I just came back from the gated community’s 4th of July parade.
Highlights include being blasted with a super soaker by a spoiled little kid on a corporate sponsored float full of the waving wives of bankers. Such ironies are encouraged today, as are farty renditions of John Philip Sousa marches off the back of a flatbed truck by a sweaty brass quintet too fat and tired to actually march.
As if on cue, the end of the parade was signaled when a police officer’s horse took a giant shit on the street so close to me that I could feel the steam rising off of it. I wanted nothing more than to walk over and plant my little American-flag-on-a-stick squarely into the center of that pile.
Out of respect for my mother, I took a deep breath and resisted my natural instinct to be a cynical asshole.
So, the African hotel maid who was sexually assaulted by the former head of the International Monetary Fund turned out not to be the blessed virgin Mary, and so now they’re gonna drop all the charges so he can go run for the presidency of France. Of course, this was to be expected.
Wealthy men have been raping the help since time immemorial. Hell, our founding fathers did it, and for Dominique Strauss-Kahn, it’s practically a resume builder that he forced a women to blow him in a luxury hotel. The French love that shit. He’s like a Dick Cheney who can still get it up.
For those of you who’ve followed this case and are now concerned with all the unflattering details that are being leaked about the victim, please don’t act surprised. This is how it’s done. Rich creepy fuckers like DSK have access to the best character assassins in the world, and trust me, they get away with shit that would make Charlie Sheen blush.
It’s easy to make fun of an American sensibility that creates bimbo presidential candidates like Sarah Palin, but it’s a much more insidious mindset that allows rapists like this any chance at being a head of state.
I finally saw Midnight in Paris. What a scrumptious treat! It’s a profiterole in movie form, a fluffy little puff pastry filled with magical realism and drizzled with inside jokes for lit and art history majors.
Owen Wilson plays a Hollywood screenwriter who at one point hops into a time-travelling Peugeot with T.S. Elliot and says, “Where I come from, we measure our lives with coke spoons.”
I mean, come on. How am I not supposed to fall madly in love with this movie?
Now I wanna go back to Paris, this time for at least a month. I’m looking up apartments in the 6th and 7th arrondissements at this very moment. It’s total vacation porn.
I’m thinking this little gem could be the perfect place to invite a young Hemingway up for a late night balcony fuck session. Afterwards, we’ll talk shit about Zelda Fitzgerald and drink champagne straight from the bottle.
For those of you waiting in line for a spectator seat in the courtroom of the Casey Anthony trial as if it were the studio audience of a fucking reality TV show, please know that you are an outbreak of herpes on the cunt lip of our celebrity obsessed culture, and you represent the very worst of what it means to be an ugly American. Don’t for one second think I’m kidding when I suggest that each and every one of you should do the rest of humanity a favor and kill yourself.
“I see where you’re going with the lyrics, but you gotta add more mystery. Leave in the stuff about how she thinks her kid is your son, but don’t give away so many details about this Suzie Jean chick. Oh, and if you really wanna fuck with people, you should totally make it a dude’s name. You know, like Frankie or Charlie or something like that. I know it sounds crazy, but this is strong advice. You want people to always think twice.”
“When a girl CAN wear a bathing suit like this, it’s her DUTY to do so? Come on, now. I’m sure you’ve gotten a pretty large response from the Tumblr feminists for that one, but even I’m surprised at you. Since when is it a woman’s duty to wear anything she doesn’t want to?”
The line is an intertitle card from Cecil B DeMille’s 1920 silent comedy, Why Change Your Wife? The photograph is a Venice Beach fashion shot from the Roxy High Summer 2010 Collection. The combination of the two images is obviously a juxtaposition open to interpretation.
Perhaps it’s a commentary on a century’s worth of prescriptive modesty standards that anyone with half a brain and a sense of humor should be able to smirk at. Then again, perhaps I was just poking a stick at those who seriously consider themselves “Tumblr feminists.” Who knows? I’m a fuckin’ mystery.
Either way, I hope your question is rhetorical, because you really don’t want me to start listing the many ways it has always been and continues to be a woman’s duty to wear shit she doesn’t want to.
Lots of buzzwords and stale coffee. Some eager beaver will volunteer to take minutes and then send around an action item memo. The term “synergy” will be used without irony, and no fewer than three people will ask if I want Quiznos for lunch.
The good news is I’ve got a half bar of xanax coursing through my veins, and I’m not wearing any underwear.
“In an effort to try and accommodate everyone who wants to experience the festival, Coachella 2012 will be two separate events, held over two consecutive weekends. We will attempt to produce two identical festival weekends. That means same lineup, same art, same place, different people.”
I’m a little bit excited, a little bit annoyed, and yet I know when we get down to it, this is just gonna divide everyone’s attention, and it won’t live up to anyone’s expectations.