PEDAL-PUSHERS

May 13th, 2012

 

DEAR BIKERRISTS,

 

     I am not a fan of words made up by parts of other words.  But there’s never been a better compound creation than “bikerrist,”  – an ingenious blend of biker and terrorist, which is what most of you who ride your bikes in the borough of Manhattan are.   “I’m not a bike terrorist,” you’re thinking.  Yes you are. But it’s human nature to believe that people are always referring to someone else, unless of course, it’s a good deed, in which case, most of you will gladly take credit, federal funding  and/or a Nobel prize.  You don’t think you’re doing anything objectionable because you’re too busy thinking about how “green” you are and how you are going to save the environment. 

Here’s the skinny – you,like 99.99% of the population, will marry or not, mate or not, be employed, be unemployed, love or hate Disney World, be gluten-free or gluten-full and, ultimately, you will die.  You will not save one whale, let alone the entire environment so the self-absorption is not only inexplicable but dangerous.   There is, however, an excellent chance you will kill me.  With your bicycle.

      “Not me,” you protest. “It’s those other bike riders,” I’m a responsible cyclist.”  No you’re not.   Sorry.  How you have somehow managed to confuse “right to ride my bike in designated bike lanes while obeying same traffic laws other moving vehicles must, including stopping at red lights” with “do-the-fuck-whatever-I-want-to-fuck-you-you-fucking-pedestrian-and-besides- you’re-fat-and-wearing-Sofia-Veragas-for-K-Mart-Capris” continues to allude me.  But I am nothing if not a realist. 

 

     The recent announcement of New York City’s Bike-Share program, threatening to put another 10,000 bikes on the streets of this city has me more frightened than the steerage passengers on the Titanic. And so I give up. That’s right.  I surrender like the French in WWII, only with more dignity and, having at least put up a fight.

Your “collaborators” in this case are our Napoleonic-complexed Mayor Mike Bloomberg, and his aide de camp, New York City’s Department of Transportation boss, Janette Sadik-Khan.  

Janette Sadik-Khan,

First, we all know it was probably “Janet,” but she needed it to sound fancier, just like she needed a hyphenated last name. I’m guessing she could have been the ugly dorky kid in middle school who grows up to have some power and yet does not retaliate against those who terrorized her, but instead terrorizes me.  Perhaps this theory is faulty.  Maybe it’s just that, like most human beings with any power, the first question that pops into their heads is, “What do I like and I don’t care who else likes it – too fucking bad.”  It could be, and probably is, just that simple.    So Mayor “I-know best-not-really-but-I’m-a-short-man-so-it-feels-so-good-to-give-irrational-orders” Bloomberg gave this scarecrow-like, Anna Wintour-bangs woman carte blanche to turn New York City into the Tour de France.  If I were a cup half-full kind of gal, I’d be happy she doesn’t like to ride a Panzer tank.

But, as a cup half-empty lifer I can’t come up with a reasonable answer as to why I can’t walk down a sidewalk in New York City without feeling like sooner or later, I will end up like Wile E Coyote after opening a package from the Acme Corporation.  Even if I am walking on an empty street, it’s just a matter of time before, from behind me, some Schwinn fixed-gear or sleek Bianchi 12-speed making no noise (because pavement + Maxxis Ikon bicycle tires = silence), I will get hit in the shin, the back, the arm by some fascistic, self-righteous bike rider.  I fear that Bloomberg will find some elf-protected class loophole and take a fourth term and they’ll be painting bike lanes throughout my apartment.  But then I realize that doesn’t matter because… Bike riders don’t ride in bike lanes.

12_1_09_ladot.jpg


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, though this plea will probably be as successful as Cop Rock, I appeal to you cyclists. I know you grew up watching “Sesame Street.”  There must have been an episode explaining that “red” means stop and “green” means go.  Or maybe you played “Red Light, Green Light.”  Or taken the road test for your driver’s license.  You can’t fool me.  You know you’re supposed to stop at red lights.  You know you’re not supposed to weave in and out of moving traffic.  That one I don’t mind because in a battle between you, a NY sanitation truck and any yellow cab, you lose.

And yet you still do as you like.  And not with that, “Gosh – I know I’m doing something wrong but maybe no one will notice” look on your face.  You do it with pride and with the misconception that the First Amendment extends to your right to slalom between pedestrians on the sidewalk. And when you’re called on it, you attempt to intimidate, either verbally, by flipping me the bird in your very stylish Artful Dodger fingerless gloves, or by menacingly circling around me until you figure out there’s only so much circling you can do before I laugh at you. And here’s the other problem – it’s awfully hard, unless there’s an AK-47 tucked into them, to intimidate anyone when you’re wearing Spandex bike pants. While you’re cursing me out for having the audacity to tell you to ride in the freaking bike lanes that have overtaken the city like mold, I’m thinking, “Your cycling shoes, even without the curled-up toe, look like court jester slippers.”

Sadly, summer’s upon us, which means you’ll be out like mosquitoes over a stagnant pond for a few months. If this letter does nothing more than drive the point home that you are hated by more people than you can fit into a Park Slope food co-op, then I will have done my job. And if it doesn’t – well, you’re still the schmuck in the bike unitard and red, white and blue Giro helmet which will, contrary to popular belief, not save your life, but serve as a nifty brain-container until they get you to the morgue. Ride safely!

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COULD YOU SAY THAT AGAIN (NOT)?

April 22nd, 2012

Given a choice, other than “Pardon me,” “Skim latte, double shot of espresso,” or “That’s my foot you’re stepping on,” I try to not engage in conversation with most people.  But occasionally, it’s unavoidable.  So, I try to stay awake and pretend that you have something interesting to say.  I make shopping lists in my head, wonder why you’re wearing what you’re wearing in public, picture myself walking through Paris’s Pere La Chaise cemetery, looking at dead bodies instead of being bored to death listening to you.    There are ways you can make the experience less painful for me, though I’m sure my comfort is not quite a priority for you.  But just in case, here are some of the words and phrases you can use to make it more pleasant for everyone.  Or me.  Just me.

open book ImageWe’re on the same page – Sorry.  No we’re not.  You’re on your IPad, crashing into me on 8th Street, I’m walking, eyes straight ahead, looking out for the likes of self-absorbed you.  I would never have the balls to crash into someone because I was so busy texting my boyfriend, “I’m on 8 St – Luv u2!,” and then shoot eye-daggers  because I didn’t see where I was going and walked into you.  But if I did,  my immediate  inclination would be to apologize.  But then again my inclination would not be to read “Twilight: Breaking Dawn,” as I strolled down Broadway.  Thank god for sidewalk skateboarders, bike riders and Razor scooterers – here they come at 30mph, right at you. But you won’t move and now you know what page you’re on? Page 1 of the New York Post as the headline, “Stupid  girl smashed into Halel Falafel truck as she searches for “Cheapest Knee Socks in NY” app!”

 

 

“Friend” as a verb –Pretty much, because, it’s a noun — either a common noun, as in, “You are my friend,” or, as a proper noun, plural, as in the name of a very annoying 90s sit-com.  Don’t tell me that you’ll “friend” me because it’s as grammatically correct as telling me that you’ll “refrigerator” me.

 

“I really love the place, but I need an outdoor space.”  You do? Really?  May I suggest some outdoor spaces for you?  The corner of 33rd Street and 3rd Avenue.  Central Park.  Union Square.  Brighton Beach.  The Long Island Expressway.  Stop referring to your apartment as “my space,” and your need for a place to park the car you shouldn’t have if you live in the borough of Manhattan unless you can also afford the $800 a month to indoor-garage it, as an “outdoor space.”  First, it’s called a parking spot, not an “outdoor space.”  Next, don’t use the words “need” and “outdoor space” in the same sentence unless you are a heart surgeon who has six minutes to make it from the street to the O.R. to save someone’s life.  It’s like “needing” a pastrami sandwich on rye, no caraway seeds with that dark German mustard and a Dr. Brown’s Cherry soda.  You’ll live.

 

Post-apocalyptic/Dystopian –   – I lived a good many years without ever hearing either of these terms used by anyone other than sci-fi geeks when referencing works by George Orwell and Aldous Huxley.   Now you’re saying them.  A lot. Why?   Does it make you feel relevant?  Hip?  Hipster?  Do you even know what either of these terms mean?  Would you get the correct answer on the SATs without a Kaplan course?  You seem to say post-apocalyptic and/or Dystopian a lot. Why? We don’t think you’re smart when you use them.  We think you’re boring.  We think you also can name, by number and edition every issue of every Judge Dredd comic book. We think you orgasm to the words “Soylent Green,” and we think that you can’t think of any other adjective to describe a film or a book or a fashion. “Post-apocalyptic/Dystopian” is so much easier to say than, “a movie where lots of shit gets blown up or was blown up and it’s really kind of grey and dirty and everyone’s hungry or clones or some shit.”

Preview

 

Gleek – Absolutely no explanation necessary.  Synonym for “schmuck.”  Except “schmuck” is less of an insult.

 

 

Conflict free/ fair trade – Until the film, “Blood Diamond,” I never heard either of these expressions.   Then, suddenly,  guilt-ridden white women and their newly-affianced went out of their way, while showing off their Tiffany or Cartier or Harry Winston mega-karat rings mined in towns in South Africa where the percentage of people living below the poverty line is as high as 77%, earning less in a year than this couple pays for a month’s worth of Chai teas, “it’s a conflict-free” diamond.   “This diamond didn’t come from a batch that were used to wage war on some country I never heard of and can’t spell or locate on a map.” Here’s my theory — many years ago, several Yuppies sitting around the Sundance Catalogue Think Tank tried to figure out a way to continue to conspicuously consume and yet at the same time alleviate the tiny amount of guilt they might have and came up with this doozy:  “we’ll reject some – just some –of those luxury goods we could certainly live without and yet keep those goodies that set us apart from the common folk by mere virtue of the fact that we can afford it.  And we’ll make sure to use the term ’fair trade’, because – well –  fair is just such a nice word and people will think we’re good because we’re fair!”  And then they spread it like the Ebola virus, with fair trade cotton and fair trade chocolate and fair trade coffee and here’s the thing of it – I have the funniest feeling that if some guy gave you a diamond engagement ring the size of your fist – this one, for example –

harry-winston-engagement-rings

 

and, if you found out that, in order for you to have this diamond, civil war was waged between two small African countries you never heard of, can’t pronounce or locate on a map, or that  a  family of South African orphans who hadn’t eaten for six months, whose hands and feet had blisters bigger than these diamonds, whose parents were buried alive in the mines looking for the perfect diamond for you, the first words out of your mouth would probably be, “Can you see all the colors of the rainbow reflected in each facet?”

 

 

It could be worse –  Really?  That’s so soothing and nothing I’ve ever considered before.  Wait.  Yes I have.  Well –  I’m not the Trump baby or Prince William or  a Pitt/Jolie adoptee so– I know “it could be worse.”  Why would I need you to tell me this? Better yet, what motivates you to tell me this?  Do you think it makes me feel better?  You mean I could break my leg, lose my job, be broke, pay $3,000 for an apartment the size of a pantry AND then have a malignant tumor?  Gee – thanks.  I feel so much better now.

 

 

My bad –I know what you’re thinking — no one uses “my bad” anymore.  You bad – yes they do.  In fact, many people use it the way it was supposed to be used and when you give them that, “This isn’t 2003 anymore” eye-roll, they say they’re using it ironically, as opposed to grammatically correctly, which even they know is a ridiculous claim.  “My bad” is the non-thinking man’s way to say, “It’s my fault,” which has only one more syllable and is the equivalent of saying,  “I really wasn’t thinking about you or being considerate of anyone else and you caught me – ooops.”

 

 

Fan fiction –  Why?  And the point is….?  Do you think that, just because Jane Austen is dead and her work is in the public domain,  you should be fucking with Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy?  Maybe, just maybe she ended the novel at the END?????  Just because there’s a “Land Before Time 87,” and everything you’ve seen and read in the past 20 years is a prequel or a sequel or part of a series doesn’t give you the right to turn perfectly good, sometimes brilliant fiction into crap, to prove to lots of other bored people online that you’re a “writer.”  Because, no you’re not.  You write“fan fiction,” which has less street cred than a garage band that never leaves the garage.

 

 

Ridonkulous – Three-way tie, with “adorkable,” and “chillax” as the most irritating faux-word that could come out of your mouth.  Stop trying to make yourself sound uber-cool or uber-witty or uber-young by sewing together the equivalent of word-remnants.  Say what you mean and mean what you say and stop using words like they came off of some a la carte menu.  Comprestand me?

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I’LL TAKE MANHATTAN — STARTING WITH ZUCOTTI PARK…

March 25th, 2012

DEAR ZUCOTTI PARK PROTESTERS:

Okay.  First things first.  Whether or not I agree with you, I will always defend your right to free speech and free assembly though, I get the feeling that if you don’t agree with me, you’ll bring me to the Tower Hill in London.  Just a vibe.  Anyway, prior to your little hijinks many months ago, I’d never heard of Zucotti Park.  Then I saw a photo of it. Really?   Okay. You want to call it a park, call it a park.  It’s like calling pineapple in its own juice a dessert…  I’ve had enough time to digest what I think went on there and yet I have some questions and some observations.  Who doesn’t?

Tourists flocked to Zuccotti Park in Lower Manhattan where members of Occupy Wall Street have been protesting for the last two weeks.

 

*     Why are you back?  Because we really didn’t have a winter?   Because “The Artist” won “Best Picture”?   Because you can’t afford a jitney to Occupy the Hamptons?

 

*     Today I saw a petite Asian woman wearing what looked like a $1200 Yohji Yamamoto designer blazer, Maramoto jeans and Christian Laboutins, sprawled out by the Black Cube sculpture at Astor Place, finishing up a sign that said, “OCCUPY EVERYTHING.”  I’m sorry.  You can’t occupy everything.  Most of you have a problem occupying a comb or a toothbrush.  I know that we Baby Boomers raised a generation of people who feel entitled to any and everything they want, and not getting everything makes you very, very angry.  But if you or your parents took out loans to pay for your $50,000-a-year Ivy League degree in Renaissance Studies, please don’t blame those big bad bankers and guys who work in Mergers and Acquisitions for the fact that you can’t find a job to pay back your loans.  Michelangelo laughs at you.

 

*     Who dresses you?  I’m sorry but, given a choice between the investment banker in the Hart, Schappner and Marx suit or you in the busted-up twin sleeping bag, the 1%er wins every time.

 

*     This is going to be more difficult to swallow than the New Zealand wines donated to you, but the 1%ers are never going to share with you. Never.  I’d call Queen Elizabeth a sort of British 1%er  — do you think she’s going to call someone in Brixton and say, “Pardon but my diamond-encrusted scepter would look absolutely brilliant with those rags you’re wearing.”?     Keep dreaming, keep your ideals whole, but please – allow me to burst your bubble.  The reasons the 1%ers are never going to share with you are as follows:

1) They earned it

2) They stole it

3) They inherited it

4) They want what they have and this isn’t pre-k – they don’t HAVE to share.

 

*    Um….. some marble slab benches surrounded by some sorry looking trees isn’t a park.  I think that was the biggest problem I had with your shenanigans.  At best you were not in Zucotti Park but more like a sort-of-plaza.  Setting up tents and peeing where you feel like doesn’t turn an outside space into a park.  Call me when you get the bike trails and carousel and Bethesda Fountain – okay?

Zuccotti Park in Manhattan

*    The amount of courage you showed by banding together and keeping those $30,000-a-year administrative assistants from entering their office buildings to earn a modest living is truly staggering.  The woman in the Easy Pickins’ polyester suit is one of your 99%, the part of the 99% who has to work for a living and I’m sure she really appreciated standing around in her Payless pumps for two hours while you blocked her from her cubicle and coffee break.  She is definitely going to be part of the 44-½ % that is going to kick your skinny-jeans-sad-looking-hoodie asses after she fumigates you.

 

*     You guys certainly are certainly unshakable, intractable, steadfast in your beliefs. It was just that one woman who went from your side to accepting a bank job faster than an Ethiopian marathon runner over a hot bed of coals while being chased by a pack of hyenas. Right?

NICE JOB! Tracy Postert went from Zuccotti Park to Wall Street, where she was hired by Thomas Belesis and Wayne Kaufman.

 

 

*      Your bravery was surpassed only by your vigilance in keeping those disgustoid-filthy homeless people away from the gourmet food being prepared for you by professional chefs who “felt your pain.” Those icky homeless people probably wouldn’t appreciate the salmon cakes with dill sauce or tomato with fennel and red onion or the Spaghetti Bolognese and sheep’s milk cheese salad.  In fact, fine food would make probably make them feel uncomfortable.  How would they know which fork to use, or which wine went with what entrée?  It was nothing but a selfless decision on your part to save the gourmet stuff for yourselves and keep the homeless on a stick-to-their-ribs diet of brown rice and nothing. Kudos, Occupiers of Gouda Wheels and Puffed Pastries.

FEEDING FRENZY: Occupy Wall Street organizers say legitimate protesters like these are being overrun by released Rikers inmates and derelicts who come to Zuccotti Park for the free gourmet meals.

 

 

*     STUPID ALERT!  STUPID ALERT!  Though he certainly looks slovenly enough to be one of you, Michael Moore who was there only because he thought “zucotti” was a type of pasta.  Find a park named “Cannoli” or “Hearty-Beef-Stew-SautéeD- in-Lard,” he’s there, filthy baseball cap and all.

Michael Moore

*     Joan Baez says, “Thanks for making me relevant again, even if it was on some shitty little plaza for a few shitty weeks, singing songs that were older than me.  Don’t forget – I knew David Crosby when he was thin and had hair.  I still can’t convince him to get rid of the suede jacket with the long fringy-sleeves.  But really – it was groovy getting to sing “We Shall Overcome” again.  But keep those protests coming and next time occupy something bigger than some little park-wannabe down the block from Century 21 Department Store.  And oh yeah – don’t eat the brown acid.”

 

David Crosby

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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YOU ARE WHAT YOU’RE TOLD TO WEAR

March 13th, 2012

We haven’t had much of a winter, which is a huge reminder that spring will be here soon.  The trees and flowers will bloom, iced coffee will replace cappuccinos and the New York Times will have their big fat spring fashion issue, which is pretty much Elle or Vogue or Marie Claire without the stinky perfume cards falling wantonly onto your lap.  . Now I know there are some of you who regard these magazines and/or that annoying girl on the Style Network – (no, not Kimora Simmons – the other annoying girl), as though you were the helpless child and they the all-knowing parental figure.  You can believe them.  Or trust me….

 

LONG SHORTS —  Oxymoron.  If they’re long, how can they be short?  Long shorts or, as I like to call them, “thigh wideners.” Long shorts?   Are you going to day camp? Are you and Tom Sawyer going to whitewash the fence? Though I must say, in defense of long shorts, at least they give us a vacation from the cellulite, spider veins and butt cheeks that short-shorts offer. Long shorts are just a couple of inches shorter than Capri pants, both poor choices for women over 35 and women with cankles.  As these are not mutually exclusive, springtime can be a very scary season indeed.  I’m not a shallow person.  Really.  But there’s something about long shorts that just shouts, “Okay – I don’t know if I like these either.  Should I wear them?  She’s wearing them? Are you staring at me?  It’s my hair, right?  Okay, I didn’t shave my legs – so sue me.”

 

*  PASTELS – Yup. Pastels are back.   Dress like a Peep.  See if I care.

 

*  BAREFOOT RUNNING SHOES  – You know.  Those sneakers where your toes are threaded through elastic bands but there is no top of the sneaker?   Are you so narcissistic that you need people to stare at your feet because those ugly things are atrocity eye magnets.  Trust me – no one is looking and thinking, “Wow – cool!”  We are looking and thinking, “Wtf?” or “That woman has something stuck to her foot and it won’t come off!” These fugly topless sneakers don’t make you look sporty.  They don’t make you look stylish.  Wearing these will not help you win the New York City Marathon.  Coming from Kenya will help you. But you can’t buy that.  Waaaahhhhh!

 

*  BALLET FLATS –If you are 5’11 and weigh 101 pounds, ballet flats work.  If you’re 5’11” and 101 pounds, trashcan lids work.

 

*  SUSPENDERS —   It took all my willpower and then some to not beat about the neck and face the servers from TGI Friday’s and that was because they wear Mork-like suspenders because they’re earning a living.  They HAD to wear them.  You don’t.  If you are a sartorially splendid Brit who refers to suspenders as “braces” and wear them over your Turnbull & Asser shirting and under your Anderson and Sheppard suit jacket, I can tolerate them.  But if you choose to wear suspenders because you find them “whimsical” or “artsy” or “funky,” you clearly don’t own a full-length mirror.  Famous suspender-wearers in history:

 

a. the Oompa-Loompas

b. Larry King

c.  You

 

*   TRENCH COATS —  Yes – it’s a must for everyone’s spring wardrobe according to the fashion mags.  What if you like a barn-coat or a sweatshirt or a cardigan?  Too bad.  If you don’t own a trench coat this spring everyone will be laughing at you, gawking at you, pitying you.  “But Mollie, they’re in, “ you whine.  Okay.  Get one.  Keep in mind that most people who wear Burberry trench coats would like them more if the lining were on the outside so everyone else could know for sure their cotton rainproof rag cost $1200.  Also keep in mind that, to rock the trench coat, you must have a waistline, which is one of the reasons I think skeletons like Anna Wintaur and Marie Claire’s Joanna Cole insist that this is a wardrobe must-have.  Yes, they both have teeny waistlines, but they probably haven’t had a meal since the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles.

 

*  STRIPED JEANS –  Are you running the railroad?  Think you’re Mr. Conductor from Thomas the Tank Engine?  Back in the late 60s/early 70s, the last time striped jeans made an important fashion statement, most of the population was too high to mock you. It’s 2012 and I speak only for myself, but the snide remarks are popping in my head like 200 bags of microwave popcorn in a 600-watt microwave.

 

*  NEON COLORS — The only neon I want to see is an “Eat at Joe’s” sign.  The mags are telling you fuchsia is in?  For who?  Posh Spice is wearing chartreuse?  She has to wear loud colors so you can see her.  Oh, what’s the matter?  You like Posh Spice?   I insulted your taste? Not as much as your insulting mine by wearing a that NY Mets-blue halter dress.  Promise.

 

*  THE “MILITARY” LOOK – Funny how so many people who’d rather gargle driveway gravel than actually serve our country are the first ones to buy the blouses with epaulets and the khaki green jackets. First, I have a basic philosophical problem with taking a career where people put their lives on the line and turning it into “a look.”   “Love my tan camis?  Got ‘em at Scoop — Intermix was all out!” Fashion designers, most of whom don’t have the strength, courage and/or guts to fight for anything except a cold bottle of Fiji water or yard of charmeuse, at best trivialize and at worst, insult the men and women who protect the rest of us.  Face it – if you’re not in the military, it’s a stupid look.  It’s like wearing surgeon scrubs when you’re not a doctor.  The next fashion designer who shrieks, “Let’s do the Doughboy hat, only more modern!” should be forced to move his showroom to Kandahar. What’s next – the “slavery” look?  The “Holocaust” look?   The “internment” look?   Oh I am so afraid I’ve given John Galliano some ideas for Spring 2013.

 

*FEDORAS —  Are you going to sing “Fly Me to the Moon” or “The Lady is a Tramp”? Are you looking for the Covenant of the Lost Ark?  Thinking of shooting Elliot Ness with your Tommy gun?  Then get that Fedora off your head.  Please.  Especially you, ladies.  Especially the fedoras made of raffia or straw.  With a stripe around the brim or in a pastel color.  Just because they sell it on St. Mark’s Place doesn’t necessarily make it “hip” or “happening” or any other word that means “I-bought-this-on-the-street-from-the-Pakistani-trying-to-make-a-living-and-he-only-charged-me-twenty-bucks-so-he-must-think-I’m-from-New York!”  Start spreadin’ the news – leave the fedoras where they belong – next to the horizontal-blinds sunglasses and fingerless gloves.

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THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT????????? This one’s for you, Jack…

February 27th, 2012

I am old enough and wise enough to know that we all have different taste in everything from climate to automobiles, from wine to food to fashion. “That’s what makes a horserace,” some codger older than me said at some point in time somewhere. But when it comes to entertainment, like them or not, there are people whose talent is incontrovertible:

The Beatles
Meryl Streep
Laurence Olivier
Placido Domingo
Michael Jackson
Streisand
Sinatra
Bill Cosby
Aretha Franklin

Just to name a few. In the end, we may differ on who we like or don’t, but there exists an elite group of performers, many earning millions of dollars a year, who just don’t entertain me. Make your own list. Let’s see who articulates it better…

MICHAEL FEINSTEIN

If Frank Sinatra came back to life, walked into New York’s Loew’s Regency and heard Michael Feinstein singing “Luck Be a Lady Tonight,” he’d say, “Okay, I lied – I was in the mob,” then filet Feinstein like a brook trout. Why is it “Michael Feinstein’s American Songbook?” Did he write the songs? Did he make them famous? Maybe I’ll put some shit together in one of those 5-subject college-rule spiral notebooks and call it, “Mollie’s Lennon-McCartney Songbook. “ Can he sing? Okay enough, I guess. If I want to hear Cole Porter, there’s Ella Fitzgerald. “Puttin’ on the Ritz”? Benny Goodman, Fred Astaire, even Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle in “Young Frankenstein. “Cheek to Cheek”? I’d rather hear Ricky Ricardo. I know he’s a gay icon and rich blue-haired dowagers who still slug back Apricot Sours and Rob Roys and stain cigarette filters with their Hazel Bishop crimson red lipstick are still convinced they can get him to “play for their team,” hurling tarp-sized panties at him. Strike three. You’re out. Finally, nowhere in the Torah is it written that once a Jewish person becomes rich, famous, or otherwise successful, that he must change the pronunciation of his last name, Michael Finesteeeeeeeeeeeeeen. Amen.

THE COMICS ON “CHELSEA LATELY

I cannot be the only person who’s picked up on the fact that, other than Ross, the gay intern from Jay Leno’s show, the rest of the dregs sitting behind that table are as funny as a colonoscopy prep. Okay, Chelsea – maybe in the beginning you were feeling insecure, so you had to surround yourself with this odd mixture of these mostly homely anorexic white women and fugly men of every race and, pretty much insult them to get a cheap laugh. Don’t get me wrong – I would insult them too, especially if vodka was my favorite food group. But this is like high school, when the cute girl would go to the school dance with the fat girl and the gawky girl and the acne-girl and suddenly “cute” became “Angelina Jolie.” If you’re really confident, Chels, load that table with Chris Rock, Wanda Sykes and Larry David instead of these props with a pulse.

MARK CONSUELOS

Perdóneme? Mark Consuelos? Mr. Kelly Ripa? An entertainer? As anyone who’s observed the ratings of” Live with Regis and Kelly” since Regis’s “demise,” despite her fame and riches, (some of which come from a TD bank commercial where she pretends to bring her loose change to a coin-counting machine which is, in fact entertaining in a most pathetic way), it’s a stretch to call her an “entertainer. In fact, after all these years, she still hasn’t convinced me. Being famous for saying, “I don’t know what that means, Rege,” is not quite the same thing as being famous for saying, “We’ll always have Paris.” I can hear her grating mouse-voice in my head right now saying, “What do you mean – ‘You’ll always have Paris’? How can you ‘have’ Paris? Isn’t that a country in Europe? Well, I guess the Germans ‘had’ Paris for a couple of years. It was the Germans, right? I get them confused with the Scottish. Was it Hitler who said that, Rege….?”

NICHOLAS CAGE

If someone is one of the world’s best-paid actors but I have to turn away from the screen every time his face is on it or suffer alternating waves of nausea and incredulity, am I truly being entertained? Sorry, but I call dibs on being creeped out by Nicholas Cage since “When Peggy Sue Got Married.” I didn’t have to wait until the IRS was after him or for him to be accused of spousal abuse or finding out he bought a Bavarian medieval castle for no apparent reason, or that he named his son “Kal-El,” or that he claims to have created his own acting method which he calls “Noveau Shamanic.” Any of the above by itself is either reprehensible and/or insane. Is this entertaining? Maybe in a very cruel, giggle-when-no-one-is-looking kind of way, like dwarf tossing or Monique’s “Fat Chance” televised beauty pageant for plus-sized women who she called “ Phat-and-Phabulous.” I just can’t look at Nicholas Cage’s face. He’s unattractive enough to have been a character actor. But he always plays the leading man. I’m not just talking about Coen Brothers leading men, who can run the gamut from George Clooney to John Turturro. He was the leading man in “Moonstruck,” and “It Could Happen To You,” and “City of Angels.” When I want anyone else to “get the girl,” even the lifers in “Con Air,” that’s a problem.

SARA SILVERMAN

Yes, I know – she whines and says “vagina” a lot. Whining is never entertaining. Vaginas can be entertaining but certainly not by just repeating the word as if one were singing “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” I believe many of you were tricked into thinking she was a brilliant comedian when she was the girlfriend of someone who is truly funny, Jimmy Kimmel. And you used to refer to her as the “really pretty comedian,” which I suppose holds an element of truth in relative terms – when held next to Lisa Lampinelli or Heather McDonald or Corey Kahaney, I guess you can call her the “really pretty comedian.” Otherwise, she looks like every girl I went to sleep-away camp with who had a brother named Ira or Seth, an upper lip she had to bleach at 12 years old, and a habit of asking, “Do these shorts make my legs look fat?” And, 35 years later, may I say, “Yes. Yes, they do,” and “And I don’t give a shit that you don’t have to clean a bunk at home – pick up your filthy laundry until you marry some guy who hires a cleaning lady for you.” Thanks.

LEONARD COHEN

Leonard Cohen was old when I was 17 and I am many decades past that age. Now he’s older. He couldn’t sing when he was 70. Oh that’s right – he’s not a singer, is he? He’s a songwriter. I defy anyone reading this to name five songs written by Leonard Cohen. I can name five songs written by Carole King and she’s not looked at as anything but an old hippie with a good voice. If a song falls in a forest and no one hears it, are you still a songwriter? Often, and by only the most pretentious of human beings, I am corrected. “Leonard Cohen isn’t a songwriter! He’s a poet!” Oh. Really? Shelley was a poet. Emily Dickinson was a poet. If she were alive today it’s unlikely she’d be releasing “The Best of Emily Dickinson” CDs. “Now, for the first time on the same album – ‘I Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died’ and ‘Because I Could Not Stop For Death’ – the Remix.’” Did you know that Leonard Cohen’s last album, “Old Ideas,” was released in January 2012? Neither did anyone else.

LORRAINE BRACCO

I’ll admit. You had me fooled there for a while. You played Henry Hill’s wife in
“Goodfellas” with such authenticity and ease, I sat in my seat thinking, “Best Supporting Oscar.” But then I watched you in “Getting Gotti” and “Rizzoli and Isles” and, of course, “The Sopranos.” And I finally realized this was pretty much it. You may have been older, you may have worn serious suits and “smart” glasses on “The Sopranos,” but all I could think of every time I saw you was, “Wow – Henry Hill’s wife got her doctorate.” That, and the fact that the camera always focused on your calves and I still don’t know why. It would be like back-lighting Bobby Baccalieri’s stomach or Silvio’s hair. And here’s the thing of it – I know shrinks are supposed to sound calm and objective, but you sounded like you were on Propofol. You are not entertaining me and therefore, you are not an entertainer. You have no range. Okay – wait – that’s cold. You have the range of – well – of a range.

JENNIFER HUDSON

Okay – you have a voice. You may even have THE voice. The voters and the judges goofed big-time when they voted you off “American Idol,” but look who had the last laugh. And that’s what bothers me. Well, the first thing that bothers me is that you have those really crazy eyes. They were crazy-crazy on “Idol,” but maybe one of your managers advised you to take them down to just one-level crazy. But the other thing that bothers me is that you are an incredible entertainer yet what you are going to be remembered for is wailing, “…And I’m feeling good!” on those Weight Watchers ads. Stop! You’re thin. You’re rich. Maybe you lost the weight doing Weight Watchers, maybe you did it by eating grapefruits and steaks every other Thursday, maybe you puked after every meal. Don’t care. Just stop – stop the hawking, stop the singing duets with your “fatter” self. Stop being so elated, especially because the odds of keeping the weight off over a 5-year period is roughly – well – slimmer than you are now.

PADHMA LASHMI

You are pretty. Beautiful, even. But Beautiful is to Entertaining as Tangy is to Bookworm. In other words, they don’t necessarily have anything to do with one another. Just because you say, “It’s time for the Quick Fire Challenge,” doesn’t make you entertaining. You were hired on “Top Chef” for the same reason the former Mrs. Billy Joel was – you’re easy on the eyes. I’m not fooled into thinking you are anything other than the pretty gift-wrap just because you say “that lime infusion gave the dish just the right bite,” or “I can still feel those chili flakes on my tongue.” Perhaps if you tap-danced while saying, “Please pack your knives and go,” I’d be mildly amused. But until then, nothing you say about food holds any weight for me. Although he’s too old for a glory patch and holds a fork like a spaz, I believe Tom Collichio because at least he’s a chef. Same reason I believe Eric Ripert. I find Gail Simmons mildly amusing, pretty much because she really believes she’s a celebrity chef even though she’s a magazine editor who really should think twice about wearing sleeveless dresses. Marrying famous apostate literary authors who have fatwahs placed on them by the Ayatollah Khomeini also makes you famous. But it still doesn’t make you entertaining.

RENE ZELLWEGGER

Please note that there is a difference between “talented” and “entertaining.” There’s no question Ms. Zellwegger can act and kudos for keeping your kooky long last name. But there’s something creepy here and I know I’m not alone. I’m not sure if it’s the squinty eyes or the fact that she thought the weight she put on for both “Bridget Jones” films made her appear “whale-like,” just because she couldn’t see her thoracic vertebrae through her down parka. Amusing? For sure. Entertaining? You decide.

BONO

First, let’s change his name to Merlin for escaping all of the bad press and/or blame for the “Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark” debacle. Okay, okay – we read reams on how Julie Taymor’s “vision” was to blame but jeez – it’s not like Bono was off running Africa during rehearsals, though word has it he thinks he was. He’s been honored by NBC News for “Making a Difference” in the world. What difference would that be? Given the choice between Bono and Sonny Bono, I’ll take the latter every time. He wore furry vests and massive bell bottoms and had shaggy hair. And, a sense of humor. This U2 Bono guy — looks like it would take a lot to get him to crack a smile. Always so serious trying to save the world and humanity and mankind and such. Yes, he co-wrote the Band Aid little diddy, “Feed the World,” back in 1984 but, last time I looked, much of the world was still pretty hungry. I know he talks about Africa a lot and I know that the U2 2007 tour, Vertigo, grossed over $389 million but I don’t think much of that if that money made its way from Ireland to Swaziland, particularly with Bono’s exorbitant sunglasses bill. Bono is extremely wealthy and I know that that must be entertaining to his band members, immediate family and accountants. Unfortunately, I do not fall into any of those categories.

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WASH THIS!

January 22nd, 2012

Some of you live in houses, or in very high-end luxury co-op buildings where every cooperator has his own washer and dryer inside his apartment. Some of you may live in the mountains in a cabin and take your laundry down to the lake, scrubbing it clean against rocks or a washboard. Wait – I must take a moment to feel superior to someone. There. I’m feeling even better now.

Alas, I live in a building with a laundry room. One room, 20 washers, 15 dryers for many, many occupants. Like anyone else living in a high-rise building in New York City, I am forced to interact with people whose names I don’t know, whose children, for the most part, I don’t like. Fortunately, other than running into them in the elevator, where I can glance down to the floor or stare straight ahead and pray I don’t have to engage in a “How are you?” “Great, how are you?” “Good, couldn’t be better!” banter. MOLLIE ALERT: I really don’t need you to tell me it’s a beautiful day outside or wonder when spring will get here.

However, I, like most of you – Occupy Wall Streeters excluded – have to do my laundry every so often. It is not so much a laundry room as it is a war room where those who have been denied or spared real battle get to engage in – well – war games. Though there are no rules in love and war – there are rules in the laundry room. Surprise.

* I don’t want your used dryer sheets. Can I be any clearer than that? You manage to lug down three laundry bags of your Egyptian cotton towels and 800-thread count sheets– try lifting a dryer sheet that weighs less than a Cheerio out of the dryer when you remove your dry clothes. If you want to leave me your used Beamer or your used Matisse, we can talk. But take that filth-rag with you or you will find it on your “welcome” mat. In confetti-sized pieces.

* The purpose of the laundry room is to wash and dry one’s clothes. Period. If I want to watch someone’s insane six-year old zoom around on his Big Wheel bike, I’ll rent “The Shining.”

* Clearing the dryer of lint is a considerate thing to do. But it is neither an act of courage nor an act that would have had its place on the old Ed Sullivan Show. No one who watches you do this thinks you’re a really good person – like a Doctors Without Borders or therapy-dog-owner kind of person – for lifting the lint out of the dryer drawer. No applause forthcoming. Stop waiting.

* The fact that you are in the laundry room means you did leave your house, which means that I might not want to look at you in stuff that you might feel perfectly comfortable wearing within the confines of your apartment. Yes – you need a bra, no matter how over-sized your “Get Your YaYas Out” t-shirt is. I want to look at your varicose veins as much as I want to look at projectile vomit – ixnay on the sweatpants-capris if there’s a map of Tuscany on your calves. And, if G-d meant for them to be worn outside, He wouldn’t have called them “housecoats.”

* We both know that you don’t really understand or have any interest in The New Yorker, other than that you want everyone in the laundry room to think you’re that “hip, bookish, cool, cultured, literate guy” who lives in 19J. New York Review of Books? Seriously? The Atlantic? Really. “Finnegan’s Wake”? Not even Joyce could get through that. No one cares what you’re reading – in fact, most of your neighbors could care less if you spontaneously burst into flames. So go upstairs and get your Instyle and Nora Roberts novel so we can confirm what we thought of you to begin with.

* When I’m coming into the building with three shopping bags from Trader Joe’s and you know I’m behind you, you don’t hold the door for me. You never smile at me by the mailboxes. When you see me in the elevator you think, “ “At what age does she think she can officially not wear make-up?” God, I hope I look better when I’m her age.” Therefore, when you see me in the laundry room and there’s no one else you either know better or like more, get this through your low-lighted head – I am not your laundry room “sloppy seconds.” I don’t want to banter about “how crowded it usually is here,” or “when do you think they’ll actually fix Dryer 13?” Sit. Do your Word Puzzle book. Ponder your dull life. Fix Dryer 13.

* Hey, Bill Nye, Laundry Guy – it’s 2012 – they make shampoo and conditioner that comes in one bottle. Surely you can clean your clothes without having to mix your liquid bleach with your soap and hot water and softeners, like some sort of detergent bartender. I’ll have a Snuggles on the Rocks.

* I’m not sure if you don’t realize those cheap Colby headphones you bought allow me to hear both Jay Z and Kanye West rappin’ N****s in Paris as loudly as you hear them, or if you are doing this to annoy me. Either way you annoy me, though the passive-aggressive way is far more irritating.

* Folding fitted sheets properly is something not everyone can do. Splitting the atom is something not everyone can do. Hint: if they don’t give a Nobel Prize in your category of expertise, it’s less impressive than you think. I’d rather watch dancing bears.

* Did you see the film “The Help”? Did you learn anything from it? No matter what color you are, do you feel comfortable having someone else wash your intimates while you play Mah Jong? Maybe, in some absolutely pointless world, someone should be meeting with District Board One to see what one could do to help bring another volleyball court to Tribeca, or a Chai Tea Palace to Park Slope. But do you really think that should be you? Not everyone is here on this planet to do something useful. How does it feel to be that person? Do something useful. Like your drawers.

* Speaking of drawers, when your underwear reaches the point where the elastic snaps back slower than a shoelace, or all the bleach in the world will never bring those sports socks back from urine-yellow to crisp white, it’s time to bid those suckers farewell. What is so wrong with you that you can stand at a table in the laundry room and meticulously fold stained underwear while talking to me about how many guests you’re having for Thanksgiving? Your sparkling conversation does not, unfortunately, hide the skidmarks on your husband’s BVDS. Get some dignity before it’s too late. Oh wait – it already is.

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THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A MOM…

January 5th, 2012

There is great debate among young and old, city folk and country folk, east coasters, west coasters and everyone in between over what is the greatest natural disaster of our time. The argument is over – without question, the answer is the PEMUF – Privileged Educated Mom Under Forty. It’s hard to reach them because they are always texting as they wheel their infant or toddler over my toe, so I will address them in the following open letter:

Dear Privileged Educated Mom Under Forty, (heretofore known as “PEMUF”)

I know that you have quite a busy life now that you’ve given birth to:

a) Stella a) Liam
b) Ava b) Jackson
c) Sophie or c) Aiden
d) Isabella d) Parker
e) Harper e) Hunter

or perhaps you’ve given birth to one of each at the same time which, in the 1960s, were referred to as fraternal twins but are now just a walking billboard that says, “We had fertility problems.”

Of course, PEMUF, now that you’ve brought that baby into the world, it’s your job to raise him. Unfortunately those of us who live in your city or town or village must share the streets, the shops, the parks, the restaurants with you and your “little miracle.” Mostly due to your unrealistic over-expectations for this child, coupled with a self-absorption rivaled only by Madonna, you do not make this an easy task. Perhaps there are just some things you are unaware of. Perhaps your body is so full of breast milk that somehow this has adversely affected your perception of manners, consideration and a world that consists of more than you, your henpecked metro-sexual husband and your spoiled-as-a-
12-day-old-banana-like child.

* Yes, there is a chance you’ve given birth to the next Einstein or Bill Gates
or Mother Theresa. But there is an astronomically larger chance that you’ve given birth to the next Snooki (pre-fame), or Rupert Pupkin. So wipe that smug smile off your face – the ADHD won’t show up for at least a couple more years.

* You don’t need a Prada diaper bag. Your child, as brilliant as I am sure he is, doesn’t know the difference between a Prada diaper bag and a shopping bag. In fact, since it is probably your Jamaican or Filipino nanny who does all the diaper-changing, you really don’t need a diaper bag at all, do you? And, since you can afford to stay at home after the baby, you don’t really need the nanny either, but then you wouldn’t be the PEMUF you are.

* No one has to get out of the way as you push your McClaren Techno XT stroller down Broadway. If I step aside for you to pass, I am doing this because I am being nice, not because it is a felony if I don’t. Therefore, keep the eye-roll in your head, refrain from telling the person you’re yapping to on your IPhone, in that snotty, entitled annoying voice of yours, “Can you believe it – we’re walking down the street and someone won’t move to the side so we can pass!” I can believe it and next time I’ll put up a police barricade.

* I’m as interested in the fact that you’re nursing as I am in David Hasselhoff.

* Your child has no place in a high-end sushi restaurant. Your child doesn’t know the difference between sashimi and a stumpy Fisher-Price Little People figure. I’m sure your two-year old has already mastered the Cyrillic alphabet. I am equally certain that his chopsticks will be used as an implement of nose-picking rather than tools to dine with. Here’s a hint: if there isn’t a Bouncy Ball pen, plastic indoor slides and Animatronic teddy bears, order in. Or get those fab grandparents, who refuse to be called “grandma” and “grandpa,” because they can’t deal with the fact they’re O-L-D, to babysit.

* Moses parting the Red Sea was a miracle – your two-year-old reciting his ABCs is annoying.

* You’re applying for pre-schools that you think will ensure your child a place at Yale or Princeton. You just gave birth to the Third Coming – chill!

* Other than Jessica Seinfeld, who might “appropriate” your recipe, and put it in her next cookbook, (or might never appropriate anyone’s recipe ever – I’m not sure the Seinfelds have a sense of humor when it comes to the Seinfelds), no one cares that you can prepare squash to make it taste like flourless chocolate cake.

* You can grow all your vegetables and herbs in your backyard, herbicide-free, organic garden – your three-year old will take the Lunchables nachos and Capri Sun fruit drink over your Bibb lettuce/goat cheese salad with raw baby carrots every time.

* Go back to the Baby Snugli where the baby’s face is toward your belly, not aimed at my face. I don’t want to look at your kid. I don’t want to watch your kid drooling or sucking back a pacifier. I don’t think your kid is so cute. He’s bald. He’s wearing socks and no shoes. His head moves around like a Derek Jeter Bobblehead. And p.s. – you’re not a Wallaby.

* No your toddler doesn’t look cute with his play IPhone and his play Kindle and his playITouch. He looks like you. (beat) Ewwwww….

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NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS FOR HIPSTERS

December 31st, 2011

Hipster New Years Resolutions – It’s 2012. We can all do at least one thing better next year. Especially you, you pretentious, entitled Baby Boomer spawn…

* I will not name any of my offspring Manx, Charlieparker or Siddhartha.

* When I am lying in a drawer at the morgue, I will regret not considering the folly of flipping off pedestrians and drivers while evading all New York traffic laws including but not limited to riding against traffic and through red lights on my stupid fixed-gear bike. I will also refrain from blaming the 20-ton Albanese Brothers sanitation truck for not hearing my Harpo Marx horn before they flattened me like a rolling pin into a cartoon pancake.

* When I am in public I will pretend that I am neither intellectually nor
morally superior to everyone under twenty and over 40. Particularly when I
am wearing my “Ms. Pacman” t-shirt.

* Even when the clerk at Sol Moscot Opticians tells me that Jesse Eisenberg
gets his glasses here, I will not be talked into thick black frames. Especially thick black frames with non-prescription glass.

* Each and every time I am tempted to place upon my head a porkpie hat, I will remember that there is nothing inherently cool about a porkpie hat and that wearing things that aren’t cool doesn’t make me “ironic,” but moronic. A handful of jazz greats wore porkpie hats but they would have been cool with or without the hat. They were sax players. I am not. I am an IT guy and gamer metrosexual who wears a Baby Snugli with my kid’s head facing toward on-coming pedestrian traffic. Even when my girlfriend tells me that I do look cool in said porkpie hat, I will realize that this is coming from a woman wearing a vintage shirt-waist dress with bric-a-brac trim and red cat-eye glasses. I will leave the porkpie hat where it belongs – on Yogi Bear.

* I promise to stop quoting David Foster Wallace mostly because that is probably what made him take his own life.

* I do not need any more tattoos. I do not need the tattoos I already have. I don’t even know what half the tattoos I have mean. Especially the ones in foreign languages. I will also refrain from calling them, “tats.” To hell with my college loans I’ll never pay off anyway – time to start saving to get my “h e l v e t i c a” and “My Little Pony” tats removed.

* Unless I venture into the crystal-meth dealing trade, I will refrain from adopting a pit-bull. I think a pit-bull makes me look tough and thug-like, but in reality it just makes me look like a short waifish guy in skinny jeans and plaid Converse low-tops with a pit-bull. Even the pit-bull, each time I walk him around Thompson Square Park and he sees real thugs, looks back at me and thinks, “wtf”?

* Just because my parents bought me a coop in Williamsberg and I get to stay home all day and play with lobster clasps, semi-precious stones and glue guns, I will stop referring to myself as a jewelry designer when in fact I am really just an adult who spends my time, instead of working like the rest of the grown-up world, doing sleep-a-way camp Arts and Crafts projects.

* I will stop saying “I have that in vinyl” because the only people who care are other hipsters except that – oh wait – they only care about themselves.

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satire for the literate – OH REALLY?

July 13th, 2011

I have put this off but when really great material taunts you, year after year, eventually one must give in. And, as this could be the end of the road for The Real Housewives of New York City — in six months these women will be as relevant as The Jonas Brothers — this could be my last chance. And I’m taking it.

Let’s deconstruct the title: The Real Housewives of New York City.

Real – These women are about as real as a piñata. There’s less skin-stretching, filler and stuffing in the Museum of Natural History’s Hall of Mammals. You know those beverages that have to be called “juice drinks” by law because they don’t have enough actual juice in them? Think of them as the human equivalent of “Sunny DeLite.”

Housewives — Back in the 1950s, my mother was a housewife. My dad went to work, and my mom stayed home and raised us. She took us to school, went on school trips, shopped at the butcher, the baker and the fruit market, prepared the meals, sewed, did laundry, helped us with our homework, read to us, watched “Leave it to Beaver” and “The Beverly Hillbillies” with us.

These women may be a lot of things, but “housewives” isn’t one of them. So “girls” – which is what you refer to yourselves as even though you haven’t been girls since Central Park was a cow pasture – please find another common noun that describes you more accurately. And really – what’s up with “the girls” thing? Does it make you feel younger to call yourselves “girls”? I wouldn’t feel wealthier if I called myself The Beatles, so I’m not sure how that particular delusion works. Do you think that the power of suggestion will somehow fool us into thinking – “no – they’re not pushing 50. No, they aren’t Spanxed from their ankles to their necks. They’re really quite coquettish.”? Hmm…. (Oh, and Jill – Spanx – Skweezed? Screech at Bobby to call your lawyers…)

Real and Housewives — Perhaps Bravo’s Andy Cohen’s crossed eyes served as an impairment when casting this show.

Had he looked hard or harder or at all, he might have discovered authentic “real” New York City housewives, maybe even women who don’t down Pinot Grigio like it’s “The Last Supper” or wear earrings the size of light fixtures or record “disco” songs when their “vocal stylings” make me miss Madelaine Kahn’s “I’m So Tired,” from Blazing Saddles.

Next, note that part of the compound word “housewife” contains the word “wife.” Is it possible to be a real housewife if you aren’t a wife? That’s like saying you’re a real starfish only you’re a bagel. So, now we see that not only are none of them are housewives — half of them aren’t even wives. Let’s look closer. Closer…

Ramona Singer

Okay, she does have a husband, which technically and legally makes her a “wife.” But she’s a wife who married someone name “Mario,” whom she insists on calling “Mourrio,” and is about three cases of wine away from a stint at Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. The Upper East Side’s Scary Spice.

Vajazzle Brazil-Wax Queen Cindy Something

Did this show really need another woman as in touch with her chronological age as Dane Cook is with his entertainment value? “Housewife” Cindy is actually closer in age to social security recipients than the mommies at “Mommy and Me” classes and seems to be more interested in ridding the city of female body hair than raising those twins who will be sophomores in college when Mom is 75. She has at least one nanny per kid, a very annoying brother and very, very old parents. But a husband? I think you need one of those to qualify as a wife…

AlexandandSimon, a.k.a “Silex

Remember when the expression “They’d go to the opening of an envelope” was used as hyperbole? Well, Alex and Simon actually would. No. Really — manila, #10 envelope, Jiffy Bag, glassine, one of those envelopes with the cash-card you give at a Bar Mitzvah or christening? They’d be there and he’d be wearing something inappropriate, cringe-worthy, and probably made of animal skin and glitter. In their case, it’s clear that neither of them are “real housewives” because I’ve seen their sons, you know – the ones with the ridiculously pretentious names? Johann and Francois? The ones they force to speak French (for god-knows what reason as they live in Brooklyn), one of whom threw a fit and smashed around someone else’s thirty-dollar hamburger at “The 21 Club”, both of whom, I am guessing, wear Speedo mankinis when dragged to St. Barts in the off-season? Maybe when they make a show called SOCIAL CLIMBERS WHO LIVE IN CARROLL GARDENS AND MISTAKE THEIR CHILDREN’S ADHD FOR ‘GIFTED,’ they can have their own show. And wouldn’t that be special?

Sonja Morgan

First, isn’t “Sonia” spelled “S-o-n-i-a”? What’s up with the “j”? Is that because she thinks it looks fancier? It doesn’t. It just looks more Scandinavian-er Sonja is also not a wife, but a woman in her forties who thinks she is in her 20s, divorced from the 80-year-old heir to the J.P. Morgan banking fortune. Anna Nicole Smith with better table manners and no Howard K. Stern. Stop showing me your thighs and your ass, Sonja. Stop dressing up in Marie Antoinette shit and Caberet burlesque shit because real housewives don’t have the time for that shit. But I would like to see you weep again about the possibility of your losing your $14 million dollar townhouse because 1) it really wasn’t ever yours and 2) I want to feel financially superior to you. I already feel morally and ethically superior – just wanted to go three for three.

Bethenny Frankel
Even though you “spun off” into the egocentric center of an unwatchable show, (except when you berate your house-husband and his small-town parents), The Real Housewives of New York City catapulted you into the reality star you’ve become. Actually, you began on “The Apprentice: Martha Stewart,” which you’d hoped, everyone had forgotten. You were a caterer living with a long-haired dog, hawking Skinny Girl Margaritas, but you were not a housewife. You still really aren’t, but your husband is, so I guess that’s something.

Kelly Bensimon

Ah, Kelly – you’re kooky but that’s the worst I can say about you. You’ve grown on me. You’re the most genuine, most sincere, most attractive one on this train-wreck of a series. I like Kelly and she’s a real mom but not a real housewife. So, when they do “The Real Housemoms of New York City,” she’s a natural.

Countess” Luanne de Lesseps

First, aren’t the words “Luanne” and “Countess” mutually exclusive? “Luanne” is a name as in, “Luanne, go check the still to see if the moonshine’s ready,” or “Luanne – Go see who moved into the double-wide next door,” or “Luanne – there’s company– go and fetch us some vittles.” At best, she’s n she’s an ex-wife of an old coot of a “Count” less attractive than The Count on “Sesame Street.” She now dates a Frenchman named Jacques, who, she’s revealed, her –ex would never approve of because, “well…you know…Jacques is…well – he’s a Jew.”

Also, Luanne, darling, please note that we are not living in pre-Revolution France and therefore we are not only unimpressed with your title, we snicker at it. We know that even you think it’s important, we know it’s a made-up title that you got by merely marrying someone. It doesn’t really count, “Countess.” And after “The Count” divorced you, his next wife he takes also gets to be called “Countess,” and so on and so forth. And eventually, after so many Countesses, the title has about the same value as the Rolexes they sell on Canal Street. And stop singing. You can’t sing. Even if all of your rich sycophant friends say that you can. Marlena Deitrich, dead, has a better voice. Word.

Jill Zarin

Oy. What can I say about her that hasn’t already been said by her? Okay – at least I can say it more softly and without the cackle. Who thought I’d ever miss Whitney Houston shouting “Bobby!” It seems that every ethnic group and minority has some of its own that make the majority of the group cringe. As part of your ethnic group, Jill Zarin and, on behalf of all twelve tribes, I implore you – STFU.

So there you have it. Not real. Not housewives. And…

Q: If all of the Upper West Side moves to Park Slope and Cobble Hill and Brooklyn Heights, and they open up cheese shops and hipster boutiques and Fairway Markets and Whole Foods, when does Brooklyn become Manhattan?

A: It doesn’t.

Not New York City. Thanks, Alex and Simon. Maybe next season you’ll social-climb your way out of bridge-and-tunnel status. Now, there’s a story arc…

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satire for the literate — THANK YOU FOR BEING A TIME-WARNER CUSTOMER. NO, THANK YOU…

July 6th, 2011

Dear Time-Warner Service Rep:

This wasn’t what I wanted to write about this week, but following our anything but brief encounter last Sunday night, I’m afraid you are, how shall we say, my “muse”?

It was a hectic week and I needed to relax and decided to kick back and order “The King’s Speech” on Movies-On-Demand.

Not something I do too often. $4.99. I’m sure I spend more than that a day on coffee and Diet Pepsi and newspapers, but the $4.99 for Pay-Per-View, the commitment to push the little yellow triangle on the remote that says, “Accept,” has always been a problem for me.

So? I have issues. So do you. You don’t have to write about them – maybe you can’t leave your house without orange-flavored Tic-Tacs or you have to hum Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” before you unlock your front door; maybe you have to put on a sock and a shoe and not a sock and a sock, then a shoe and a shoe – trust me – the fact that I know my issues gives me a decided advantage.

But I’d seen “The King’s Speech,” and was hankering to see it again. Cell phone off. Dog sleeping. Comfy position. Can of Diet Pepsi Cherry by my side. And, after minimum hyperventilation, I hit that little yellow “Accept” triangle.

And, for a little more than 40 minutes, I was back there in the 1930s Britain– the clothes, the music, the acrid smell of war in the air, (to everyone, apparently, except heir apparent and the Royal Nazi Dunce of Windsor). And then suddenly – freeze-frame. Colin Firth, and Helena Bonham Carter in a beautiful satin understated robe that was clearly not chosen by Helena Bonham Carter.

No matter which button I hit on my remote, the frame remained frozen.

Mollie, you’re thinking – big deal. You saw the film. And even if you didn’t, big deal. All you had to do was call us and we’d have taken care of it. Wait. I haven’t stopped laughing yet. Okay. Just one more “Ha!” and I’ll respond. I did. I called you, Time-Warner. And though, finally, after approximately an hour and 38 minutes, two reps who hung up – (I’m sorry – accidentally disconnected my call), and several other inconveniences the problem was solved, I wanted to finish watching the film that night like I wanted to stick push-pins in my eyes. You “hoped you’d solved my problem,” Time-Warner. But I’m not completely satisfied…

*When I call you from my home phone and my name and number come up on your screen and you ask me my name and phone number, isn’t that just a tad kooky? And then, when I tell you my full name and number and you ask, “And who am I speaking to?” Is that a trick question? Are you writing a dossier? Isn’t that kookier than Ramona Singer’s eyes?

*After we finish the above nonsense, you know I’m me and I know I’m me, I have to verify my address, which – surprise – I know! – but this is not enough. Now you need my 16-digit account number, which you think I’ve memorized like a geometry theorem. It’s my paid bill stub, which is stuffed in a “Paid Bills” shoebox that’s about as organized as an orgy. Clearly we are not on the same page – I think I’m calling because my cable is out and YOU think I’m calling to get Pentagon clearance. So then you go for the cherry on the icing on the cake – “What is your PIN number?” Do you think that I think I have a Time-Warner Cable PIN number? Even if I believe you, do you think I know that PIN number?

Oh wait – I just remembered it – 3825 – 968! You do the math…

*Do you think I went to Time-Warner Cable School? Do you see a tool-belt around my waist? Then why do you think I want to start working when I call you? I call you because my cable isn’t working, not because I want to learn a trade. And yet before you will agree to send a service rep out, you have me unplugging my cable box, locating a coin or screwdriver to take the back off of some box, reading serial numbers smaller than rice grains to you, checking all every outlet in my house, counting lights on modems – sheesh! Look — I already worked this week. I know I did because I got my paycheck and was tired on Friday. You do it. “Well, ma’am, if the service man comes out and finds that the problem could have been solved on the phone, there will be a service charge.” Oh really? I think that for almost $150 (plus inexplicable-and-probably-made-up taxes and tariffs), for phone, broadband and cable, you can send one of those ass-crack-showing repair guys over. Leave the cable box; take the staple gun.

* When I become sufficiently outraged and ask for your supervisor, don’t tell me, “I don’t have a supervisor.” Unless your last name is Time-Warner trust me – you have a supervisor. Why not be truthful and say, “I only gave you my first name, made up my extension and badge number, so I could tell you to kiss my ass and you’ll never be able to track me down and report me. Of course I have a supervisor but I’d sooner date Seth Rogan than connect you to her. Click.” I’d still want to pull your eyelids over your knees. But at least I’d respect you.

* Finally, it’s really nice that you offered to let me re-order “The King’s Speech” for free, which only means I’ll have to sit through the first part again, but it’s the thought that counts. And you gave me a free month of HBO, which I cancelled a few years ago because I didn’t think it was worth fifteen bucks a month to watch “Bridge to Tarabethia,” “Superbad,” or “Good Luck, Chuck” even once, let alone every time I put HBO on. For a micro-second, Time-Warner, I felt like I just won something, even if the mere sight of Bill Maher makes me dry-heave.

Who cares — woohoo – I got HBO for free! For a whole month! So, thanks a heap for “Jennifer’s Body,” “Bad Boys II,” and “Rollerball.” I’d almost forgotten why I’d cancelled HBO. Just so that I don’t forget again, I wrote “The Best of Katie Morgan” and “Pornacopia II” on my fridge.

And now…

Please hold. Someone will be with you in just a moment…. Mwahahaaaa.

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