Wednesday, August 17th, 2016



In the great blue room

There was an email server

And lots of pantsuits









And a picture of –

Yassar Arafat’s widow









And there were three more pantsuits

And two little kittens,

Who looked kind of like the Clinton’s cat, Socks, who they gave









away when they got their chocolate lab, Buddy,









Who they weren’t watching too carefully when the

Car ran him over and killed him….

And some expensive china









That was

pilfered from the White House

When the Clintons moved out in 2000

And a little house in Chappaqua

IMG_0950That was great for booty calls

According to the Secret Service….

And a young aide named Huma

Who was married to a man who

Had two names – Anthony Weiner when he was good

And “Carlos Danger” when he was a bad, bad boy.




And a bowlful of “charity” money

To be donated to The Clinton Foundation.

By the Clintons.

To their own foundation.   Am I the only one who

Finds this suspicious?


Attorney General Loretta Lynch does not.







A quiet old lady. In a pantsuit. Who wasn’t really quiet.

Or ladylike.  Who wanted to be president of the United States

Because it was her turn.

And a younger woman named Huma, who was very loyal and

Didn’t even leave Carlos Danger the second time he posted


his weiner on Twitter. Huma gave advice to the not-so-quiet

old lady and took advice too.

Don’t leave Carlos Danger. I didn’t leave Bill after that Monica

Lewinsky right-wing conspiracy. And now I’m going to be






Good night, Jew intern.

Good night, Vince Foster.


Good night, George Dubya

Good night, Benghazi Four

Good night, Carlos Danger — “Oooops-I-Did-It-Again…”





Good night, Omar Mateen-who-I-didn’t-know-was-seated-behind-me-at-rally

Good night, James McDougal

Good night, twelve Clinton bodyguards who died on our watch

Good night, Charles Ruff

Good night, John Ashe

Good night, Sean Lucas and all of the other people that had something to do with

Me and Bill and then just up and died

Good night, Rolling Stone reporter Michael Hastings

Good night, Sally Quinn

Good night, Dick Morris

Good night, Republicans-you-racist-religious-gun-toting-moonshine-

Drinking, sheet-wearing-ham-and-bean-supper-eating-Christians

Good night, Hispanic people – I am your “abuela”

Good night, Black people – you know that I’m one of you even though

The color of my skin means I get a better table at most restaurants and

Salespeople don’t watch me like I’m about to boost all their merch

Good night all you traitorous Dems who forsook me in 2008

Good night, Israel. I love the Jewish people.

Good night, Muslims – I just said that – I really love you more and

Burquas help de-objectify women – Huma told me to say that.

Goodnight, Claire McCaskill

Goodnight American women with shapely ankles who aren’t forced

To hide their unsightly cankles in pantsuits — in my first 100 days

In office I will sign an executive order outlawing skirts and dresses

Goodnight, John Kerry, Secretary of State and Heinz Ketchup heir – you may

Be an idiot but you’re our idiot


Good night, Obama and don’t think that just because you’re endorsing me

Now that I will ever forget your stealing the election from under me in 2008

Good night, Donald Trump who thinks that just because he has a prettier

Daughter people should vote for him









Good night, Bernie Sanders, you socialist with three homes – well done!

Good night, Iran and please remember when you detonate

Your nuclear bomb in ten years that I helped you get it so

Please let me know beforehand so I can hide in Greenland

Goodnight Huma

Goodnight Bill

Goodnight my grandchildren – yo soy su abuela – see? I speak Mexican!


Out, damned spot! out, I say!–One: two: why,
then, ’tis time to do’t.–Hell is murky!–Fie, my 40
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?–Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.


…what was that?  Another vast right-wing conspiracy – of that I am certain.

Goodnight all you Americans who have Obamacare – wait ’til I get my hands on it

Goodnight to my black brothers and sisters – I don’t feel noways tired 

Goodnight America that I will run into the ground




Good night world



Saturday, June 6th, 2015

President Obama was so invested in the Israeli election this year and Israel, I’m guessing, might be interested in the U.S. Presidential election, 2016.   First one out of the Democratic gate — Hillary “shoulda woulda coulda” Clinton.

Like most presidential wannabes, Hillary will need a campaign song. JFK had “High Hopes, “ FDR, “Happy Days Are Here Again,” But, sadly, her handlers have their hands full deflecting, avoiding and denying, so they might not have time for composing. Following John Kennedy’s edict to “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” I have stepped in.

Here’s the thing, Hillary. I’m kind of tone-deaf, so I borrowed the melody from Paul Anka’s iconic “My Way,” one of Frank Sinatra’s biggest hits. But the lyrics? I wrote these just for you, Hillary…

(to the tune of MY WAY)

Hello, it’s Hil-la-ry

I’m back again, I want to serve you                                   

You might be sick of me

But Bill said “run!” and I deserve to                                                                           

To move back to DC                                                           

That’s all I want, to be your POTUS

Forget darned Benghazi!

I’ll tell it my way…


What difference does it make?                            

Those dudes are dead, why do they blame me?

It was just a video

Yet they continue to defame me

I lost a few emails

Thirty-three thou, or was it fifty…

I like to email Bill, my handsome hub – he thinks it’s nifty

To do it my way…


Yes there were times that I was blamed

For scandals we know I was framed

From Whitewater to Travelgate

Deny them all in triplicate

I bob and weave, and I deflect

There’s no one better to elect

And through the smears and all the lies

I spin it my way


I kissed Arafat’s wife

I didn’t know, she was in disguise

She wore a nice chador, I was confused,

Thought we were allies

I just want to step in, want to protect

our precious nation

And add a few more mil to the

Hill and Bill Clinton “Foundation”

And get rich my way…


The servers all have been wiped clean

Blame it on Huma Abedin

My senior aide betrayed me too

I’m quite surprised she’s not a Jew

But wait – I need the Jewish vote

I studied at the yeshivoth

I’m Jewish too, I’m sure I am

I’ll daven my way…


I’m named for Edmond Hillary

Although some doubt it, how that could be?

He climbed Everest after I was born

Who’s keeping track?

I could have sworn!

But I was born five years before

I’ll tell it my way…

When Bill and I moved from DC

We took some flatware and TVs

Some plates and cups, a few armoires

We didn’t know they weren’t ours

Yes there were chairs we took as well

Could not remove that darned doorbell

We needed stuff for Chappaqua

I’ll pack up my way…


I’m going to run, I’m going to win

And much to everyone’s chagrin

I won’t fight fair, that’s not my style

I’m quite the crafty white Gentile

Lewinsky who? We’ve got Carville

And George Souros – he thinks I’m swell

Stephanopolis– see? I can spell

I spell it my way


I’m here to stay, I’ll never leave

There’s nothing that I can’t achieve

And through it all, with nerve and gall

And though my ethics might appall

I’ll just blame Sidney Blumenthal

And do it my way.


Saturday, August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.


So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…



Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.




Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.



Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.



Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.



Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.



Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.



This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.



What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.



I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.



This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…






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…)


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.




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.”?


Sunday, June 16th, 2013










Sunday, April 28th, 2013


Many folks

Down in New York

Liked soda a lot…

 But the Grinch

 Who was Mayor

 Did NOT!


The Grinch hated soda! All kinds of flavors

 Now please don’t ask why.  Looked at all with disfavor!

It could be his palate and tastes were urbane

It could be perhaps that he just drank champagne.

 But I think the most likely reason of all

Was because, as a man well, the Mayor was small.




Whatever the reason,

His height or his wealth

He was too-too concerned with everyone’s health.

Making speeches and statements, he tried best he could

 To convince New Yorkers this was for their own good.

No more soda or smoking or transfats or fun.  

An era of free choice and freedom was done.


“But they’re drinking their sodas,” he snarled with a sneer

They won’t have a chance to at this time next year!

If it’s seventeen ounces of Fanta or Pepsi

They’ll have to be happy with unsweetened Nestea.




Come next year, he knew…

He would have his own way

Not over cranberry juice or OJ

Nor coffee nor liquor nor hot NesCafe

But one day he would!  HAVE HIS WAY!  HAVE HIS WAY!



Why, look at the streets where the traffic once flourished,

There are bikes!  There are bikes!

There are bikes!





They would ride them in bike lanes painted brand-new!

They would ride them on sidewalks, slam into you!



They’d do something

He liked most of all

They’d ride them through all those pedestrian malls!


They’d ride them down Lexington, up Park Avenue

They’d ride where they wanted with no thought of you!


 They’d ride!  And they’d ride!


 Through red lights, on sidewalks, against STOP! Signs too! 

And the Grinch who was Mayor, he hadn’t a clue

“But they’ll be better off just as soon as I’m through”

Said the Grinch who was Mayor who knew…

                                                            …thought HE!



For he had an idea!


A brilliant idea!



 “I know just what to do!” he laughed to himself

Quite a huge idea from one tall as an elf!

“They whine and complain, it’s all so hard to take.

How will they respond when l ban chocolate cake?”


“I will ban all the chocolate

I know that I can!

Chocolate truffles and soufflés, cashews and pecans,

But I won’t stop at that,”

The short mayor said

“I’ll ban brownies and cookies and donuts and bread.”


Then he called Janette Sudik-Khan, Transportation head,

And said “Stop riding your bike, we’ve got work ahead!


He called his daughter

The equestrian one

And said, “Hold your horses!

There’s much to be done!”

“But, Daddy, dear Daddy,

“I don’t mean to whine,

 But my schedule is filled

With all things equine.”

Then I’ll have to rely on one person — that’s me!

And not leave in the hands of petit-bourgoursie

 I will ban all these sweets by Mayoral Decree!


There’ll be no chocolate squares or chocolate parfaits

No more Three Musketeers, nary one Milky Way!

Take all Hershey Kisses and kiss them adieu

So long, Snickers Bars, Almond Joys, Milk Duds too!

And premium chocolates, they haven’t a chance

Don’t care if they’re imported from  Belgium or France

And those dreadful strawberries dipped in chocolate

And those pretzels and raisins and rest of that rot!



And that white chocolate too, ‘cause you can’t fool the Mayor

Small like Paul Simon but still I’m a playa!

Chocolate Santas! Chanukah coins! Easter bunnies too!

Chocolate milk, chocolate pudding! Chocolate fondue!

No more Rocky Road ice cream or mint chocolate chip

I just love a benevolent dictatorship!

My powers are limitless in the Big Apple

And soon all you’ll be drinking is Diet Peach Snapple

I love making unilateral moves in this town

There’ll be no more chocolate,  I’ll ban all foods brown!

That’s right!  I will do it!  Don’t believe me?  Just you wait!

Remember Alexander? Well,  I’m Bloomberg the Great!

 No more hamburger, roast beef or baked potatoes!

No brown gravy, no mushrooms, no more Cheerios!

You’ll never eat brown rice or ribs or whole oats!

Say bye-bye to pumpernickel bread and groats!

 “But why, Mayor Bloomberg, do something so silly?”

 Asked Zooey and Chloe and Jacob and Billy,

 “Why?” asked their parents, “our kids are entitled

 “It’s their wants and desires that are key, that are vital!”

 We loved you Mike Bloomberg, our first three-term mayor

 We knew you’d protect us and the ozone layer

 You wear crewneck sweaters in Grade A cashmere

And agreed to be Mayor for one buck a year!

Why must you tell us what is good and what’s not?

Note:  that arrogant manner doesn’t help you a lot.

We sense that you come to us with no ill intent

Have your aides pointed out your bad Spanish accent?


What’s that noise? groused the Mayor I can’t help but hear

So he stopped.  And put his small hand to his small ear.

“I can see a crowd forming,” the Mayor remarked

“Hope it’s not filthy hipsters from Zucotti Park!”

 Every person in New York, the rich and the poor

Were there to say, “Enough, Mike!  Please! No more!

Some were eating spelt bread, some were drinking blue juice

Mayor Bloomberg’s “suggestions” were being refused!

 You can deal with the unions, the teachers and cops

Attend Broadway openings, the hits and the flops

Bring commerce to New York, more jobs and more tourists


And on your own time you can save the rain forest

The Mayor just grimaced, pressed his face to the pane.

Was perplexed, so confused: who are they to complain?

 I only wanted what was best for them all

Have you seen what I’ve done with pedestrian malls?

 And what happened then?

Well, the Mayor just grumbled, then smiled to himself,

These New Yorkers don’t know what is good for themselves

They need me, they know it, I don’t mean to annoy

I like being in charge, what’s not to enjoy?


Take back your brown food, have a chocolate bar

 Perhaps you are right and I’ve gone way too far

 No more control freak, do whatever you want,

 It’s time for Mike Bloomberg to be nonchalant

 I will live and let live and try not to judge

 I won’t be bitter, I won’t hold a grudge

 You can drink all your sweet drinks and eat chocolate fudge!

 And with that…


 The Grinch who was Mayor took off for D.C.

 With only four years, much to do, much to see

 “Time to change my demeanor, never meant to be mean”

 “I can compromise surely, find the “in between”

Bloomberg/Sudik-Khan in 2016!


I can ban DuPont Circle, maybe make it a square

 Close the Capital Steps, institute BloombergCare

 Turn the National Mall to a pedestrian space

 Give the Lincoln Memorial a handsomer face


Get those pandas from China to try and slim down

 Move the White House to more desirable Georgetown

 Add bike lanes to the Beltway, maybe have a marathon

 Build a Mike Bloomberg wing at the Smithsonian


I will have so many things to change and see to

 I just love politics – there’s soooooo much to do!



Sunday, December 2nd, 2012



I NO U R hard-pressed 4 time.  I NO U have so much to say.  And I NO that if U don’t communicate all of those brilliant thoughts, revelations and observations the second you have them, U will absolutely die.  If it weren’t for the Smart Phone, you’d have to just walk when you were outside or driving.  You couldn’t check your emails unless you were at home or the office.  The fact that we are of different generations may have something to do with this, but I do see people in their 40s, 50s, 60s with the same affliction, so perhaps age is irrelevant.  Perhaps it’s a mindset.  A mindset I don’t get.



1.  Who are you texting all the time?  Aren’t they annoyed?  Maybe they’re not reading your texts.  Maybe they just wait a few seconds and text back anything random, but you are so self-involved you never notice:

YOU:  “And then the guy at Bst By asked Y wood U want a Samsung Gal3 when, 4 50 bucks more U can gt a Gal4 &…

YOUR FRIEND:  LOL – broccoli rabe!

YOU: But the IPhone with 18% more pixels w/1136×640 rez +…

YOUR FRIEND:  FIIK!  Peach schnapps with a Flexi-Straw.


2.  What are you texting all the time?  “I’m taking the ‘6’ train”?  “The fruit and vegetable vendor is selling avocados and mangos”?  You think Trader Joe’s will be out of tiramisu”?   “YOLO!” and this is how you spend yours?  ROTFL.


3.  You don’t have to check your email.  I don’t know you, I couldn’t pick you out of a police line-up.  Here’s your email:

Piperlime Sale!  Free Shipping for purchases over $99!

Your Pharm4cy 0rder!

Online biz opportunity!  Work at home!

The Hottest Site on the Net!


4.  Stop tweeting.  If you were witty, your friends and family would have noticed by now.  I don’t want to know your inner-most thoughts and I really don’t want to know your political views, especially since you didn’t have them until you watched the “Daily Show” last night.   Why are you following Lena Dunham?   Is she funny-funny or do you have to like her, like you have to like skinny jeans even though you get UTIs from them?  Everyone else your age likes or purports to like her, so it’s probably not PC in your generation to say, “meh – not so much.”  Okay – let me articulate my point via relativity theory– “Honey Boo Boo” or”Girls”?

Filmmaker and actress Lena Dunham.

Game over.


5.  Make sure I can see your ear-buds because it’s awfully hard to tell the difference between a self-absorbed Yuppie on a Smart Phone and a delusional schizophrenic who thinks he’s on a Smart Phone.  No contest as to which conversation I’d rather overhear.


6.   Most people have trouble multi-tasking.  You’re probably one of them.  In any case, you can’t do more than one thing really well at the same time.  For example, Itzhak Perlman could probably play the violin and suck on a lime Lifesaver candy at the same time.


Madame Curie could have possibly discovered Radium while planning Sunday brunch in her head.

Derek Jeter could perhaps hit a walk-off triple as  he hums “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” to himself.

But I’m guessing each of these amazingly talented people concentrated on the matter at hand.  And yet you – average you – feel capable of walking, texting, not looking at the direction your feet are taking you, crossing a street, perhaps at a red light, with the utmost faith in your fellow man.  Do you see the irony in the fact that you are, in all probability not particularly proficient in any of the above?  Do you see the homeless woman with the giant trash bag overfilled with empty soda cans coming toward you?  How about the Maclaren Twin Techno stroller barreling toward your torso?  Or people like me, who see you coming and, on principle, refuse to step even an inch out of your way?  I will stand there like Lot’s wife, (after she is turned into a pillar of salt), and wait.

Will you be the texter who, at the very last second makes a hard right or left and avoids contact?  Or the one so self-absorbed that I’m that glass patio door you think is open until the shards of glass are poking through your forearms and you look like one of those dumb-ass wedding chocolate fountains, only  blood-flavor?


7.    What happened to your ability to spell?  Do you notice that it is getting worse and worse and wurse?  Do U notice your attention span is getting shorter?  Are you at all bothered by the fact that when a store has a sign that says, “BIG SAIL TODAY!” your first thought is, “I wonder if it’s a ‘final’ sail”?  How about the fact that if someone took away your Smart Phone, “smart” would probably not be one of the first adjectives people would use to describe you?


8.   If you can afford the data rates you shouldn’t have been “occupying” anything.

How cellphone cameras shape OWS


9.    Could you please Stop sending photos and stop taking Instagram photos.  You know who wants to see photos of your new baby?  Here’s who wants to see them…

1) Your parents

2) Your partner’s parents.

3) Your grandparents

4) Your partner’s grandparents

3) I’m trying to be nice here but I can’t think of anyone else.


10.   Why are you texting the person sitting across the table from you when you are on a dinner date? Are you texting one another instead of talking?  Are you calling for take-out?  Or, are you the dating equivalent of Gallagher and need props to break the ice?

Well????   Stop texting, for fuck’s sake and answer me.   NVM.  FWIW, IDGAF. Really.



Sunday, March 25th, 2012


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