You Take The Good, You Take The Bad

Nobody rocked a loose bun while dispensing words of wisdom at an upstate girls' school quite like Edna Garrett, Eastland's unflappable house mother in '80s television jewel The Facts of Life, and no memoir in recent memory promises as many juicy nuggets as Charlotte Rae's.  There's alcoholism, an autistic son and a husband who decided he liked to ride the peen after twenty five years of marriage, but I'm probably going to skip over all of that and get to the part where she caught Cousin Geri going down on Jo in Blair's trailer, watching for a few seconds while softly stroking her pearls before she broke it up with a yardstick.

That's Italian!

Some of my fondest memories of my grandmother involve the incredible aromas wafting out of her kitchen whenever I was at her house.  Whether it was blueberry buckle or rhubarb pie, homemade meatballs and sauce or pastina on a cold autumn day that woman was one hell of a cook, and you never left her table hungry, disappointed, or without leftovers stored in a Polly-O ricotta container "for later."    Holidays were insane, and we'd pull out the extra leaf in the dining room table (and throw a card table in the living room) for all the aunts and uncles and cousins and cousins of cousins and aunts and uncles who weren't really aunts or uncles at all that gathered around to celebrate, my grandmother feeding us all as if we'd never eat again, then giving us a moment to catch our breathe before dessert.  She cooked with love, and when she passed the only thing I asked for was her box of recipes, which I've never come close to replicating no matter how many times I've tried because her 'pinch of this and a pinch of that' is different than mine I guess.


Someone keeping the Italian traditions alive through her own recipes, public television cooking shows, restaurants and Eataly, the 50,000-square-foot Manhattan emporium devoted to the food and culinary traditions of Italy is Teresa Giudice Lidia Bastianich, who I almost missed yesterday morning because I had to pee so bad that I gave up waiting for her, only to see her car pull up as I got to the corner to leave.  That look on my face is part smile and part full bladder grimace.

A. Rose - By Any Other Name

Friday I was fortunate enough to meet Gloria Steinem, the face of the women's rights revolution, who championed for social change in pay disparity, reproductive rights and equal opportunity in the workplace since the 1960s, and today I met another feminist icon, the always tasteful and demure rap star ho Amber Rose.  In addition to shamelessly fucking Kanye West and Wiz Kalifa and wearing absolutely ridiculous outfits in a desperate grab for attention, (and not in a Lady Gaga/I'm creative and weird sort of way) she's the namesake of the Amber Rose SlutWalk targeting 'the double standards and victim-blaming that underline a pervasive culture of sexual violence.'  Imma leave that right there and not even pretend I understand what it means.


What a difference a (few) day(s) makes.

G–L–O–R–I–A

This blog is usually filled with bitchy witty commentary about celebrities peddling their latest assembly line product and how they respond to fans while on the promo stroll.  Rarely do I get the chance to meet someone notable who has actually done something meaningful in the world, so when the opportunity does come along I seize it, which is why I don't care if Gloria Steinem is blinking or trying to hold her hair down against the wind in this picture.  She's Gloria Fucking Steinem!  I'm just happy she stopped for the photo because I was slightly intimidated to ask her, what with the me having a penis thing and all.

C'mon Vogue!

I was seduced by the glamor of Vogue magazine at a very young age.  As a kid I used to pore through my mom's copy each month staring at the photos, reading every article and absorbing every ounce of sophistication I could.  While other kids were into sports or heavy metal music I covered my locker with photos of Paulina Porizkova and dreamed of going to extravagant Robert Isabel designed parties in exotic, hard to pronounce locations like Gstaad and St. Tropez with Comtesse Jacqueline de Ribes, Gloria von thurn un Taxis, Diane von Furstenberg and other assorted socialites dripping in diamonds and glamorous gowns with giant bows and shoulder pads designed by Oscar de la Renta, Valentino and Yves Saint Laurent.  Vogue took me out of Fredonia, New York (population: three chickens, a few cornfields and a rusted dump truck) and into the world, exposing me to incredible possibilities just beyond the horizon and teaching me to dream big, and it's been my bible ever since, so you can imagine my excitement meeting legendary photographer Arthur Elgort, whose iconic images so mesmerized me as a teen (and who I quite frankly thought was dead).  Like meeting the Wizard of Oz. 

So Delicious

She may have taught us all how to spell "glamorous" and added every variation of Fergalicious to our vocabulary, but could someone please teach Fergie how to tell time?  Bitch was an hour late to her 6PM meet and greet at Lord & Taylor last night, even though she'd been in the store since 4PM.  To be fair, maybe it took that long for the makeup artist to glam out her hard meth face?  Or maybe the photographer needed the extra time to adjust the vaseline on the lense for the 'professional' photos so she looks like a soft focus photobomber instead of a gargoyle?  Yeah, that must be it.

Frankie Say Relax!

Just last week my mom bought tickets to see Frankie Avalon in concert at the retirement community where she and my dad live.  Or maybe it was Frankie Valli?  Frankie Goes to Hollywood?  I can't remember, but I doubt she'll get this close.

And Now, Ladies and Gentlemen.......Here's Grace!

There's a hurricane heading toward NYC right now, which can only mean one thing.....Grace Jones is in town.  Last time she was in town we got hit by Hurricane Sandy a few days later, so I'm calling in sick tomorrow and stocking up on milk, eggs, bread, peanut butter and batteries (you know, all the things I would never normally eat) like I learned to do living in the cone Miami years ago, cause if Sandy was any indication we are FUCKED!  Speaking of fucked, Grace was everything you'd think she'd be and more leaving Sirius just now, slightly drunk and still carrying her empty wine glass, demanding to keep my friend Rick's Poloroid camera, and licking my ear while these photos were taken.  That's right, I was sexually harassed by Grace Jones!  And I LOVED it!