...convincing yourself you really mean it this time.  When you make so many promises to yourself and others that you're qutting - only to either break them or never really mean them in the first place - it's hard to believe yourself.  You become the boy who cried wolf...and you're crying wolf to yourself.

Weird stuff began happening.  Bad one...chewing plastic knives at my desk at work so frequently there are people who still are afraid of me.  Good one....a strange yet thrilling tingling sensation in my legs that apparently is the result of increased circulation from not smoking.  Not smelling like smoke.  Knowing I've cut out thousands and thousands of cigarettes that I would have smoked.  Saving over $2,000 so far.  The mental benefits that come from overcoming a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.  I am not a slave to it.  All this is good...but I still think about my old friends.

At the Fire Island Pines (where I always have an amazing time) I often savor time alone, which is rare in my life.  Without getting too cheesy or poetic, somtimes I leave low tea a little bit early and go back to the house.  I swim.  I listen to my iPod.  I sit out on the deck chairs and look out into the bay (I don't blame you for feeling nauseous but I am about to make a point).  Last year, I would have had about 1/2 pack of cigarettes in this time.  It was difficult to be without them...especially when a cigarette at sunset by the water, alone with my thoughts, was always one of life's simple pleasures. 

A simple pleasure of life that can end it.  A simple pleasure that puts my life at risk.  A simple pleasure that makes me smell of smoke, cough and spend thousands of dollars.  It's all true.  And it sucks that I have to keep reminding myself of it...even after nearly 1/2 year without them. 

My partner-in-crime, Andrew Gade, suffered a minor stroke last year due to a genetic heart defect he knew nothing about until it caused the stroke itself.   THANKFULLY he is fine.  He quit smoking from that day on, just a few months before I did.  20 years...for both of us.  It goes by in a blink.

I'm almost done with this post...but want to add one more thing.

That same weekend in Fire Island...about six weeks ago...I was out late at the bars and most of my friends had gone back to their respective houses to hang out, hook up, swim, sit in the hot tub, etc.  I was about to join them and met a cute guy named Nick so I stayed a while longer. At one point, Nick went out for a smoke and, realizing that it was pretty empty at that point and nobody I knew was around for the moment, I asked if I could take a drag.  I was literally and figuratively playing with fire.  For the first time in months, a cigarette was between my fingers.  I took one long drag and coughed it up.  Nick said, "Oh, have you never had a cigarette before?"  LOL.  If only that were my story.

The next morning I got up and got myself a glass of water.  As if God him/herself left it there to test me...there was a cigarette with a pack of matches next to it on the coffee table (more likely left from the late  partying the night before).  All were asleep.  I could have gone outside, sat on a deck chair, looked out on the bay and....smoked the hell out of that cigarette.  Nobody would have been the wiser.  But I didn't.

That's when I knew I quit.

RHONJ Season 3, Episode 2 Review: Kim G. + Kim D. + Super "T" + Kathy = Trouble in Jersey

Kim D and Kim G have returned...and not a moment too soon.  Last year, it was Danielle's "square and fake tits" that pissed off Ms. Granatell.  Now it's Theresa's "fat, crooked ass."  Eat your heart out Jim Bellino.  In just a few minutes of airtime, Kim G. has done more to reduce women to their anatomy than any misogynistic, self-important OC douche ever could.

Now, I am not a fan of Theresa's.  Never was.  I find her pretentious, antagonistic, completely un self-aware. I resent that she's still in that mansion driving fancy cars when she owes so many people so many millions of dollars, etc...let's not go down this road because we may never leave it.  But despite all this, I have to be objective and say:  what happened at the Christening was not her fault.  She congratulated her brother and he flipped out and called her garbage.  Melissa's sister joined in to tell Theresa off too.  Now, I am sure there's backstory there, but to the extent of what happened at the Christening, you can't fault someone for coming over to say some kind words.  If Bro-Joe was that pissed off, he could have said, "thanks, and we need to talk but let's do it at another time and place."  I would bet Kathy, Melissa and their respective families have legitimate issues with Theresa, who seems to have numerous and deep rifts with nearly everyone who crosses her path, but it was Joe - not Theresa - who played them out at his kid's Christening.

So Kim D., fashion powerhouse, is putting on another fashion show, AKA:  Bravo-funded drama platform.  Funny, this closet-sized store has so much pull, reach and capital to pull-off a massive event like this.  Anyway, in comes Kim G., who I want to root for, but cannot.  She starts mouthing off to Theresa's sister-in-law and cousin about....Theresa!! (both of whom admirably didn't take the bait). Then she stirs shit at the fashion show. Then she asks if they should boo Theresa.  See, Kim G. has legitimate beef with the mouthy Ms. Giudice but she seems intent on surrendering the moral high ground anyway.  Another aside:  did you see Jacqueline's face when Kim G. was brought up?  What happened there?

Okay, Kathy was a little antagonistic to Theresa, but it was Theresa, not Kathy, who spilled their argument away from the private room into the main room where everyone can see them.  She could have said, "Let's have this discussion elsewhere..." but she didn't.   The Giudice/Gorga crew seem to be incapable of handling things in a remotely adult manner.  True to form, Theresa starts yelling and screaming and acting like a petulant third-grader and can not be calmed down.  Kathy wasn't blameless but Theresa never misses an opportunity to blow it up way beyond what it warrants and then blame it on others (or pretend it never happened)...a trait I would bet plays a role in her brother's uncontrolled anger towards her. 

Anyone else notice Kim G's mug looming behind the melee?  I hope we see more of it.  For the record, as shit-stirring as she is, she was nice to Theresa last season, who made fun of Kim's age and generally ripped on her.  Which is why I root for Kim G., who I think would do more good in getting airtime and friendships if she tried to quell the fire instead of constantly lighting the match and pouring gas on the fllames.  Ms. Giudice may have met her match...we'll see...

Bad Cab Tipping

Saturday night was an unusally expensive cab night for me.  I took a cab to the West Village for a birthday party.  Then went to Bartini in Hells Kitchen with two friends. From there, we went to the eagle in Chelsea-ish.  Then to Eastern Bloc in the East Village.  And then, finally home in Gramercy.   Add in drinks to the equation and you can only imagine the amount of cash I disepensed with on that night alone.  New York, rightfully, has a very well-deserved reputation for being an exorbitantly expensive place to live...to a degree most people who have never lived here will never understand.

That said, I see many people try to cut corners in the worst imaginable ways, and one that gets me is the crappy tips given to cab drivers.  Cab drivers work absurdly long shifts.  They get taxed like crazy.  Gas prices are an all-time high.  If they want to invest in the medallion, even more money is taken away from them than the standard fees they have to pay to the cab company.  And then they have to live on whatever is left over...often trying to support a family on what must be a very meager income they have to work many hours to achieve.  Is giving them 2-3 bucks instead of 1 gonna change your night?  No.  But it will change their income in the aggregate.

Just a thought.

Mob Wives Redux: Sad, Sad, Sad

When I first heard that this show was coming out, I was dumbfounded.  I still am.  This is not just some contrived reality show.  These are daughters and wives of very well-known gangsters...part of a lifestyle that honors silence and staying below the radar.  Now, here they are in a much-hyped, well-publized national television program that puts an underworld front and center that can only operate effectively when out of the public eye.  Doesn't that put these women at severe risk? 

At its core, Mob Wives is kind of sad.  Here are four women, all seemingly capable to some degree and street-wise, who source most of their problems to the very mafia lifestyle they are currently capitalizing on and from which they draw their core identity.

In one episode, Renee, fresh from her confrontation with Karen, admits that Karen made some sense when she said nobody had any problem with her when her father (Sammy "The Bull" Gravano) was killing people...only when he cooperated with the authorities.  Essentially, she said their social circle was far more accepting of cold-blooded murder than perceived disloyalty.  I can see where this would give Renee pause.  What I can't see is how this never occurred to her before, and why up until that point she had been wearing "Mafia Princess" like a badge of honor gleefully devoid of any acknoweldgement of how all that luxury was finding its way to her lap. 

What Mob Wives ends up being is a real version of Goodfellas, one of the best movies ever made.  The women don't socialize much with people outside of "the life."  Their lives are broken out by incarceration intervals - never seemingly all that happy when their loved ones are in the clink, nor when they are home.  They attempt to hide their children from the truth about their fathers.  They struggle financially   They wonder aloud who they are when their identity is so pegged to a lifestyle they really are only tangentially involved with (its their fathers and brothers who are mobsters, not them).  In their best times, they try to block their own thoughts of the murders and crimes that got them the Audi and the big house in Staten Island.  In their worst times, they are forced to acknowledge that they love and adore men who destroy - and end - other people's lives. 

Even so, I can't help but like them sometimes.   Karen probably has the best perspective...having re-examined everything she thought she understood when it was revealed her father had killed at least 19 people.  Renee, in a fit of honesty, admits she has given up everything - even her own identity - in being loyal to a group of people who are so frequently disloyal to one another.  Carla seems completely nonplussed with the lifestyle and almost comes across as someone who could easily do without it.  Drita is fun, tough, loves her kids and openly contemplates what kind of life she'll have if she spends it waiting for a man who doesn't know when he's getting out of prison.  They are all smart.  They all care very much for their kids.  They can be funny and interesting and almost warm in a way.  But they are also all suffering from the great delusion that allows them to wake up everyday and face the world knowing that everything they do is financed by something unimaginably terrible.

I have a very hard time with this show, because it embodies the deepest criticisms of reality tv by literally glamorizing the worst of human behavior.  I am reminded by one of the best scenes of The Sopranos, when Carmella goes to see a Jewish therapist who tells her to take what's left of her kids and leave Tony.  He wouldn't even accept payment for the session because it's blood money. It's tainted her whole life and it's up to her to save herself and her kids.  He could have been talking to any of the women on Mob Wives.  And they'd probably respond just like Carmella, in tears knowing he's right, but unable to give up their material possessions  - and self identity - to start anew.

VH-1 really took reality tv from something lighthearted and turned it into something terribly dark and tragic.  Glamorizing a lifestyle built on blood is not entertainment.  Its exploitation of people put underground by a world that should have remained under as well.

RHONJ Season 3, Episode 1 Review: Onyx, Marble and Soul-crushing Debt Don't Buy Class

They're baaacckkkk....and I couldn't be more excited.  Being from New Jersey (central) and proud of it, I have a special affinity for these broads (Jersey term).  Let's dive right in, shall we?

1)  No more Danielle Staub!  Finally.  I wish we could get Dina back, but I'll take it.  I feel awful for Danielle's kids, however, because she'll never get cancelled from the all-too-real reality show that is their lives. 

2)  We got two new castmates...both family members of Theresa's.  I don't fully understand why only the NJ cast must be rife with people who are related to one another, as opposed to every other Real Housewives program, but I guess we should just go with it. I am really itching to see some unrelated Jersey women interact at one point, but it seems Bravo categorically refuses to do that on this program.

3)  Theresa and Joe.  Look we all feel for them, right? I mean, Theresa was so humble in earlier seasons
("I would never move into a used house...it's disgusting"), that you just wish for her husband and her to make ooodles and ooodles of money.  And, she always seeemed to have her priorities on target ("Gia...forget school..it's time to model and act!").  And she never started trouble, ("Danielle, you don't say hi?").  So, clearly she has gained our sympathy after having revealed she owes over $11 million...wait, what's that? SHE'S STILL LIVING IN THAT MANSION AND DRIVING A MERCEDES??  Fuck that!!!!  How on Earth can she continue to live that way when she owes so many millions of dollars to people who will have to do without because she hasn't paid what she's owes them.  Don't even for a moment try to tell me that her cookbook and Joe's pizza place are footing the bill for this lifestyle.   Not even a remote shot of both combined even paying the mortage and upkeep on that house, let alone on the cars, the kids, the clothes, the trips, the parties and, oh yah, paying off the MILLIONS OF DOLLARS of debt they are in.  The fact that they are still in that house is an affront to every one of us who pay our bills and have to learn to live within our means.  Where on Earth are they getting that cash and credit from?  They supposedly have very little assets and income below $100,000 and crushing debt.  Who is supplying them with the money to keep paying on that house?

4)  Kathy.  I like her.  So far.  Nothing else to report on....but riding her bike to the store?  LOVE it!

5)  Melissa...ugh....if I find out she's in the same debt situation as her sister-in-law, I am going to be very upset.  And by the way, a 5 year-old should never have a walk-in closet filled with shoes and purposes...no, STOP!...never a reason for that...no justification for it at all.

6) Love me some Caroline (and, of course, Albie) but it's time for her to move on.  Haven't her kids been on some elongated path of leaving the nest since the program began?  It's been a 2 year-process so far...cut the cord already! 

7)  Where the hell is my Kim G?  I love her.  Why is she nowhere to be found?

8)  Ashley shows up late to an upaid internship and cries immediately when her Mom gently tries to guide her to do the right thing and then asks for her parents to pay for a Manhattan apartment?  Color me shocked.  And where's Derek, AKA: the best thing that ever happened to her?

9) The (classy) family throwdown: First, this took place at the Manor, a place many of us who grew up in Jersey have been to many times. My grandparents' 50th anniversary was there.  I was 8 years old.  I sang a song for them/took my first step out of the closet.  Let's not discuss it. 

Anyway, the Gorga affair was all class, start to finish. Joe (Theresa's husband) had the runs.  Theresa was late.  Theresa's brother (from now on will be called "Bro-Joe") drank himself into a borderline coma, told his sister to "Walk the fuck away" called her garbage, needed 10 guys to hold him back from kicking the shit out of his own family, yelled at both his parents...shall I go on?  Oh yah, everyone's kids were there to witness it.  Just your typical CHRISTENING.  O bla dee, O bla da. 

Sidenote:  It can all look elegant, if only for a moment.  The Manor may be overdone, but it's pretty.  Everything is done professionally.  Say what you want about Jersey girls, this crew, very much including Theresa, puts themselves together quite nicely for these affairs.  Everything is done to a tee.  But when you hear one of the Joe's belt out, "you want some friggin' lobstah?!!!"...it ruins it.  Okay?  Just a point of fact.

10)  Kathy, loving her even more.  First and only thing she did..protect the kids and get them away from the melee.  LOVE HER so far.

We've got a whole season to go.  Get ready for it...

Atlantic City: Where Personal Space Goes to Die

So I just returned from Atlantic City for a close friend's bachelor party. It truly was a great time...great to catch up with my friends who I've known for 20 years, drink, gamble, hit up a strip joint where you check-in your cell phone and bring your own beer at a coat check-styled line, etc.  Yet, the strip club is not the only time you can have a tit in your face.  In fact, the first jug in my mug happened earlier that night:  at the roulette wheel.

I love roulette.  It courts the dumbest at the casino, which is actually saying something.  I mean, you really don't need a functioning cerebrum to play this game.  Basically, you toss chips all over the board and hope that the little ball lands on one of those numbers.  Voila, you've just learned a key casino strategy (your welcome). 

But there's always someone willing to dumb even the dumbest game up, and up comes Ms. Mammary...who positioned herself next to/on top of me at Trump Plaza.  First, let's start with her strategy. This genius actually bet the exact same amount on both red AND black on each spin.  First, it's not even fool-proof - because it can land on 0 or 00, both of which are green, and you lose.  Or it lands on red or black, which is a wash.  If the only possible outcomes are either losing or breaking even, you are not in the game (good lesson for life as well). 

You know what else she did?  She refused every offer I made to place her chips on black, so instead, she leaned over me boob first every single spin to make that dumbass bet each time.  Yet that wasn't the only assault on my personal space that evening either.

At the blackjack table, a jumpy guy unsure if he wanted to join the game stood next to me and paced back and forth , his nether regions dangerously close to my elbow.  Earlier in the night a woman so excited by my slot machine win ($50) jumped excitedly behind me and massaged my shoulders.  Would you like me to go on with this? 

It wasn't even crowded at Trump Plaza (the hotel is WAY past its prime).  Yet, as many people who are close to me are well aware, the safest bet in the house is that the dumbest/craziest people will always find me.

Freddy Krueger, Jason and Wind Chimes

A fun topic of conversation for my extended family during a really terrific Mother's Day on Sunday is how I hate the wind chimes my mom has hanging outside by the backyard patio.  Wanna know why?  Because there is nary a horror movie made where the sound of wind chimes combined with a sweeping panorama of a dark, windy night doesn't spell impending murder. 

Maybe it's Pavlovian.  By themselves, wind chimes seem perfectly innocent.  A little breeze translated into a little music...tra la la.  Repeateldy seeing a person get slashed wide open  after hearing a wind chime tends to change one's perspective on how innocuous that sound is.  Now, when I hear wind chimes, I don't hear music...I hear, "Get the hell out of wherever you are now."

The unwitting victims in many a horror flick seem incapable of figuring out that the guy in the hockey mask with a bloody meat cleaver is not a friendly neighbor who butchered a steak for you.  He's a psychotic murderer who just killed a hot teenager. 

Similarly, many members of my family seem unaware of what those chimes are chimin when the breeze picks up.  It's not music.  It's a serious warning.

Now you all know.

Alexis Bellino vs. Gloria Steinem (Continued)

Catch Real Housewives of Orange County last night?  Alexis informed us that though her own God-given judgement dicates that her husband's advice was not on-target re: her new clothing line, she must listen and obey because the Bible tells her to.

Some life she's carved out for herself.

For Some, America is Always Wrong

Well, it took nary a week before the usual suspects in my social circle went from celebrating the death of Bin Laden - as any decent person should do - to attacking the US.  We shouldn't torture!  What about Pakistan's sovereignty!  Killing is always wrong!

One thing I've learned is for some people, the only time-honored truth to which they abide is that the US is ALWAYS WRONG.  No matter what we do, it's wrong.  If we stand by and don't do anything, we're wrong.  If we go in and attack governments that subjugate and kill their own people, we're wrong.  We're wrong if we kill Bin Laden. We're wrong if we don't...etc, etc. etc.  Trust me, these people don't see themselves part of what has been aptly called the "Blame America First" crowd but they most certainly are.

With all the good intentions in the world, they have helped become part of an overall movement that gives the worst governments in the world all the space they need to operate.  By very miguidedly shifting blame to the US and Israel on virtually every issue, Ahmadenijah and Assad, just to give two examples, are able to continue hacking away at their own people, and making plans for much worse in the future.

I enjoyed the few days we had until we became the great evil again.  Not for blind patriotism, but for moral clarity.  I wish it lasted much longer.

My (now) Open Letter to GLAAD

At GLAAD's media awards, they had Al Sharpton speak at the event.  My unresponded-to-letter to the executive leadership there is below:

Mr.  Barrios,
I’m a gay man who generally supports GLAAD’s agenda and admires much of your work.  I am also a Jewish man, who is in disbelief that you’d have someone like Al Sharpton play a prominent role in perhaps your most visible event of the year (2011 GLAAD Media Awards).

Do you have any idea who this man is?  What his past includes?  What crimes he is responsible for?  I would like to quote from a column by Jeff Jacoby of the Boston Globe who addressed his disgusting past since most of the media establishment seems unwilling to do so (in italics):

1987: Sharpton spreads the incendiary Tawana Brawley hoax, insisting heatedly that a 15-year-old black girl was abducted, raped, and smeared with feces by a group of white men. He singles out Steve Pagones, a young prosecutor. Pagones is wholly innocent -- the crime never occurred -- but Sharpton taunts him: "If we're lying, sue us, so we can . . . prove you did it." Pagones does sue, and eventually wins a $345,000 verdict for defamation. To this day, Sharpton refuses to recant his unspeakable slander or to apologize for his role in the odious affair.

1991: A Hasidic Jewish driver in Brooklyn's Crown Heights section accidentally kills Gavin Cato, a 7-year-old black child, and antisemitic riots erupt. Sharpton races to pour gasoline on the fire. At Gavin's funeral he rails against the "diamond merchants" -- code for Jews -- with "the blood of innocent babies" on their hands. He mobilizes hundreds of demonstrators to march through the Jewish neighborhood, chanting, "No justice, no peace." A rabbinical student, Yankel Rosenbaum, is surrounded by a mob shouting "Kill the Jews!" and stabbed to death.

 1995: When the United House of Prayer, a large black landlord in Harlem, raises the rent on Freddy's Fashion Mart, Freddy's white Jewish owner is forced to raise the rent on his subtenant, a black-owned music store. A landlord-tenant dispute ensues; Sharpton uses it to incite racial hatred. "We will not stand by," he warns malignantly, "and allow them to move this brother so that some white interloper can expand his business." Sharpton's National Action Network sets up picket lines; customers going into Freddy's are spat on and cursed as "traitors" and "Uncle Toms." Some protesters shout, "Burn down the Jew store!" and simulate striking a match. "We're going to see that this cracker suffers," says Sharpton's colleague Morris Powell. On Dec. 8, one of the protesters bursts into Freddy's, shoots four employees point-blank, then sets the store on fire. Seven employees die in the inferno.

If Sharpton were a white skinhead, he would be a political leper, spurned everywhere but the fringe. But far from being spurned, he is shown much deference. Democrats embrace him. Politicians court him. And journalists report on his comings and goings while politely sidestepping his career as a hatemongering racial hustler.

Is this the sort of man you want aligned with GLAAD’s reputation and objectives?

I am 33 years old – so some of my friends are old enough to remember these atrocities and are familiar with Al Sharpton’s integral role in them.  My younger friends were shocked to find this out – partly because they were too young when these events unfurled and partly because well-respected organizations – like GLAAD – seemed all too happy to have him give a speech about freedom and activism at a major event.  All this from the same mouth that uttered “diamond merchants” and “white interlopers” and whose past activism resulted in the corpses of innocent people.

Now he puts himself out as a freedom fighter, and we’re all supposed to pretend none of his past happened.  But it did.  And I am sure members of GLAAD are familiar with it.  Which makes it all the more incomprehensible that he was given a pulpit at this event.

Please tell me GLAAD can do better.  That we, as the LGBT community, can do better.  Please tell me that our support and reputation is not pegged on anyone who says the right things about us once, and the wrong things about everything else for many years and with horrifically violent consequences for many innocent people.

Best,
Scott Berwitz

Get Out of My (Sub)Way

Typically, the subway is a real drag for most of us.  A necessary evil.  It's crowded.  Dank.  Unbearably hot in the summer, etc.   Let's not get into it.  We all know what it's like.

But for a surprisingly large number of people, the subway is a world of wonder...not the means to get somwhere but the destination itself.  I'm always behind these people.  I have to get to work.  People are piling up on the platform.  I hope I can get a place to stand.  And I am behind someone who is so overjoyed to get on this train that they must stop one step in and take it all in...causing me to either lose my spot... or a limb. 

You know how when YOU get on the train, you try to scuffle and find a place to stand or sit quickly because there are others behind you and you get a small window to board?  Yah, well, these people don't give a shit about you.  They take one step on the train - with 200 people behind them and stop abruptly.  So entranced by the moving soup kitchen that passes for public transportation in the city, they look around.  "Oh, should I sit there?  Maybe over there?  I think that person looks nice to sit next to.  Or maybe I'll stand!  There's so many options I'm just going to stand in everyone's way and...wait, what's that I hear?  Someone screaming in terror behind me that the doors are repeatedly slamming into their pelvis because I won't move my ass more than one step into the train?"

TV Chefs: Not all are created equal

Ever watch Top Chef?   The chefs on that show are really talented. Forget even the masters or all-stars competition.  Even the regular seasons have very accomplished chefs who have worked in some of the most prestigous restaurants, under the world's finest culinary geniuses, competing.  Every watch the Food Network or cooking channel?  Not quite the same caliber.

Sure, you have Bobby Flay - who really is a great chef.  And I am sure all the hosts make delicious food.  But, I shudder to say this,  I am not sure they really are particularly good cooks..and this goes even for the ones I really love - like Paula Deen.  A few observations:

1)  I once watched Guy Fieri make a potato dish he assured us is delicious.  I don't doubt it. The recipe called for a bunch of potatos, mixed with sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon, sauteed onions and butter.  That tastes good?  You don't say.  You mean approaching a potato as a vehicle for every fat-laden ingredient in your kitchen results in a heart-stoppingly tasty dish?  What genius.  It's the culinary equivalent of buying a Ferrari, simply slamming down the gas and saying, "this is how you drive fast."  Anyone with a foot can do that...it doesn't require actual driving skill.

2)  Giada De Laurentis actually does appear to cook some good stuff that might require skill and knowledge outside that of a particularly slow second-grader.  Sorry, but there's a "but" here:  1)  Nobody blows smoke up her own ass quite the way Giada does. "This is AMAZING!!!"  Um...stop that now.  2)  It takes Giada a solid four-hours to cook a dish that feeds more than herself.  The way she delicately sprinkles salt and slowly plates everything, one has to wonder what kind of catering this women did before getting her own show. "So you need me to serve 50 people at your house on a Saturday in May?  Okay, I'll need to begin setting up in February."

3) I love me some Paula Deen...but I mean, come on.  I watched her make grits and I was intersted in how a top Southern chef cooks such a staple dish and makes them delicious.  Here's how Paula does it.  A block of velveeta.  A stick of butter.  Okay, there's no skill there.  There just isn't.  (Sorry, I still love you Paula).

4) There's a Chinese woman on the Cooking Channel who has created a show that has her repeatedly preparing exactly the same meal. She runs around England talking to fish-mongers and poultry processors, etc.  And then, in a very academic tone, shows us that by mixing any and every protein in a hot wok with some vegetables and soy sauce, you can create a dish.  Clearly, she made it to her first day at culinary school, learned this one technique, and applied it to literally every edible item in Britain.

5)  Okay, I hate to do this one too, but Debi Mazar? Now, I love her, okay?  She's hot and tough and a talented actress and knows it.  She was awesome even in her bit part in Goodfellas as Ray Liotta's second whore in command who mixed all the cocaine in her apartment. So good as the publicist in Entourage, etc. But she ups and marries some cute guy from Italy and suddenly they have a cooking show called - get this - Extra Virgin (it's a clever title named after oil and someone REALLY committed to never bumpin' uglies).  The program basically shows her adorable husband and her traipsing around various Italy and LA-based locations cooking dishes you could never have conjured up on your own (Boil store-bought spaghetti.  Sautee garlic and tomatoes for sauce.  Serve).  My funfetti-obsessed, 14 year-old cousin could impart more culinary wisdom.

There are plenty others.  Nigella Lawson uses adjectives more liberally than bacon...and with decidedly less skill.  "Now use your glorious spatula and pick up the slutty achnovies and enrapture yourself in the glorious sunshiney orbs of egg yolks..." Give me a break.  Two Fat Ladies seem to develop dishes on the spot - pretending that the recipes they are cooking have more forethought than grabbing whatever is nearby - which is clearly what they are doing.  "Then throw some...what is that...tarragon!  Yes, tarragon!  Throw some tarragon onto your chocolate torte and, ummm, bake it.  Americans are unbearable!  Haha!  Cheerio!"  (They consistently utter the most offensive things about Americans).

Top Chef is in a league of its own...

The Vanity of Political Identity

I always say I have unpopular political beliefs, but I really don't believe that.  I think most people agree with what I say.  They're just not used to identifying as anything other than a liberal and when someone starts making sense with an argument they're programmed to deflect, they react very negatively.

For shame.  Principle, not partisanship, should dictate our political beliefs.  Identifying with a political group should never be more important than objectively assessing a situtation and applying principles of right and wrong.  For many, many people, being known as a liberal is more important to them than fighting for what's right - regardless of what label might be thrust upon them.  This is beyond grotesque.

I don't care what anyone labels me.  I call it like I see it.  Period.

Alexis Bellino vs. Gloria Steinem

Hold up ladies.  You know how you're getting high-level degrees?  Becoming masters of business?  Doctors?  Mothers who rule the roost?  Alexis Bellino says stop it now.  Bind those feet.  Speak when spoken to.  Stop doing man's stuff like thinking and voting.  Get in the kitchen and shut your mouth gurl! 

There is simply no woman on tv these days who is more dangerous to the cause of female empowerment than Alexis Bellino (Real Housewives of Orange County).  For those of you duped by the idea that women deserve equal opportunity to fulfill their lives as they see fit, Alexis knows that a good Christian woman should quiet down when God (her husband) speaks.  You should better yourself - not by getting a job and demanding repsect - but by pumping up those fun bag scoops of milk-capacitating flesh (tits) just a wee bit more.  You should exert your independence...by literally having a melt-down within one hour of being separated from the Lord (your husband).  And if you get out of line, his Holiness (your husband) will striketh upon thee and get you backeth in lineth.  That's scripture ladies and gentlemen.

Lets you think I'm exaggerating...here's a pearl of wisdom Alexis recently treated us to:

"When I get out of line, Jim has to put me back in line" - or something to that affect. 

Hear that Gloria Steinem? Christina Hoff Sommers?  Jane Goodall?  Quit that job and get thee to a plastic surgeon! Time for breast augmentation.

Alexis Bellino - and her unbearably obnoxious and misogynist husband - are a disgrace. 

Knots and Snobs

A long running battle between me and virtually every gay friend of mine is my (minor) obession with cruise ships.  It's been years since I've been on one, but growing up my family had gone on a few and I even joined roughly 40 of my college friends on a carribean cruise for spring break more years back than I care to mention.  They were always a lot of fun...the ships are incredible, and while the destinations are great, it was always the days at sea that were the most fun.  I met fun people, got drunk, gambled, etc...and it was a blast. 

My gay friends, however, have routinely turned their collective nose up on even the notion of a cruise, incorrectly insisiting that these ships are basically floating buffets, populated by bloated Americans with no class and terrible entertainment.  A few points to be made to my light-in-their loafers gay circle:

- I realize that getting face-plantedly drunk is far classier when it's done in, say, Ibiza, rather than a Royal Carribean cruise ship, but neither experience will be taught in Victorian etiquette class.

- The newest ships are simply spectacular...with amazing choices for dining, restaurants, entertainment, etc.  The newest ones cost in the neighborhood of $1 billion to build.  It not exactly the Days Inn with a rudder.

- There is one exception to my gay friends take on cruises...gay cruises...which combine the relaxation of a heart-pounding all-nighter rave with the class of a week-long back alley orgy.  (I might go next year)

- One of my close gay friends thinks cruises are gross.  Fine.  Also gross - that same gay friend's hair sticking to his face while he dances alone in the corner of a party too drunk to even speak.  If that's how he defines sophistication, I am sure we can find a corner of a cruise ship where he can class up the joint by barfing into his mane all by his lonesome.

- Let's just get it out on the table...my friends think it's just a bunch of middle class (the horror!) families with feedbags attached to their faces listening to light FM bands while watching some cut-rate magician make his dignity disappear.  NOT AT ALL.

Let's all give it a chance. I am booking a cruise for me an 10 of my closest gay friends in January 2012...when we will all need a break from the horrible weather.  Get your fanny packs, gurls, we're hitting the high seas.

Bin Laden Bin Laid to Rest

I am not ashamed to say that there are some deaths that I can celebrate.  I felt that way about Pinochet, about Hussein, and now about Bin Laden.  The world is far better off to have these mass murderous sons of bitches underground.  If one cares at all about the sanctity of life, than the death of Bin Laden should be considered something to infinitely celebrate.  Funny how that works out - but true nonetheless.

I am proud of President Obama, but mostly I am proud of our military and counter-terrorism people who most likely are the real heroes here.  They likely figured all this out and just needed Obama to sign off on it.  And he did - which is hugely to his credit and, though I have my issues with this President, I can give credit where credit is due.
We all know this is isn't the end of anything, but a huge step forward.  It's a little tiny sliver of salvation for the many thousands of people who lost a loved one on 9/11.  It's validation for our War on Terror.  It's hope that we can defeat a network of terrorists who keep trying to kill innocent people because they are "infidels."

I delight in Bin Laden's death.  It's a blessing. 

Royal (Pain in the Ass) Wedding

So a girl nobody ever heard of is marrying the heir to a do-nothing throne who has never accomplished anything in his life but be born into "royalty" - whatever that means.  Hold me back from fawning all over this.

Florida is More Than Palm Trees and Sunshine

...it's also the land of white trash, gators and massive snakes.  You didn't see that in the brochures, did you?

This thought occurred to me the last few days as I finished up coordinating my trip to Boca next month.  People don't like to talk about the fact that Florida is the white-trashiest state in the country.  "Mommy, why is that man walking in his underwear and a Bud Light tank top and strolling his baby on the side of the highway at 2:00 a.m.?"  Because he's pure Floridian white trash dear child.

And when I mention Gators - I am more intrigued by the state's obsession with that horrible animal than the actual animal itself.  Make no mistake about it...everything is named Gator in Florida.  What creativity!  Gator landscapers. Gator Accountants.  Gator Florists.  Gator Retirement Home.  What fun too!  I mean, a flesh-eating predator with absolutely no intelligence or restraint is within chomping distance of your front door! Let's honor it by naming everything after it.

But Florida upped the ante.  Its residents decided to pick up where nature left off and imported another wonderful animal - the fucking Burmese Python - as pets.  Nothing like an ugly, no fun, can'd-do-anything-but-kill-you snake in a cage to liven any household.  And it's almost as dumb as the imbecile who decided a 2-month old baby needs a stroll in 94 degree weather in the middle of the night mere inches from 80 mph drunk traffic.  

You know what happens to a baby Burmese Python?  It eventually gets big and huge and even the drunkest, white-trashiest, most brain-dead resident of Gator Trailer Park gets scared of it and dumps it in the Everglades, where Mother Nature was already kind enough to drop off the celebrated Gator.  Now those two predators are duking it out in the fetid swamps of southern Florida.  I can assure you the concierge at the Ritz Carlton won't let you in on this exclusively Floridian attraction

A few years ago, a picture not sent by any resort or tourism board was forwarded to me of a Python that literally burst in half as it tried to unhinge itself enough to digest an entire alligator.  It's difficult to figure out which one is dumber...the alligator that couldn't figure out that simply taking a bite of any part of that 25 foot python would win him the fight (and save his life) or the Python that decided to attempt to ingest an ENTIRE ALLIGATOR. 

Perhaps the dumbest of all are the Sunshine State residents who PURCHASE and feed and nurture a fearless killer like the Burmese Python and/or celebrate alligators by naming everything they do after them. 

That said, Boca Raton is helpfully free of gators, pythons and white trash.  Looking forward to my trip there next month.

Brandon Davis Actually is Of Absolutely No Consequence

This guy literally comes up with new ways to be an absolute piece of garbage.

http://wonderwall.msn.com/tv/socialite-brandon-davis-busted-after-hollywood-altercation-1616263.story

Darling of the British Left Praises Assad

George Galloway, darling of the British Left, never disappoints.  There's not a murderous piece of shit he won't praise.  Not a violent thug he won't position as a freedom fighter.  Not when there's Israel, the US and Britain to blame.

Here is not so long ago praising Assad, that wonderful democratic leader of Syria, that bastion of freedom and democracy.  I wonder how Galloway explains away what's going on now in Syria (I am betting it's all Israel's fault somehow):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3orFvKvTS3Y

Counter-Birther Delay

I frankly think this birther nonsense is just that...nonsense.  But, depsite the shit I'll get for saying anything else about the topic, why on Earth did it take Obama so long to produce the damn thing?  I agree with him that this is silly and there are more important things to do...but that only doubles up my earlier question...why did he wait all this time to just show the thing already?

Neither Thrifty Nor Swift: Theresa Giudice is A Moron

Saw an ad for the new season of Real Housewives of New Jersey.  Can't wait, obviously.

I am reminded of Theresa Giudice's appearance on The View, when she, while in the middle of a discussion about her $11 million of debt, had the sheer balls to say, "I never spend beyond my means." 

Come now.

The Trump Dump

Boobs, brass, brazen displays of arrogance and materialism....Trump is going to run for President!  Great!  Hey...there must be an Internet Entrepreneur who stumbled across an idea of creating an online forum for used washer/dryer parts and made $200 million...maybe he can be Secretary of State!  And all of us know a trust fund baby or two...they can run for VP!  This is fun. 

Check your wallets ladies and gentlemen...because apparently the size of it will determine your efficacy as a serious candidate for an immensely important and powerful position in government!

For the record, Trump is NOT a rags-to-riches story.  His father was an immensely wealthy real estate mogul.  But Trump sells himself as somebody who had the guts and intelligence to make his mark in the world.  Plenty of his ventures were complete and total failures...but he had family money to fall back on and leverage to keep throwing spit balls on the blackboard until something turned a profit.

Chris Rock recently stated, "I won't vote for him. He'll leave us for a younger, prettier country."  The fact that even makes sense should tell you all you need to know about President Trump. 

Wait 'till he gets his hands on the White House and begins redecorating.

Here Goes Nothing

This is all your fault.  You listened to my rantings on Facebook.  You responded to them.  You "liked" them.  You suggested I start a blog.  It's out of my control.

But, now that I'm here, I might as well embrace it.  Topics to be covered:  Reality TV (obvi).  Politics here and there - including my often unpopular positions on current events/news.  Life observations.  Whatever floats my boat...I hope it floats yours too.

So let's jump right in and get into the Ina Garten ("Barefoot Contessa") mess that recently unfolded.  The truth, it's most likely not her fault that a young boy was denied his wish to cook with her.  It probably was never even made aware to her...a publicist probablye exhibited extremely poor judgment and she beared the brunt. Not fair.  However, there are other reasons to not like Barefoot Contessa (heretofore, Barefoot Contessa will be used to reference her persona on the show, Ina Garten will be used to reference the real person in real life).  Here they are in no particular order:

1)  "Just make it casual".  Ina says this nonstop - but she needs to check a dictionary.  Nowhere does it say that cooking all day and night, putting together flowers and table-settings, serving hors d'eourves, etc...is "casual."  She doesn't understand the word.

2)  She blows smoke up her own ass.  "Isn't this delicious!"  Well, you made it!

3)  She has the most forced laugh of all time.  "Dan loves olives!!  hahahaha!!!!  It's hysterical!!  I am trying to make everything seem more funny and interesting than it is so you can admire my life!"

4)  "Don't have any fun until I get back."  She seems to think this is just brilliantly funny, since she says it EVERY SINGLE TIME she has someone ever.  Which goes back to number one.  If it's such a "casual" meal, why does she have to go back to the kitchen every three minutes to roast, saute, carve or plate something?

5)  She once said this, and I'm not kidding:  "When you have people over, put some chocolates on the bed.  It's really important."  Not, "it's really nice" or "cute" but it's important.  Important how?  Let's say for instance you''re not a Hamptons housewife with endless time and money to gallavant around town all day picking up important chocolates for your guests.  Let's go back to number one:  casual.  How casual a life is it when you are down to having to get expensive chocolates to put on the bed in your guest room?  Is there turn-down service too?

6)  Her camera man seems to always make sure he gets a view out of her car from the passenger seat that shows the Mercedes symbol at the end of the hood.  We get it...sista has some serious cash.  The mansion in the Hamptons tipped us off - and the fact that the olive oil she uses with reckless abandon is over $20 a bottle.  Stop shoving her money in our faces.

7)  You know who I like?  Jeffrey.  You know what i don't like?  Ina's greasy hands all over him the minute he walks into a room and her complete and total invasion of his personal space.  Wonder why he's not around more than two days a week?  I don't.

8)  My friend is stopping by to use the bathroom!  It's a "Party!"...let me make one of my infamous, CASUAL, three-course lunches!

9)  Paula Deen gets all the heat for cooking with a lot of fat, but Ina might actually be worse.  I watched her make pecan bars with, are you ready for this, NINE sticks of butter in it - 5 for the filling, 4 for the shortbread crust.  She tries to sidestep this by saying things like, "It makes a lot of pecan bars."  Bullshit.  NO amount of mercedes cars and fancy Hamptons houses can hide the fact that you're running a grease pit.  

10)  Whenever she is serving food, she starts talking in this hushed, high-pitched tone and her voice runs out.  "Steve, would you like some roasted brussel sprouts?" ...and her voice sort of pitches upward at the end.  It's annoying.  If she wasn't so concerned with setting a scene, she wouldn't talk like that.  But there's nothing genuine in the world of Barefoot Contessa.. It's all fake parties, fake friends, fake "casual", etc. 

Don't have any fun till she gets back indeed.