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Showing posts from February, 2007

Because I Care

This just in from dooce.com:

"Many of you have written to ask what I think about what is going on with Britney Spears, and I have to say that some of the emails have been a bit nicer to her than others. Normally I would try to find some bit of humor in what seems to be happening, but I just don’t find any of it funny at all. It’s just not something I am willing to laugh or poke fun at. I certainly don’t have any first-hand knowledge of what she’s feeling, but if I were to make a guess I would say that she’s suffering postpartum depression, or at least some sort of postpartum breakdown.

I realize that my guess is just as uninformed as most of the bullshit that has been published about her, about any celebrity for that matter, and it could be that she just likes to party, but a lot of the behavior she has exhibited in the last few months reminds me of what I experienced after the birth of Leta. I felt as unstable as she is now acting.

I think she parties to self-medicate.

I am surprise…

Ladyshave

Friends and co-workers have been approaching me, asking me what to make of the most infamous head shaving of the new millennium.

At first, I didn't believe it had happened, my jaw didn't drop right away. I received a text on Saturday from a friend who received the news from a friend who was at the Mondrian on Sunset and witnessed a silver-wig-wearing Britney get humiliated in front of the staff of the posh hotel. Apparently, while donning a bathing suit that did nothing to flatter her muffin-top-in-the-making, she wanted to book a room using a credit card number she had scribbled down on a napkin. The front desk wouldn't have any of it, and Miss Spears proceeded to break out in tears. Making matters worse, and prompting her to get even more upset, passers-by started to laugh at her.

Later that night, in between rum and Cokes at Molly's going-away soiree in Hancock Park, I hopscotched my way through conversations regarding the recent shenanigans our gal Brit had gotten h…

Romancing the Chocolate

It's not that I don't like V-Day.

I am not opposed to heart-shaped velvet containers filled with dark truffles and caramel goodness. I am not against a beautiful dinner accompanied by a bottle of fine merlot. Heck, sell me a pink shirt at any given retailer, and I'll wear it with pride (hopefully it complements one of my dashing pin-striped blazers).

But just like Christmas forces people to be considerate and giving for a few days out of the year, Valentine's Day forces people to mimic, for one night at least, the rituals of a poorly written romantic comedy or reenact scenarios found in the ruffled pages of a Harlequin novel.

And that is what makes me grimace - the fact that millions of dollars go into creating superromances for one day when every day should be just as special.

I'm no Bitter Barney. Even though Cupid and I have yet to be on the same wavelength, I don't spit on couples who hold hands on the sidewalk or sip soda through straws from the same glass…

Where It All Began

During my junior high days at New Rochelle Catholic Elementary, I was on the writing staff of The Cardinal Chronicle, the school's pathetically assembled newspaper. And by "pathetically assembled," I mean the school's typewritten-cum-handwritten-and-stapled-together-on-legal-sized-paper newspaper.

Our faculty moderator was the chain-smoking, REM-loving Mrs. Baron, a 60s love child with teeth so yellow (get out the Snaps book), she could spit out butter. She took on the double duty of being the school's librarian and art teacher. By morning, she guided us through that darn Dewey Decimal System, and by afternoon, she showed us how to make a mean tie-dyed T-shirt.

During afterschool meetings on Mondays, we discussed what would be featured in the upcoming issue, assigning stories to those who were lucky enough to huddle in our small library and discuss the finer sides of unreleased Ace of Base tracks and the daring trends set by Kriss Kross. Fashion updates (baggy je…