Posts Tagged ‘anna wintour’


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?


Tuesday, February 19th, 2013

Dear John Galliano, former fashion designer and current anti-Semite,

I’m writing because I saw the photo of you on the front page of the New York Post and couldn’t help but notice your most recent

fashion choice .


Instead of dressing, as you’d say in your former business, more “on-trend,” you – drunk genius that you are – decided to

go “off-trend,” into the historical and religious world of the Hasidic Jew.  Oh – I know – the Jewish community, sensitive souls that we are

– are up n arms, thinking that, once again, you are displaying just un peu of anti-Semitism by picking an outfit resembling that of a

Hasidic Jew.   Of course it wasn’t, for the second time in about a year that you were making  an “I Don’t Heart Jews” statement.   I’m sure

that you just rolled out of bed, grabbed whatever was clean – your Hasidic hat, underneath, I’m certain, was one of your many yarmulkes,

those trousers you love stuffing into your long socks, and, of course, one of your several Hasidic black frock coats.


And I know, John, that unless you blow dry that fabulous frayed, split-ended skanky hair of yours, it just naturally

forms long ringlets. You know – like peyos, only not, because you would never mock the Jewish people.    You could try to blame

it on the booze.  It seemed to work last time, particularly with Whoopi Goldberg, who’d said she’d have been upset with

your “I love Hitler!  Your mothers and fucking forefathers would have been fucking gassed!” rant in Paris last

year if you hadn’t been drinking.  Thanks, Whoopi.  Your time would be better spent growing eye-brows.  But I digress…


Another of your defenders, costume designer Patricia Field, is a woman whose sense of  humor seems to be about as

discombobulated as her sense of fashion.


That’s right – I said it.  The Emperor has Skanky Clothes.


Here’s how it happened, I imagine.  In screenplay format…




Sarah Jessica Parker sits in her dressing room.  She picks up snow globe of New York City, shakes it and giggles.

She then picks up and “I LOVE NEW YORK” t-shirt and hugs it.  She places that down, picks up a New York Yankees hat

and puts it on, takes it off and puts it on with the brim in the back.   She looks into mirror that’s bordered in “I LOVE NEW YORK”

and “BIG APPLE” bumper stickers and talks to her own reflection.


Yeah.  Now that’s New York.


She adjusts hat, then puts 14K apple on chain around her neck.


SARAH (cont’d)

I may really come from Ohio but viewers these days have

trouble distinguishing  between what’s real and what’s on

television.  When “The West Wing” was on, they thought Martin

Sheen was the real president.


KNOCK ON DOOR:  A red-haired Cousin It enters.  It is costume designer, PATRICIA FIELDS.  She carries many outfits on hangers and

a lit cigarette hangs out of her mouth, parting her hair.



Thank you, thank you, thank you Sarah Jessica Parker and your

Sex and The City” show for resurrecting my career.  Before you, I

had a little hole-in-the-wall shop on 8th Street off University

Place, catering mostly to “women” whose average shoe size

was a 13 ½. Triple E.



You’re so welcome.  What do you think is more “New York”?  Warm pretzel

with mustard or dirty water dog?  I have to give a speech and…


Field begins throwing clothes at Sarah Jessica.



Let’s  see – a polka dot cardigan over a Mickey Mouse t-shirt,

pleated cupcake holder-as-hat, Catholic school pleated plaid

skirt, argyle knee socks and toe shoes…



Can the toe-shoes have a really high heel?



I don’t see why not!  You are my muse!



Actually, I think your muse was my great-grandmother when she

got off the boat on Ellis Island.  Nana Pearl was wearing on her

person three seasons worth of clothing because her cardboard suitcase

broke.  So she wore necklaces over schmattas over a sable coat under her

housecoat, over 14 blouses and several sweater-vests.



Yes – she does sound like my muse…



…and all those rubber-bands around her wrist.

Like those yellow “LiveStrong” bands, only more

Eastern European “ghetto…”



Eastern European “ghetto.”  Yes, I like that.

Speaking of those Jews…



Um…I am one of those Jews…



Poor Galliano.  Just because he said, “I love

Hitler!”  and  “people like you would be dead

today. Your mothers, your forefathers, would be

gassed and… dead…”



Ouch!  Not very nice…



Don’t you people get it?  It was theatre!

It was farce!



So that means we can make Armenian

slaughter jokes – you know, call it a “tour

 de force!”  or “improv at its best!” and you

won’t be offended?


Patricia Field picks up cushion full of pins and sticks them into Sarah Jessica’s chin, one at a time.


And then there’s Ms. Anna Wintour,

your other good friend who, when she isn’t growing her bangs long enough to cover

her Botox-injected forehead or forcing Andre Leon Talley to sit next to her so she’ll look

even more gaunt, is busy trying to get you back into the fashion design business.  Avec Oscar de la Renta.

Oy.  As Jerry Seinfeld once said, “Good luck with all that.”


Other designers, thus far, are not that interested.  Calvin Klein said,  “Don’t (cough) think (loser) so!” and Ralph Lauren,

nee Lipshitz, said, “I’m on the phone.  I’m on the phone in Westport, Ct.  My Labrador Retriever is by my side, as is my backgammon

set.  And badminton racquet.  What’s that?  The “n” in “badminton’ is silent?  My bad!”   Isaac Mizrachi purportedly squealed “Oy gevalt!”

and Diane von Furstenberg thinks you’re a little meshugah, though she won’t say it .


So who knows?  I’m sure someone owes Anna Wintour a favor or, at least would like to stay in the pages of “Vogue.”   But, on

the off-chance there is no work for you at a top fashion house, here are but a few alternatives:


*   John Galliano Kosher Pickles on Essex Street – uh, no – that’s not going to work out after all….


*   The Senate’s being a bitch about confirming Chuck Hagel as Secretary of Defense…  the uniform is kinda funky but I’m sure you can amp it

up with something offensive.


*    As they’ve done so much to make the Jewish people proud, perhaps the Emmanuel family – Rahm the Mayor and Ari the

Talent Agent and Ezikiel, the “bioethicist”– might like an adopted brother. You could be like the Marx Brothers.  Only not funny.

Oh wait – they’re Jewish.  Never mind…





*   Fiddler on the Roof is coming back to Broadway.  Tevye’s already been cast but I’m sure they can always us another Cossack.



*  You could dress up as other groups and make even more friends.  First, shout some racist slurs in Mecca and Medina, then

a stroll about the marketplace in a burqa and chador. Vladimir Putin seems to have an excellent sense of humor, so how about a

sable hat, Russian peasant shirt and KGB pin on those days you’re feeling  — I don’t know – a little ‘blah’ and need to be chased

through the streets of St. Petersburg by the Red Army?  There are kimonos and obis and Kabuki make-up, leiderhosen and dirndl

skirts.  Throw in some togas and tunics and you’ve got the World War II Axis nations covered.  And no one will be offended – promise!

*    Fewer and fewer men are choosing  “moile “as a profession.  As you’re almost Hasidic anyway, this could be perfect.  But if it’s been

a while (i.e, never) since you’ve practiced any Jewish rituals.  This one involves removing the foreskin of the penis.  So you might want

to practice a few times. On yourself


*  Mel Gibson doesn’t seem to have as many friends as he used to.  He tends to like men like himself — out-going, confident men who

also happen to hate Jews only when they’re drunk.   Johnny, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship…








Sunday, June 13th, 2010

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.

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 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.