Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category


Monday, July 14th, 2014



J. Crew.  As if I didn’t have enough reasons to loathe you already.  Your jaunty, preppy clothes remind me of the jaunty, preppy YUPPIES who wear them.  Unless your name is “Brad” or “Todd,” “Lauren” or “Amanda,” you may not actually wear J. Crew clothes, but you’ve had their catalogues crammed into your mailbox, or worked with white people from Connecticut.  Redundant.  Wondering if J. Crew could be more pretentious is like wondering if Gwyneth Paltrow could be … well … more pretentious, making them quite the conscious coupling, come to think of it.


So now what, J. Crew?  In addition to the fact I don’t know what the “J” stands for, you makes clothes in colors so special you can’t even tell what color it is, like “Dark Cove,” and “Dusty Shale” and “Caribbean Sand.” A little arrogant – no? – to just toss together an adjective and a noun and let consumers figure out if your crew neck coordinates or clashes with their khakis.


There’s are some who believe  that all p.r. is good p.r.  Not so, J. Crew.  Not so.  Ask Anthony Weiner.

But clearly someone in your corporate office felt differently.  Because, when you should have been busy pleating your pants and pepluming your blouses, you instead spent your time creating TRIPLE 000, i.e., EXTRA-EXTRA-EXTRA SMALL jeans.  Many, many, many women are applauding you for inventing the size “triple zero,” as though “double zero” wasn’t an assault on every woman who eats.

Did you hear what the anorexics  — that’s right, I said it – are saying about this new faux-size?  “Well, I am rather petite,” said one woman.  ‘You know,” said another, “We’re supposed to be ‘sensitive’ to fat women,”  (and you certainly are, size 2s!),  “but no one knows the real pain one feels when a size zero is just too, too big.”   Oh, but you’re wrong, Human Wire Hanger Lady – I feel your pain, so much so that if I could get my hands around you without you slipping away, I’d tie you down and force-feed you beef tallow and a can or six of Duncan Hines Double-Chocolate Buttercream frosting.

“Wah, wah – I can never find jeans that fit me.”  I’d like to be more sympathetic but finding jeans that fit you perfectly doesn’t count as a real problem.  If this is something you find so distressing, clearly you haven’t had enough bad shit happen to you.  Here’s some:


1)   Your kid has Turette’s, ADHD, and you have no medical insurance.

2)   Your other kid is David Blaine.

3)   Your husband has a girlfriend.

4)   Your boyfriend has a wife.

5)   That freckle on your leg isn’t a freckle.

6)   Your neighborhood’s been gentrified and you have to move to another state.

7)   That other state is Montana.

8)   You just ate a protein bar and you think it had peanuts in it and you’re allergic to peanuts and your eye is all swollen and you can’t really breathe and – oh shit! – you left your EpiPen home!

9)   Your old boyfriend, the one who stalked you from middle school through college, is on the FBI’s “Ten Most Wanted” list for killing his old girlfriends. And someone’s knocking on your door…

10)                 Your father has Alzheimer’s and he’s moved in with you, but he keeps forgetting.


There.  Now you have some real problems.  Size “zero” still too big?  Buy a fucking belt.  Eat a fucking corn flake, half a pecan.  Stop puking your food up.  Stop running 5Ks before work every day. What’s the matter?  Am I making anorexics and/or naturally thin women feel bad?  First, as I am not a calorie, that’s doubtful.  Second, maybe when women who wear a size six stop feeling like it’s time for a gastric bypass, I’ll make an attempt to be more sensitive.


“Wah, wah – I can never find jeans that fit me.”  Yes you can.  Mattel makes them.  And now so does J. Crew.    I’m sorry but finding jeans that fit perfectly just isn’t up there with real problems.   If this is something you find so distressing, clearly you haven’t had enough bad shit happen to you.  Size zero too big?  Buy a fucking belt. Eat a fucking corn flake, half a pecan, stop puking your food up.  What’s the matter?  Am I making anorexics feel bad?  First, as I’m not a calorie, that’s doubtful and second, when size 6 women stop feeling like it’s time for a gastric bypass, maybe I’ll re-think my words and be more sensitive.

You know, everyone is so sensitive to fat people,” they cry, “but they think it’s easy being this thin!”   Did you get your hands on Anna Wintour’s diary?   You’re telling me that the same people whose goal it is, is to get as small as you, to have their collar bones protrude so much you could hang a coat on it, these same people who want to look like you and can’t because they don’t have your metabolism or genes or they enjoy a grape every now and then?  Those people?  The people who want to be you insult you?  “Move it, Skinny,” isn’t a term I’ve heard shouted at anyone on a subway.  In fact, if there ever were a group under-represented in terms of being insulted and discriminated against, it would have to be women who wear a size four or under.  But you know, passive-aggressively “complaining” how hard it is to be so thin just makes anyone else with keen observation skills and a bit of wit want to even things out just a tad…


1)   Heidi Fleiss laughs at you.

2)   Nicole Richie envies you.

3)   There was a lime in your Diet Coke – that means 90 minutes on the elliptical machine tomorrow!

4)   When you stand sideways, I can’t see you.

5)   When you stand straight ahead, I can’t see you.

6)   Bettheny Frankel thinks you could use a little meat on your bones.

7)   A soup bone thinks you could use a little more meat on your bones.

8)   Why is my forearm bigger than your upper thigh?

9)   Why is it when you wear jeans and an over-sized sweater, from far away you look like you have only one leg?

10)                   It must feel swell to wear a Honey Nut Cheerio as a ring.

Maybe it’s time to celebrate our differences.  How about a Cronut?


Friday, June 27th, 2014

Fourth of July

First, please understand that the title of this piece is “July 4th Rules,” as in rules you might want to follow on the upcoming holiday weekend, not
“July 4th Rulz!” as in “ wow – it’s such an awesome holiday!” That would be an opinion and an illiterate one at that. Maybe replacing an “es” with a “z” doesn’t feel “off” to you anymore because you’ve been desensitized — Hippie-Creative Spelling-Curriculum in grade school, texting, Hip Hop but — here’s a spelling rule of thumb — most English nouns and verbs don’t end with the letter “z.” Square businezz….

So, this is not about celebrating July 4th. Oh sure, it’s great we got away from England, particularly because they’re the reason for Scotch eggs, warm beer and Amy Winehouse. And who doesn’t rejoice in the fact that on July 4th, and the summer in general, the Hamptons serves as an Electrolux-Vacuum-for-the-Rich and Acquiring, the Juvodermed and the Laxatived, the Overly-Tanned and Vajazzled-at-all, depositing them like so much debris and dust, onto the shores of Eastern Long Island?


July 4th is a day to reflect, to count one’s blessings for the freedoms this country has afforded you. So stop the hatin’ and ask yourself, is there anything I can do to say, “I love you, America and thanks!”? I think so…

Call it what it really is – a longer weekend where you can wear white to make your tan look tanner. You’re not patriotic. You’re not celebrating the birth of this nation. You’re celebrating the fact that there’s a sale at Blue and Cream,  or the fact that the Kardashians will be “Kardashing it out of your town soon, or that Shia LeBeouf has no plans of summering in the Hamptons.  And that his last name is something you can grill…


Despite the abysmal economy, refrain, at all costs, from buying the Old Navy five-dollar July 4th t-shirt. You may as well wear a shirt that says “I Heart Cheap Polyester. That Pills. Before I Even Wash It.”

Cheap Shirt

If you are in the city, please understand that just because a patch of grass has pushed its way through some concrete, this is not an invitation to set up a hibachi, pig-roasting spit or aluminum table big enough to seat all of the original colonists.


You don’t have to eat red white and blue foods in order to demonstrate your patriotism. Those gross greasy dessert shells filled with berries and Cool Whip don’t say, “Happy July 4th.” Ditto a sheet cake with red and white frosting stripes and blueberry stars. They just say “I’m white.” I’m so, so, so white…

Blueberry and Raspberry Cake


You can’t sing “Star Spangled Banner.” You don’t know the lyrics. Even if you do, you don’t have the vocal range. And even if you do, you don’t know which war this was written during, and unless someone yells, “Play ball!” immediately after, no one, but no one wants to hear you sing this. Or anything else, probably.


I’d rather someone wish me a canker sore than “Happy Independence Day!” Did I just win Mega Millions? Is every irritating person I have to deal with going to magically be surgically removed from my life? Why are you wishing anyone “A Happy 4th?” At best it’s a 4-day weekend, at worst, it’s a traffic jam on the Jersey side of the GW Bridge. Ft. Lee’s nice – when you’re driving it through it at 50 mph.


The Uncle Sam pants and hat. Don’t. Not on a dare, not because of a threat, not if promised a handsome financial reward. Just say no.

Uncle Sam Costume


Do you like your hands? Both of them? All ten fingers? Is your last name “Grucci Brothers”? Please ask yourself these questions over again before EMT wends its way to your house, and your friend has to tell the emergency worker, “It was just some cherry bombs and I think his thumb is somewhere over by the hydrangea bushes. Ka-ka-ka-BOOM!

Kid Holding a Firework

Fireworks Hand Burn


Friday, June 20th, 2014

Every Friday morning, I have to walk west on East 40th Street.  On the northeast corner, there is  a “Hamptons Jitney” bus stop.  Having now walked past there eight Friday mornings in a row, I have drawn many conclusions, including the fact that, other than Puff Daddy, who does not take the Hamptons Jitney, there are no black people weekending in the Hamptons.   As I stumble over the J. Crew satchels and the tan-wannabes whose shoulders they hang from, THE giant Jackie O sunglasses and whatever length linen shorts Banana Republic is pushing this season, it is a picture, and not a pretty one, a sign that  summer is upon us.   Yes, I know the unofficial start of summer is Memorial Day Weekend,  but let’s keep things real – summer officially arrives on June 21.  It’s an important day for me, because from that day forward, the days, though by mere minutes, get shorter and shorter.  I love it.  Why?  Because I HATE the summer.

But Mollie, you wonder, how is that possible? Summer is the  season of the year.  The barbecues!  The iced teas!  Tennis!  Swimming!  Hiking!  (Am I the only person on the planet who hated Hike Day at sleep-away camp more than I hated Write-a-Letter-Home-to-Get-Into Dining Hall-Day? ) Okay, then, Mollie – what about the people who don’t feel well when the days are shorter?  What about them?  Those pathetic unfortunates who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder?  Wait. I have to stop laughing.   It is not a “disorder.”  It is a “whine.”“OCD” is a disorder – call me when you’re washing your hands 113 times with liquid anti-bacterial soap before tapping the faucet elevendy  times, and then tapping the bathroom door-knob 3x the number of second cousins you have.   ADHD  is a disorder.  Let me know when you can’t sit still for more than 9 seconds without wanting to color in the Bronx with a box of Crayolas.  Those are disorders. Seasonal Affective Disorder?  Note that it doesn’t specify which season.   I like cloudy, cool, rainy days so if August is all sunshine and bright skies, do I get a mental health day too?   What could I possibly hate about the summer in New York?  Well, for starters…


Even if it’s toned and tanned, polished and pedicured, sexy and slamming,  I would like a choice, when I walk out onto the streets, as to whether or not I want to look at your body.   In the winter, at least things are covered up – in the summer, my eyes are assaulted by your asinine tattoos, belly button rings, ugly toes,  – pedicures are like neon signs that call attention to one of the ugliest parts of the human anatomy. Is the toe next to your big toe longer than your big toe?  Isn’t it bad enough that you know it?  Do you think the fact that it’s polished Petal Pink makes it any less gross?

What’s up with the giant liters of water? Are you a survivalist?  Then go back to your crazy cabin in the woods with the bear traps and your freeze-dried packs of inedible shit, and your guns — let’s not leave out your guns.  Are you in the middle of the Serengeti? Just finished running some stupid marathon for no reason other than “I can!”  No, you are probably eight feet from a Duane Reade or a CVS.  Yet there you are, carting around a gallon or Fiji Water like you’re some sort of urban mule, corner man at a prize fight, or member of the Bucket Brigade.  AND STOP USING THE WORD “HYDRATING” NOW!  You’re drinking.  You don’t sound anymore fit or smart or hip by saying, “I’m hydrating.”  Really.  Using big words that weren’t necessary 40 or 50 years ago – am doubting there were no “hydrating fountains” at the local elementary school — add to your pretentious scorecard and, after the SmartWater purchase and the purple yoga mat slung over you like a quiver of arrows, you don’t need the points.

Summer footwear.   Chuck Taylor High Top sneakers and Capri pants don’t look great on a 47-year-old woman, even if she’s a hard body.  Crocs don’t look good on anybody.  Gladiator sandals. Oh you have them.  You know you do. Are you throwing Christians or lions into the Colosseum or participating in a chariot race or meeting Ben Hur for a mojito?   Why are these atrocities on your feet?  If Elle and Harper’s Bazaar and Glamour were telling you to wear chandeliers on your feet or watermelon rinds,  would you?  We both know the answer. Those of us who refuse to become Anna Wintour pod-people use this as a good rule of thumb:  if I’m walking down the street and someone yells, “Yo, Agrippina!” and I don’t turn around, I would probably feel silly in gladiator sandals.   Get a pair of Keds so I don’t have to laugh at you.

Outdoor cafes.  In Paris, maybe.  In New York, get them off my sidewalks.  I don’t want to walk down Madison Avenue and have to watch you chow down on a Caesar Chicken Salad.  Nice piece of Romaine stuck between your teeth and by the way it’s me and not the person you’re dining with that’s pointing that out.  At the very least, let them pick up the check.   Do you think eating a turkey burger outdoors on 9th Street  between Avenue A and Avenue B makes you look European?  Your dead ancestors, the ones who shoved newspapers in their shoes to make them fit, who made a boiled potato last for a week – they are laughing at you.

I have to wait even longer at Starbucks.  A White Mocha Valencia Double Espresso Non-Fat DeCaf Machiatto is now also served as a an Iced Mocha Valencia Double Espresso Non-Far DeCaf Machiatto.  People don’t fare well having to choose among chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.   Double their choices, I’m buying a can of Diet Coke from the falafel guy.  Thanks, summer.

Just because there is physical room to set up a habachi or grill someplace doesn’t mean you should.  Do you think I should look at a bunch of people  roasting a pig in East River Park while I’m driving on the FDR?  You’d kill for a hotdog right off the grill?  Go camping, go to a family reunion – a gas grill on your 2foot by 2foot terrace is only one  lit cigarette away from KABOOM! .  Dying for a ‘Smores?  Go back to Boy Scouts Camp – maybe you can earn another badge…

If you have to blast music from your car  with the windows rolled down so that the glass windows of every store on the street and every person’s spleen shake like they would during a 3.4 earthquake, then you are not only selfish, but moronic.  Do you think anyone, on their way to or from work, stressed people, put-upon people, people in a hurry, are really impressed that you have  a Monoblock Jackhammer Amplifier, 6” x 9” three-way speakers, dual 4 ohm sub-woofers?  Do you think random people will just either tune it out or really want to hear 50 Cent, at 85 decibels, impart the following?

You can find me in the club, bottle full of Bud
Mama, I got that X, if you into takin’ drugs
I’m into having sex, I ain’t into making love
So come give me a hug if you into getting rubbed 

Yo – read a book.  Word.


Now I have to read your ironic or otherwise stupid t-shirts.  In the winter at least they are layered under your Army surplus  jacket and flannel shirt.  Now it’s coming straight at me in 72-point type — MEAN PEOPLE SUCK.  So does your shirt.


You love your girlfriend?  Swell. You’re hot for your new boyfriend?  Cool.  But when you walk in front of me in the summer, and you have your hand down her jeans back pocket, or you’re cupping her butt or you stop to shove your tongues down each other’s throats, or think grinding on the street as though you’re at some middle school dance,  makes me remember young love, you’re as wrong as you were when you thought Los Angeles was the capital of California.  You have crossed the line.  It’s getting’ hot out herrr-rreee – but keep on all your clothes.  And get a f**king room.


Sweat.  It’s not pretty in a gym.  It’s not even pretty during sex and it’s certainly not pretty when you are a strap-hanger on the “D” train, standing above me.  Body odor + cologne = Aramis-scented body odor.  Shower. This is not only hygienic – it is a public service.

July 4th.  In concept and in history it’s a significant, meaningful date.   In New York, it’s ADHD kids throwing cherry bombs and blowing a finger or two off in the process.  Fireworks.  Oooooh.  There.  I said it. Ooooooh.   Ahhhhhhhh. I said them both.   Now you don’t have to.  And for all of you who think you got a real bargain with the Old Navy $5 Fourth of July t-shirt when what you really got was a shirt that says, “I Didn’t Go Anywhere and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.


Saturday, June 14th, 2014


      In a city that boasts more panic attacks than cockroaches, I’m certain those of you who live here don’t need me to advise you on anxiety attack catalysts.  But for the truly calm among you – Namaste, nice yoga mat, LoulouLemon rules –switching it up now and then isn’t a bad idea.   And so, as a service, I’ve taken the liberty of listing the absolutely finest places in New York City to get your panic attack on…


      I am one of the few native New Yorkers who remembers SoHo when real read – poor artists lived there among the  factories and the warehouses.  The dopey, trendy stores were few and far between, Spring Street Natural Restaurant was still on Spring Street and there were a few actual bodegas.  But you can’t stop progress, and by the late 80s, the lofts were being bought up by investment bankers who referred to their lofts as “their space,” and rich parents from rich towns in Connecticut and Westchester and Long Island, who purchased them for their trust fund kids, in an effort to fool everyone into thinking that an editorial assistant making $18,000 a year could easily afford a million dollar loft.

            It has devolved further over the decades, becoming a neighborhood occupied by people who could buy Zucotti Park, Mergers and Acquisitions Ivy Leaguers who love to say, “I live in SoHo,” thinking that you’re thinking, “I wonder what kind of painter he is,” or “Gee – he’s like Alan Bates in An Unmarried Woman!”  Attention, investment bankers and hedge fund managers – we know you don’t know the difference between a Manet and a Monet, a Calder mobile and a mobile phone, an impressionist painter and an impressionist.

        SoHo 2014 = outdoors Short Hills mall.  You want an art  gallery?  Go to Chelsea.  You want Warby Parker sunglasses, a new case for your new iPad Air, want to calculate how many years you’ll have to work before you could afford a button at the Chloe Boutique on Greene Street?  This is your place.  It’s like a reverse Calcutta – thousands and thousands of people on the street, moving forward for no apparent reason, wandering aimlessly from block to block, wanting, desperately, to buy anything.  It’s the bald man in his sixties, arm-in-arm with the Swedish model who’s carrying enough high-end shopping bags to stock Rodeo Drive, the group of suburban teenage girls flash-mobbing Victoria’s Secret,  grandparents buying infant onesies from vendors who look like they haven’t bathed since they were in onesies. 

       There are no museums in SoHo.  There are no monuments, cathedrals, landmarks.   Don’t they sell Vuitton in Paris?  Then why are French tourists asking me, “Où est le Louis Vuitton shop?”  Why is there an entire store that sells nothing but Nespresso coffee makers? 

How many people come to SoHo to buy a $500 Espresso maker, made, by the way, not by some Italian coffee dynasty but by Nestle, the same company that makes the Crunch bar and Hot Pockets. I secretly think the coffee stuff is just a front and that they sell pot in the back, because with rent that’s almost $1,000 a square foot, really, how many trays of Hazelino coffee pods can they move in a day? Maui-Wowwie and Acapulco Gold pods – a whole other story…



      On the other end of the spectrum is Old Navy.  Now kudos for selling cheap crap and pricing it accordingly.  Do I want to spend five bucks on a pair of flip-flops, which is probably 4 bucks more than they cost to make, or must I have Havianas on my feet, which probably cost 2.4 Brazilian reals ($1 USD), and can pretty much look like flip-flops they sell at CVS.   Yes, I know the Havianas are supposed to be better for my feet but I’m not on “Survivor: The Galapagos” – I’m walking from my apartment to the laundry room, a boardwalk to the beach, the laundry room back to my apartment.  

It’s hard to believe that there are so many people who want, for the most part, really icky clothes made from cheap material that seem to come in sizes from “American Girl” to “American Buffalo.” Elastic.  Yay.   I know that it’s cheaper to buy a cartful of turquoise faux-wrap jersey dresses and hideous cap-sleeve chiffon blouses than a sandwich at Dean & DeLuca.  But from the moment you enter and are greeted by the hopped-up employees offering you a parachute-sized sack to stuff your logo-zip hoodies and cropped-drapey Capris into,  to the time you look at the other shoppers and think, “Ewwww – but I know when I wear that stone-washed mini, it will look like it’s from Bergdorf’s,” it’s a sartorial and five-sense invasive nightmare.  Even the name of the store makes me nervous because I don’t know what it means.  “Old Navy”?  Is  there a “new” Navy or a “young” Navy?  Is it the branch of the military or is it the color?  Or maybe it’s the bean.  There’s no “Old” Macy’s.  There’s “Old Spice,” but that’s a cheap after-shave.  Cheap after-shave, cheap crop-tops – see the connection?  Me neither.  Just stay away from the Old Navy 4th of July t-shirts.  They’re pilling.  Already. (more…)


Thursday, May 1st, 2014

Are you too old to be a dad?  Yes, I know – you may have been blessed with super-sperm but hey you – with the osteoarthritis and reading glasses – is your young “trophy wife” that much of a “trophy” if you have to start listening to Brahm’s Lullaby again?  You broke the mobile thirty years ago.  On purpose.  Are you sure?




“Not me,” you think.  I’m young at heart and virile and I’m a New Yorker and New Yorkers can do anything they set their minds to. If you think I’m going to marry a woman who has to take bioidentical hormones and has chin-whiskers, you’re nuts!” Perhaps so.  You are  so special. Just like your grandchildren from your first marriage. You are a new species, grand-daddy-new dads – I dub thee Elderdad Annoyingus.


 One can often spot Elderdad Annoyingus walking the streets of trendy-only neighborhood of any major city.   He is usually accompanied by his tall, lithe, often WASP, always blonde third wife and their children whom, more often than not, are named “Ava,” or “Sophie,” “Griffith,” or “Maxmillian,” and whom you will always mistake for his grandchildren.

Elderdad also has“practice” children from his previous marriages, parental “PSATS” if you will and, after an Amstel or six, he will confide, with a weather-worn smile and hail-fellow-well-met crinkle in his eye, that his current kids “are profiting from all the mistakes I made with my older kids!”  That’s peachy, Elderdad  Perhaps when your older kids get out of Hazelden or the Betty Ford Clinic, little Zelda or Trey will tell them what a fab dad you are now!


         Like many species, Elderdad is most comfortable among his own, which explains why you can usually find him either wandering aimlessly through Whole Foods, eager to spend as much for a pound of organic red grapes as he would on an area rug, or at his kids’ softball or soccer games, attempting to bond with the younger dads.   Behind his back, the younger dads will refer to him as either “the old guy,” or “PopPop. ”  That is, unless, Elderdad suggests that they all go “shoot some hoops,” at which point they will just call him “asshole” to his face.


         Other distinguishing features of Elderdad include his always unappealing head of hair, gray, graying or white, and either severely receding or pathetically pony-tailed. 


When it comes to outerwear, Elderdad prefers either a baseball jacket with either the “Law and Order” or “Tribeca Film Festival” logo on the back, or three-quarter length, obscenely expensive black leather coat, preferably from Paul Smith.




         Elderdad’s environment is excruciatingly important, in fact key to the continued existence of his species.  He is happiest on land anywhere in SoHo, Tribeca and Park Slope, and characteristically does better in a loft, which he will always refer to as his “space.”   Though he wouldn’t think of living anywhere else, Elderdad and his family need to get out of New York, (which he always refers to as “the city,”), often.  In fact, he thrive on vacations, which Wife Number Three, in an attempt to sound European, will refer to as “holiday.”  And, while Elderdad’s politics lean notoriously to the left,  he’ll always opt to “holiday” in Vail, South Hampton or Jackson Hole, Wyoming, places where’d you have an easier time finding a Hyundai Elantra than you would a person of color.



Tuesday, February 11th, 2014

Those of you who know me may be thinking I’m so cynical, this is one holiday I  could never embrace.  And you’d be right.  But not because I’m against romance.  I love romance.  I just don’t find love and predictability and crazy expectations compatible.  Or romantic.


            Romance, like art and fashion taste, is subjective.  I cry every time I watch Brief Encounter or read Anna Karenina and I will believe in the love of Meggie and Father Ralph ‘til the day I die.  I think it’s romantic to endlessly browse in a bookstore on a Sunday afternoon or to step out onto a New York street right after it snows and hasn’t yet been slushified.  Cape Cod is romantic.  The Parisian cemetery Pere La Chaise is one of the most romantic places on earth.  Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On” is romantic.  Anything sung by James Taylor oozes romance.  Sinatra’s One For My Baby” is the romantic equivalent of orange juice concentrate.


            Now, for you, walking around with an amusement park stuffed bear the size of a loveseat that your date just won for you, might do the trick.  Or eating spaghetti like “Lady and the Tramp, or sipping those alcoholic neon-colored drinks with more fruit garnish than your Weight Watchers points for a month floating in them – these might spell romance for you.  Clearly, one person’s romance is another person’s laugh-riot.


      Maybe you find it romantic to buy pounds of chocolate or Shari’s Berries or gold chains or teensy diamond chips glued around a sterling silver heart on the same day as 20 million other people.  Perhaps you enjoy the “romance” of your spouse, your girlfriend, your mom, your kid, all having their hands out like Oliver Twist at the orphanage/workhouse, only gruel’s the furthest thing from their minds?


            If you do the math, few of you actually wind up feeling good on Valentine’s Day because:


1)   You’re alone and you don’t want to be

2)   You just dumped someone

3)   You just got dumped

4)   You just got dumped by text

5)   You just got dumped by text and emoticons

6)   You’re with someone and you don’t want to be.

7)   You’re married and you’re pretty sure you settled.

8)   You’re married and you’re positive you settled.

9)   You’re married and you’re positive you settled and the rest of us know it.

10)                 You’re still in love with that girl or guy from camp or college.

11)                 You delusionally think this first love feels the same way and is pining for you on Valentine’s Day.

12)                 You still remember how it felt in third grade when you got two Valentine’s Day cards when the class average was eleven.

13)                 That jerk from Accounting puts red and pink foil chocolate hearts on everyone’s desk, “just because…”

14)                 Your last girlfriend wanted yellow roses and you got her red ones.  Or carnations.

15)                 Your lover expected a box of Vosges chocolates, not a Whitman’s Sampler, you cheap bastard.

16)                 You got her jewelry instead of chocolate because “you think I’m fat—right?  Right?  Just say it!”

17)                 Last year your boyfriend got you that Jane Seymour fugly double-heart atrocity necklace and now you just shudder at the mere thought of the word “Jared.”



So, Happy Valentine’s Day to the believers among you, but just remember….


·      A chocolate rose wrapped in red tin foil is just stupid and you will wind up eating teeny bits of foil along with the low-grade chocolate-flavored lard that thing is made of.



·            *      Valentine’s Day cards that say, “I Love You Thhhisssssss Much” with paper arms popping out when you open them are not romantic  — they’re cumbersome, clichéd and there is no   such word as “Thhhhissssss.”


*    Anyone who gives you a single rose couldn’t afford the whole dozen. 



·                  *If you’re over 12, homemade Valentine’s Day cards are not romantic.  They’re an Arts & Crafts project, made by  the same people responsible for turning the words “craft” and “scrapbook” into verbs.  Those who say they really prefer giving and getting homemade gifts are like the people who say Brooklyn’s a better place to live in than Manhattan. Liars.  Unless you need to borrow some Scotch tape or a glitter glue gun, develop some self-esteem.



·      Any day that ‘s good for the Hallmark Channel has nothing to do with nostalgia or romance.  It has to do with money.  A huge and annoying offshoot of  Hallmark Cards, whose CEO is still sad they can’t come up with cards and paper tablecloths and “World’s Best Memorial Day Celebrator!” statuettes, will flood its television channel with films like “Destiny’s In Love,” “Love Is Destiny,” “A Dozen Roses for Rose,” “Will You Marry Me?”, “Love Will Keep Us Together, “Love Has Torn Us Apart,” “Love Has Torn Us Apart and Now We’re Together.”  All of these will star Lisa Hartman-Black, Kelly Williams-Presley, or Alexa Bledel.  Don’t believe in happy endings?  Hallmark does.  Cha-ching.


·      And while we’re on the subject of Hallmark, how about the Valentine’s Day cards that are “from the dog,” or “from the cat”?  Really?  Really?  I’m kinda thinking that if my cat or dog were granted opposable thumbs, a MetroCard and the chance to do something human, mailing a greeting card would be pretty low down on the list.  “And guess who else has a card for you?”  If you’re going to anthropomorphize your puppy or kitty, why not have them pretend-pick up the dinner check or clean the apartment.  Or better yet, mine.


·      You don’t know me, and, chances are you wouldn’t like me if you did.  So when I walk into your Walgreen’s or Gap, unless your greeting comes with a Cartier tank watch or Botega Veneta Napa Tote, please – no “Happy Valentine’s Day!”  Can I get an “amen”?


·      “Love” is not all you need.  Just ask anyone whose healthcare premiums have just quadrupled.


·      Please – for the sake of every sane person in New York who is not your child’s parents, (think about that for a minute), don’t dress your ten-month old with the Michelin tire-thighs up as Cupid on Valentine’s Day.  We don’t think it’s cute.  We don’t think your child is cute.  In fact, we think you and your partner should have used a condom.  Thanks in advance.


·      Why are you wearing red to work on Valentine’s Day?  If you’re at work, then it isn’t a real holiday because – well – you’re at work.  Also, it’s so predictable.  It reminds us that in four weeks you’ll be wearing that “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” t-shirt and stinking from green-beer-breath.  This year, why not try a “Kiss Me, I’m Bill Gates” t-shirt, which I’m certain would be both unique and more effective.


·      Don’t put giant red hearts on your front door.  No one’s trick-or-treating.  No one’s stopping by for egg nog.  If you and your partner are so in love, why, when I’m waiting for the elevator, must I listen to the two of you shout, “Why did I marry you – you’re a pig!” and “Hitting you would be worth the night in jail – at least you wouldn’t be there!”  Just because the holiday’s a charade, it doesn’t mean you have to be one, too. 


Tuesday, December 31st, 2013







 If you think and therefore you are, why is there no evidence of this in your tweets?

Does the word “hashtag” make you feel cool?  “In”?  “With it”?  Did you know the symbol “#” means “number,” not “hashtag”?  If someone started calling “&” (ampersand) “fingerling potato,” would you follow suit?  Why don’t we just re-name all symbols and then really go to hell with ourselves and give all words and symbols different meanings from what they have now?  That would really fool the Germans.  Let’s have  a really secret language.  And then you couldn’t talk to anyone because no one would understand you.  And that  would make you cooler than Bob Dylan and Patti Smith and Johnny Cash and T Bone Burnett, who you’ll be quoting right after you see the new Coen Brothers film. And then you could tweet about that and people will understand those tweets about as much as they do your current tweets. Hashtag.


 Your “Woke up this morning and really craved bacon,” tweet, is yet another reason the only “friends” you have are on Facebook.




You have stooped so low in your conquest of information on Justin Beiber, Taylor Swift and Joe Jonas that even the lobsters and mussels must look down to see you.




If you identify yourself as a literary agent and then are smarmy enough to say, “no submissions through Twitter,” then why the fuck do you identify what you do?  So that crackheads feel bad?  So that your middle school English class can say, “Of course – she was the only one who understood ‘Silas Marner?” 

Or the poor English teacher who’s been trying to get his novel published since 1986 and had the nerve to give you an A- one semester, now feels bad?  Believe me – he remembers prime numbers more than he remembers you.  Why not identify yourself as “millner”? or “cotswain” or a “pickler.”  Or how about what you really are – “ an arrogant a-hole.”






Why do you think it’s any less horrid to tweet that you “love YA fantasy books, hot cocoa, micro-brewed beer and kettle corn, cat curled at my feet,” than to tweet, “smelled my belly lint, chews tin foil, stalks tow-headed children, snorts paprika, eats uncooked chicken fat”?




 I only care about the weather if I live in your city or plan to travel there.  So for the tweeter who consistently tweets, “Another beautiful day in Okinawa…”  Really?   Why?  Is it up for hosting the Olympic Summer Games 2020?  Do I need the coordinates to make me feel bad about Pearl Harbor?  “It’s hailing here in Okinawa,” would be interesting once in a while.  Or, “Tasmanian Devil Loose in Okinawa.”  Or “Wow – they sure sell a lot of 100% coral calcium here in Okinawa.”




If you don’t lack the skill to tweet something even minimally amusing, (and you don’t), then why are you re-tweeting someone else’s words?  It’s like having your mom do your term papers for you.  You remember that.




We can see who you follow on your Twitter account. People followed Jesus, people followed Buddha, people followed the Beatles.  You are following Bettheny Frankel and we know it and when we run into you we feel all skeevey and embarrassed and, at the same time, we are laughing at you.  Not with you.  At you.  Now go have a Skinny Girl Margharita.




8)   We both know that 9/10ths of the people who “follow” you on Twitter are those you followed first and they just returned the favor.  They couldn’t pick you out of a police line-up.  Nor would they want to.




9)  I am, however, impressed that you have 140 characters’ worth of something to say.  Note that I did not say 140 characters’ worth of intelligent or witty or awe-inspiring to say.  And sometimes, nothing is better than something.






 Now you’re tweeting and using photographs.  That’s like going on the “It’s A Small World” ride at Disneyland and singing along.  Out loud.




When did you become so interesting?  If you do a mental check through the decades of your life, you’ll come up with the same answer I’ve done it for you –  never.  You weren’t fun in middle school.  In camp, you were the one whose sheets we’d short and candy we’d steal.  In college, we’d tell you we were studying at the library when in fact we were going to a kegger and didn’t want you to bring the room down.  You’ve spent most of your life nodding, saying, “Uh-huh,” and “good idea.”  Now you think you’re Oscar Wilde.  No, no  -you’re the one who inspired Oscar Wilde to say,   “either you or that wallpaper will have to go.  And it’s not the wallpaper.”





Stop your goddamned hipster tweeting about trending foods because you are the reason the trend ends.  Wonder what happened to artesenal cheese, kale chips, salty caramel, tapas?  Check your fridge. Wine-pairing makes bedazzling sound like fun.


Your cat.  Stop.  If  your cat could talk, he would say, “stop tweeting about me or I’ll sue you for all the cat cookies and rainbow trout in the world.”  “Prudence at my feet, mulled cider and a Madelaine in my hand, 

(wow- not only are we not impressed that you read Proust, knowing what this cookie is is not proof-positive anyway),  down-alternative comforter swaths my body.  Nothing better.” Yes there is.  Syrup of Ipacac.  Bad Chinese food on a 102-degree day immediately followed by a nasty roller coaster ride.




Monday, November 25th, 2013



 Thanksgiving.  A national holiday.  No religious undertones.  Non-sectarian.  No presents to buy.  Time to gather with family.  Time to give thanks.  Many people say it’s their favorite holiday. Maybe worth re-thinking that…


 A four-day weekend, at last!


  Fabulous if you’ve got the house in the Hamptons, or the chalet in Jackson Hole and pay other people to do what the rest of us have do. You is spoiled, you is rich, you is entitled.



  There’s nothing like actually going to the Macy’s Day Parade.


 Yes, there is – being locked in a meat freezer for half a day.  But at least in a meat freezer, no one’s wearing a hat-scarf-mitten set.  You see, one of the prime advantages of living in New York City and raising your children here is that there are no high school marching bands.  Really –  if you grew up on 3rd Street in the East Village, you’ve made it through life thus far without ever knowing– you don’t know a tuba player, baton twirler or basoonist.  Why you would want to see 47 marching bands, one after the other, after the other? You can’t like felt that much. There’s nothing like going to the Macy’s Day Parade if you don’t mind being squished together with a group of total strangers like cans of smoked mackerel, being goosed either by accident or deliberately, getting kicked in the head by a five-year old behind you sitting on Daddy’s shoulder, whining,  “Puleeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzeeeeee!  Can we take Woody and Buzz Lightyear home, Daddy? Buy them for me!  Puleeeeeezzzzeeeeee!  Now!”

 The likelihood of the wind being strong  enough to push the Snoopy float into a traffic light that falls on your head and knocks you into a coma isn’t great. I suppose if you woke up at 4 am and drove your family in from North Brunswick, New Jersey to get a good spot on the parade route, it’s a chance worth taking.   Waking up at 4 am back in college, standing on line with hallucinogenically impaired friends, waiting to buy Grateful Dead tickets, was a pain in the ass and I was 19 and we were indoors.  But okay – you know better and it’s going to be the experience of a lifetime for your kids.  They won’t remember it and if they do, they’ll blame you for the chapped lips the hypothermia and the lifelong nightmares from a 40-foot floating Ronald McDonald.



 I love the bargains on Black Friday!


 It’s like running with the bulls in Pamplona, only you’re running toward 500-count Egyptian cotton sheets, espresso makers and dress-shirts.



 It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.


 It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas before Halloween.  Say nothing and those huge fake velvet red ribbons and toxic poinsettia will be assaulting your eyes before Labor Day.  Here’s a secret – the only difference between Hershey’s Halloween Chocolate Kisses and Hershey’s Christmas Chocolate Kisses is orange foil vs. red and green foil.  If only they can come up with a foil color that says “Pumpkin Pie” or “Fried Turkey,”—oops, now I’m responsible for that..   

 The Hallmark Channel, i.e., the channel where everyone falls in love or loves their family, or is estranged from their family at the beginning of the film but reunites in a meaningful way in 90 minutes, really ramps it up this time of year.  Prepare yourself for, “A Hallmark Christmas,” “Holly’s in Love,” “A Very Special Christmas,” “It’s Christmas Somewhere,” “Grandpa’s Home for Christmas,” “All I Want for Christmas Is Love, Love, Love,” “Love and the Christmas Spirit,” “Spirit and the Christmas Love,” “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” “Will You Be Home for Christmas?”  “If We’re Both Home for Christmas, We’ll Both Be Home for Christmas – Yippee!,”Kisses Under the Mistletoe,” and my personal favorite, “A Christmas Carole Brady.”


 There’s so much football.


 There’s so much football.



  I have so much to be thankful for!


No you don’t.  If you did, I wouldn’t hear you whining all the time about how you hate your job and want to fricassee your co-workers, or wondering how your brother, the asshole, makes more money than you, or complaining about how you got your mom’s “fat thigh” gene.  That’s why no one wants to be friends with you.  Including me.  Yay!  At last, Something to be thankful for.


  I love starting to think about what to wear at Christmas


 At least there aren’t any whimsical “Thanksgiving” sweaters.  Yet.



  I can’t wait to see all of my family!



  Really? Is your family “The Cosbys”?  That creepy Camden family from “Seventh Heaven”?  The Kennedys before we found out about Jack and his girlfriends, Teddy and his drinking and Chappaquiddick, and dear old anti-Semitic bootlegger Poppa Joe?  You’re not going to play touch football. You don’t have a “compound.”  You’re not sailing on your ketch or your yawl.  But look on the bright side – you’re probably not going to ski into a tree or get dead people to vote for your son or date Larry David’s “Curb Your Enthusiasm” wife as your recently divorced, broke, isolated and depressed wife hangs herself in the barn. See – being a Kennedy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Another thing to be thankful for. 

 You are going to be sitting around a large wood-like particle board table surrounded, perhaps, by a grandma wearing several rubber bands around her wrist for no reason at all, a grandpa in Depends, telling stories about vaudeville, the Great War and how when he was a kid, they paid 50 cents to get into the movies and that was for the main feature and the “B” movie; an aunt who has to be watched because she steals silverware, a cousin who has to show his other cousins how to make milk come out of his nose, the “new parent” couple who think their meatloaf-like three-month old understands String Theory; the “foodie” relative who will make comments like “excellent food profile – a nice balance of sweet and savory, and the bacon crumblings are done to perfection!”

 Everyone, except maybe your anorexic sister-in-law, will stuff himself on turkey and at least one or two relatives will tell you, like they do every year, “You know why you get so tired after eating turkey? Tryptophan!”  You like pretending sweet potato is a pie ingredient?  The baby marshmallows around the circumference still don’t make that “thing” a dessert.  You’ll pretend you prefer the homemade cranberry sauce that’s sour and indigestible to the OceanSpray canned cranberry sauce, that you kind of have to wiggle out of the can and comes out with the can-markings stenciled into it.  I can’t even define “mulled cider,” but if it’s so special, you can drink it the rest of the year too.  Just saying.



Tuesday, August 27th, 2013




       As distasteful as I find E! and any awards show that isn’t giving me an award, I’m not ashamed to admit that I know who Guiliana and Bill Rancic are.  She was E! reporter Guiliana DePandi and he won the first season of Donald Trump’s “The Apprentice.”  He was supposed to get out there and become the next Trump and, although she played a massage girl in “Malibu’s Most Wanted,”  went to school to be a “serious” journalist.

       Alas, the twists and turns life takes.  Today, they are best known as “Guliana and Bill,” just your average 7-figure income couple who have their own reality show, conveniently called “Guliana and Bill.”  Bill claims to know a lot about building huge Donald Trump buildings and, according to Wikipedia, (which means it’s true or his mommy wrote it), he is also a humanitarian and motivational speaker.  Wikipedia also said he owned a condo and sold it, and he owned house and sold it, which I guess, means I’m in real estate too. Motivational speakers are creepy.  Bill Rancic is creepy.  Guliana DePandi Rancic is skinny. Jack Skellington skinny. 

She has the eyes of a pug and the body of a greyhound, which makes her creepier than a motivational speaker.  You’re thinking it.  I’m saying it…

*    Guliana – right now the smallest woman’s dress sizes are XX-small and 00.  The only dresses Mattel make that might work on the red carpet belong to Barbie.  Eat a cashew.

*     Just because Donald Trump named his kid “Baron,” doesn’t mean you had to name your son “Duke.”  Donald Trump could have named his child “Downton Abbey” – he’s that rich.  You may be rich enough to be part of the Hollywood 1% who’ll never share your wealth with anyone but your heirs, but you’re not rich enough to choose a popular dog’s name for your first-born.

*   Fertility problems are not funny.  The fact that you changed the term “surrogate pregnancy” to “gestational carrier” is.

*     There are people who live in mud huts, so when you decide your multi-bedroom fancy L.A. neighborhood, infinity pool mansion isn’t big enough for the two of you and a seven-pound baby, you remind us why the storming of the Bastille couldn’t have happened soon enough.

*     I’ve been trying to figure whose teeth are bigger, Bill’s or Gary Busey’s.  Bill’s are definitely whiter, which I’m sure is important for a motivational speaker and humanitarian like Bill.  By the way, Bill – what kind of motivational speaker are you?  What exactly do you motivate people to do? Floss more often?   Turn a reality show win into a reality show into a reality show?  Prefer Omorosa?  It’s working.

*   I don’t want to say that it’s cloying to listen to you and your wife debate over and over and over again whether to live in Los Angeles or Chicago.  Personally, I’m just glad it’s not New York.

*    Guliana – you need some perspective.  You’re not on a “real” news show.  The cancellation of Kris Jenner’s talk show is not news.  Miley Cyrus’s new haircut is not news.  Stop the “serious news anchor look” as you throw it back to your co-host. He’s not Walter Cronkite.  He’s Ryan Seacrest.

*     I don’t know why you, Joan Rivers, the Osborne girl  with the scan code tattoo and that guy whose name I can never pronounce or remember, feel comfortable being fashion “Police.”  At what point do you get humiliated?  When do you and/or your husband say, “Um, that’s okay – I’m already on half a dozen mediocre, mind-numbing, specious cable shows.  I’ll pass.”?


Wednesday, July 3rd, 2013


1.  Call it what it really is – a longer weekend where you can wear white to make your tan look tanner. You’re not patriotic. You’re not celebrating the birth of this nation. You’re celebrating the fact that there’s a sale at Blue and Cream.



2. Despite the abysmal economy, refrain, at all costs, from buying the Old Navy five-dollar July 4th t-shirt. You may as well wear a shirt that says “I Heart Cheap Polyester. That Pills. Before I Even Wash It.”



3. If you are in the city, please understand that just because a patch of grass has pushed its way through some concrete, this is not an invitation to set up a hibachi, pig-roasting spit or aluminum table big enough to seat all of the original colonists.



4. You don’t have to eat red white and blue foods in order to demonstrate your patriotism. Those gross greasy dessert shells filled with berries and Cool Whip don’t say, “Happy July 4th.” Ditto a sheet cake with red and white frosting stripes and blueberry stars. They just say “I’m white.” I’m so, so, so white…



5. You can’t sing “Star Spangled Banner.” You don’t know the lyrics. Even if you do, you don’t have the vocal range. And even if you do, you don’t know which war this was written during, and unless someone yells, “Play ball!” immediately after, no one, but no one wants to hear you sing this. Or anything else, probably.



6.  Do you like your hands? Both of them? All ten fingers? Is your last name “Grucci Brothers”? Please ask yourself these questions over again before EMT wends its way to your house, and your friend has to tell the emergency worker, “It was just some cherry bombs and I think his thumb is somewhere over by the hydrangea bushes.” Ka-ka-ka-BOOM!