The Pandemic Shame Game

Sticky

The cruel comfort of being home, safe among dust balls and a creepy aesthetic, has become claustrophobic. I suffer from a failure to deliver. “I should really move that beach bag that’s been in the foyer since August,” I ruminate while my daily screen time climbs higher than Johnny Depp on trial nights. Lock away my phone and perhaps my brain will reappear. Then again, perhaps not.

There are many errors in my pandemic lifestyle. As an unabashed news junky, I won’t stop watching, listening to, or fighting over current events. This and my insomnia shapeshift me into a hatred-filled tweet machine at night. I’m currently in Twitter battles with so many conservative radio hosts that I fear a(nother) restraining order is in my future. Okay, maybe just a dramatic block.

What comes first: insomnia or my spontaneous fits of dancing and singing? Both create a landslide of embarrassment for everyone, other than me. My poor children, I never shut up. Days are narrated with an endless stream of consciousness spoken in my valley girl talk. Sometimes I find a gem of enlightenment but it’s mostly, “Should I get Botox? Like, do I look older or younger than the mom on “Rick and Morty?” Where’s my phone? What DID I do with that phone?”

The Shame Blame Game! Play along!

I posted this picture and was automatically shamed.

My pathological extrovertism is always getting me shamed. Haters, don’t fret, I’m keeping safe. Heck, I’m geography-dumb but I’m not socially stupid. Like ALL my psychiatrists assure me: we’re all doing the best we can. Can we all give each other a break?

When I escape my house with shimmer on my cheekbones and a bold lip, you bet I’m going to take a picture, obsess over a clever caption, and share. I HAVE to share it on social media because I am a narcissist. I promise you that I’m not at a rave so please stop barraging me with judgmental comments. “Are you outside?” No, I’m inside French kissing strangers and licking waiters’ eyes. Come on, I am sitting at a bonfire drowning my solitude with too many Bud Lights, not at a Trump rally becoming blood sisters with Kellyanne.

Six and a half days per week, I dwell in stained sweatshirts and my son’s socks. On Saturday nights, I free myself into a haze of something…outside and with a fire. Don’t worry, the other days I am home and miserable, just like everyone else.

This lobster had more interesting things to say than most people.

Conversations are so dull now. It seems that all the smaht people talk about is how long they’ve been in home confinement. It’s become a contest of culture. “I went to the pharmacy for the first time in eight months and saw a child picking her nose. I won’t leave for another few months.” It’s alright, folks, we’ve (mostly) all been staying inside, and it truly doesn’t need to be an honor of superior citizenship. Let’s get back to what we do best and talk poorly about one another, our family, and how weird Joaquin Phoenix and Rooney Mara’s baby is going to be.

Thoughts:

  • Snob and slob are practically the same word and I’m both.
  • I do adore Claudia Conway. May I adopt her and get her mom’s money and lipsticks?
  • I’ve scheduled a Botox appointment and think it will cure me of my needle phobia, vanity is that strong.
  • I went to a new doctor recently and he asked me if I’ve ever gone to a therapist. That’s my funny story of the summer.

1975 – 2020: Kathleen’s Battered Soul is Buried

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It’s been a wretched year, a year that made me ponder what gouging out my own eyes would feel like. Then I thought about the poor girl who really did that while high on meth and I’ve instead opted to scratch at my scalp psoriasis all day, every day. Scratch, scratch, pick, pick until little scabs form a constellation.

I should have known something was amiss on New Year’s Eve. I voluntarily stayed home on New Year’s Eve and with that unbelievable act, my existence was soon to be spit on. A lifelong pursuit of partying, irreverent conversations, and fancy frocks would explode right into my eybrowless face. 2020 started with my 8th nervous breakdown and just kept descending lower than The Chainsmokers’ talent level.

The Chainsmokers: 2020’s Soundtrack

To think that in January my biggest source of anxiety was that I was on my hundredth new job because job switching was my rebellious protest to the world — for no reason. My eff you to, well myself, I suppose. Gosh I long for the days when I had to create problems just to keep life interesting. Sigh.

The best part of 2020. Megan Thee Stallion and Cardi B.

Oh 2020, you boyfriend with the awful breath, chiseled cheekbones, and tacky mom — you will NEVER get much better. You show glimpses of humanity, like a surprise Taylor Swift album, the fun and public mocking of Kelly Ripa, the creativity of Hulu’s Palm Springs, and watching all the Chads and Karens hemorrhage over Cardi B. and Megan Thee Stallion’s WAP video, but you will NEVER get much better.

I enjoyed everything about this movie.

But the pandemic was kind of fun for a bit, wasn’t it? It felt like dabbling with a hobby for a spell. I baked bread, gave away junk, went on HIKES, dyed my eyebrows and thought that this too shall pass. 

But I’ve now been home for too long. I don’t even know where anything is around here because I never put anything away. At home, I spend 1/4 of my time searching for what I just put down. The other 3/4 is spent in the following order:

  • Worrying.
  • Working.
  • Worrying about work.
  • Checking Facebook only to want to unfriend a slew of “friends”.
  • Scrolling through Twitter and having Twitter wars with Bishop Tobin, Dorinda Medley, and Sean Spicer.
  • Saying aloud, “I just can’t believe this is happening!”
  • Itching my scalp.
  • Staring out of my window.
  • Becoming way too excited for Housewives of NYC episodes.

Until next time, pals, Now go watch WAP and let me know what you think about it.

Life’s so rotten, let’s focus on worse times.

Sticky

The Covid zombie apocalypse has got me low.  I’m sadder than Ben Affleck before he found Ana de Amas. I live in a shaky world where fainting is a palpable possibility and slumber is a nice-to-have requirement. But all the nervousness, political anger, and family closeness makes me realize that things have been worse.

Heartbreak Erupts into Obsessive Movie Habits

In 1994 I was so heartbroken that I spent three days watching Robert Altman’s “Short Cuts” on an endless loop — only stopping to drive by my ex-boyfriend’s apartment to envision all the sex he and his new teenage girlfriend were having. I was staying with my sister and she’d occasionally yell at me to refill the ice tray and throw away my molehill of smoked butts, but other than those strained interactions, it was just me basking in the pain of a 3-hour movie. I was proving a point, but I had no idea what the point was or to whom I was pointing the point.

Have you ever watched “Short Cuts?” It’s psychological torture. Watching it once messes with your head but watching it for days while chain smoking vacuum seals you right into the bell jar. I eventually aired myself out, plucked a few more eyebrows, and found another troubled boy to date. And yeah, life got better, but it was an even worse time than pandemic schpandemic.

Summer School Bullying

Then there was that unfortunate year when I failed high school science and was given the social-life death sentence of summer school in North Kingstown, Rhode Island. My mom was so angry that she plucked me out of my dazed summer party scene and forced me to endure summer school in a foreign land. I was stuck with a group of dumb kids who taunted me by calling me “Cure Girl.” As a big fan of The Cure, I was pleased with my new moniker.

A few weeks in, the teacher quietly called me up front and asked, “What are you doing here?” I responded with a well-practiced shrug. Say no more, say no less.

I’ve Been Uglier

I’ve definitely looked worse. Sure, I am currently sporting white hair on my head, eyebrows and other unmentionable areas, but I’m still prettier than I was during my elementary school love affair with the perm. I had reddish curly hair, a face full of freckles and ONLY wore clothes with rhinestones, lace and tulle. Of course I needed a perm!  

I think I know why my first kiss happened in the last few days of 7th grade during a ‘7 Minutes in Heaven’ game gone wrong. While waiting in line, having a slight panic attack, I could hear the boys discussing how bummed they’d be if they got me. Well someone did and wowza, I’d been kissed, albeit in a forced situation and years after all my girlfriends. Don’t worry though, I developed nicely that summer and made up for lost time.

Mistakenly Dating a Homeless Man

Yes, life can always be more painful. Right after college while I was hiding out in Portland, Oregon, running away from my parents needling me about getting a real job and escaping an arrogant manchild, I found a mysterious coworker to dig. He was much older, secretive, and good looking. What more does a naive girl need?

After months of waiting for Tim to ask me out, he finally did. He didn’t have a car — which now I see is a warning sign but this was Portland, Oregon and the crunchies rode bikes. So, I picked him up at a street corner.

My mind raced with all sorts of theories. Perhaps his home was so luxurious that he wanted me to know the real Tim. Could he have a secret family? The night staggered on and we drank enough alcohol to cloud all bad judgments into smart ones. There was some making out and a shared cab ride to his street corner and my apartment.

Tim didn’t show up to work the next day, or ever again while I was employed there. Seems Tim was living in a homeless shelter where sobriety was a requirement and his walk of shame landed him right into a court-mandated rehab. Who knew? Not I. But everyone else at work knew and I quickly became the girl from Massachusetts who caused Tim’s downfall.

So, it could always be worse folks. You could be married to Meghan Markle or Sean Penn. We could be members of the Cyrus family and have to listen to them all sing during Thanksgiving. Even worse, you could have a mom like me who bribes her children to tape her doing the WAP dance. It can always be so much worse.

Can we laugh a little?

Sticky

Can we laugh yet? Come on, even a snicker? After months of clenched fists and jaws, nonstop “I just cants,” and praying that “Housewives of NYC” never ends, I’m prepared to giggle. So, go along and cackle with me or secretly lambaste me for my inappropriateness at such a painful time. Much like Megan Fox’s relationship with Machine Gun Kelly, I just don’t care anymore.

What does a harried mother do when she can’t partake in her most adored activities: sloppy bar hopping, concert going, and library frequenting? What does a woman do when she is left with all the duties she conducts poorly: house cleaning, meal preparation, and disciplining children? She throws on her stained athletic shorts and ponders…

Kayne & Kim: The Love Story

RUETERS

All hail Britney as the queen of celebrity breakdowns, but Kayne is clutching that crown from her head with the same force he grabbed T. Swizzle’s Grammy. In a world of Lambos, he is the Tesla of coo-coos and I love it. In a sad and cutting bi-polar episode, Kayne is lashing out at the Kardashians. He’s holed up in his Wyoming ranch without his meds, but with his wit and vengeance.

A lot like his music, his Twitter take downs of the Kardashians are complicated with glimmers of brilliance. Kayne comparing his own life to “Get Out” is the funniest and most astute observation since some crazy lady told me months ago, “These kids are NEVER going back to school.” His reference to Kris Jenner as “Kris Jong-Un” is succinct. Keep it coming, Kayne.

I locked myself in my house over four months ago to fight the zombie apocalypse, armed with what feels like hundreds of streaming services, enough facial moisturizer for the entire Housewives’ franchise and a treadmill. I’ve dipped my toes into the swamp of post-pandemic social life and I didn’t like the muck. Most of my pandemic results have been bleak, but Taylor Swift just saved me.

“I’m doing good, I’m on some new shit.” Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift, America’s vision of talent, coolness and good taste — all wrapped in a cashmere cardigan — just saved my sad pandemic existence by releasing a fresh album of quiet loveliness and biting brilliance. Every sound intoxicates and stirs. Listing to it makes me smell my childhood and think of past loves, forgotten friends, and stolen kisses.

Just as my Fiona Apple haze was dissipating, the patron saint of pop music flew in with her fairy wings, Sylvia Plath- inspired look, and help from freaking Bon Iver to give me my new religion. Her new album “Folklore” is lusciously exquisite. It’s filled with mysterious stories about love, isolation and an ode to Rhode Island. If this is my soundtrack for the rest of the pandemic, I’m content.

Other Musings

  • It’s been 13 years, but I’m still confused by Reese and Ryan’s marriage.
  • There’s a fine line between so much to do/ I will do nothing at all.
  • I think I miss the movies the most.
  • It took the quarantine for me to fully love my dog.
  • The crumbling of Johnny Depp’s coolness is astounding.
  • Regarding Johnny Depp and Amber Heard’s bed poop: Think about the indelicate and logistical nature of defecating on a bed. How does one even go about it? Is this a thing?
  • I hope that poor John Travolta leaves the Scientology cult.
  • Consider this a plea to Hollywood agents to urge their celebrity clients to clean up their COVID attire! I demand that they put on a designer dud every few dog walks and fake grocery store runs. If I wanted to see Scarlett Johansson wearing sweats, I’d watch Marriage Story again. But I don’t really want to. Once was more than enough.
  • Taking walks is so boring and nature is filled with pests.
  • It’s curious that Megan Thee Stallion was shot by male rapper Tory Lanez and entertainment media isn’t talking about it. Megan Thee Stallion was on the cover of Rolling Stone, won countless BET and MTV awards and had the song of the year. Guess entertainment media was too focused on a reality star’s kid’s nose job?? Tssk.
  • If you don’t watch “The Housewives of NYC,” I am sorry that you are missing out on the best moments of your life.

April Showers Bring Mayday Mudslides

Sticky

Two toothpaste containers and menstrual cycles ago, I shut my door and buried myself with books, ample facial moisturizer, and “Mad Men.” Sometime in March, I put on an eternal pot of strong coffee that has somehow produced a pond of joe from which I drink all day, every day.

Other than a few trips to the Zombieland grocery store, a walk with my zany sister, and a sad meetup with my best friend where we each sat in our cars and conversed through the cracks in our windows, I’ve been here. I’m watching my children outgrow the clothes they wear, and wondering what’s next.

Nothing is funny anymore, is it? Every complaint and gossipy story must be prefaced with a “I know I’m lucky not be sick,” or “I hate to complain, but…” Can’t we be grateful to be healthy AND be disappointed in this horrifying situation – while fitting in wisecracks? Perhaps we can all give each other a chance to whine and vent without being so judgmental.

So here it is, some things that have spread a smile across my stressed face.

A Love Letter to Ben

The relief we all crave.

Ben Affleck has been popping up during COVID with his new girlfriend, star-on-the-rise Ana de Armas. They gaze at each other lovingly, like new beautiful lovers do.  As they clutch their Dunkin’ coffees, dog leashes and donuts, they’re effortlessly and casually chic.

Ben is an honest slice of Americana, a man bold enough to smoke a cigarette, in public, while wearing his mask. Ben’s deep drag on his butt is the collective relief that we’re all desperately craving. One doesn’t have to be a smoker to know that need. I feel it every time I pass my pantry and stuff chips into my mouth, looking down at the crumbs that have fallen on my kitchen floor and not really caring. I feel that release as I down my eighth cup of coffee, knowing that I just extended my bedtime to 2 a.m. and not caring.

Ben, I thank you for your loyalty. You’re steadfast in your zest for coffee, nicotine, and Boston. I thank you for your daily COVID walks, no doubt traipsed by paparazzi. I appreciate your white beard hair, fluctuating weight and honest portrayal of your battle with addiction.     

Somewhere in Malibu, Jennifer Garner is rolling her little eyes.

Notes During Quarantine

Reality TV’s Basic b&^ch.
  • When I pleaded for a celebrity scandal, I wasn’t hoping for Kristen Cavallari and Jay Cutler divorcing. Yup, I’m guilty of watching “The Hills” and “Very Cavallari,” and I can assure you that Kristen Cavallari is the most boring “celebrity” of all time, that Jay Cutler provides the only entertainment on “Very Cavallari,” and that somewhere there’s a “Bachelor” reject waiting to marry Cavallari in a soon-to-be televised reality series. YAWN.
  • I can cook approximately nine dinners and if I ever eat them again, I may never want to eat again.
  • Proving, once again, that Britney Spears is the celebrity gift that keeps giving, Queen Spears recently announced that she burned down her own gym. In her own words, “Hi guys, I’m in my gym right now. I haven’t been in here for like six months because I burnt my gym down, unfortunately.” Thank you, Britney. You are what the world needs right now.
Via Giphy
  • I just watched all 92 “Mad Men” episodes again. I know there are so many new programs to watch but I needed the comfort of double nostalgia. Nostalgia for a time I never lived and nostalgia for a cooler time when I watched the series. I love everything about “Mad Men” and watching it again is refreshing and sobering. Don Draper is a wretched man, Peggy Olsen is a comedic revelation of ambition and sadness, and January Jones’s Betty Draper is what nightmares and daydreams are made of.
  • It’s impossible to know if people are smiling or frowning behind their masks and it makes interactions extra scary.
  • Fiona Apple’s new album “Fetch the Bolt Cutters” is exactly what I hoped it would be and so much more. There could not be a more fitting soundtrack for quarantine than this poetic masterpiece.

The Art of a Car Ride, Pop Music + a Plea for a Celebrity Scandal

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Day 666 of quarantine. Reality is setting in. The days cascade through gratefulness, fear, empathy and what is that? Anger, I think. Healthcare workers, grocery store employees and to-go servers are heroes and offer me a rare glimpse of human interaction beyond my four walls.

Quarantine makes me nostalgic for my teen years when freedom arrived in the form of a car. The anticipation of getting my license was so severe that I failed my driver’s test twice. TWICE. I attribute the failures more to anxiety than poor driving skills, but I finally nailed it on my 3rd time and took to the roads with a Chevrolet something.

Much like right now, driving through the windy roads of a small town, with pop music blaring, was all there was to do. It’s what I’m doing every afternoon now and here’s what I’ve noticed.

“Hot Girl Bummer” is Perfection

After years of silly resistance, I now embrace weird rap. What I dig is the honesty, lack of pretense and its boasts of illegal and poor behavior. I’ve had enough of the phony positivity of Lizzo and Lovato and prefer to listen to fairy tales of promiscuity, excessive partying and girl fights. “This that throw up in your Birkin bag, hook up with someone random.” Smells like teen spirit to me.

Speaking of teen spirit, the song’s tone reminds me of Nirvana. It’s angry and funny, with a keen eye on youth’s beauty and ugliness. “F#$k you and you, and you. I hate your friends and they hate me too.” Thank you, Mr. Blackbear, now please cool it with the facial tattoos.

Kurt Cobain + My Numbers Problem

I’m bad at numbers. I have to REALLY think before I can answer the years my children were born. My oldest is easiest, it’s 2001. But every year around the beginning of April I remember that it’s Kurt Cobain’s death anniversary. The hint of spring jolts me with a whiff of alertness and I recall that spring feeling with news that Cobain died. I tend to live in the past, in my head, and the quarantine escalates my dwelling.

Driving around with nowhere to go while trying to figure out the meaning of life is exactly what I’m doing these days, exactly what I was doing when “Nevermind” was released, and what I was doing around the time Cobain died. As the April 5 anniversary came and went without much news, I realized how much has changed but how little we change. Like 1994, I’m savoring car rides, writing and awaiting a new Fiona Apple album.

Fiona Apple Reemerges

Sensing Gen Xers’ malaise, Fiona Apple sweeps in and will release her first album in eight years on April 17. To share that I’m excited is as immense an understatement as “Meghan Markle’s dull” or “Britney Spears is strange.” I count down the days until I can listen to her new album and I’m sure I’ll keep it in my car’s outdated CD player until her next album is released during my retirement.

No Celebrity News Isn’t Good News

Perhaps Beyonce, Jay Z and Solange can get into another elevator.

I’m watching the news throughout the day and so saddened, but I feel like something’s missing: the universe needs something frivolous to focus on.

Consider this a personal plea to the Gwyneths, Madonnas, Brads and Britneys to mess shite up with a scandal hot enough to avert our attention for a day or two. Divorce, a secret marriage or a disastrous elevator ride will do.  Heck, I’ll settle for a cheating scandal, rehab or an unplanned pregnancy.

A juicy celebrity scandal should be a part of their agent’s contract. Come on, they owe us one. Brad Pitt, the epitome of coolness, could take one for the team and have an Instagram live wedding to some unheard-of environmentalist. Or maybe he and Jennifer Aniston could pretend to get back together again ­– just to entertain us now that we’ve finished “Tiger King”, “Ozark” and the entire “Madmen” series for a 3rd time.

Hollywood, think about it and feel free to contact me for guidance. I will be sitting right here, unless I’m driving around thinking of alternative music.

xo

I was a strange kid.

Mascara, Food and H20: Quarantine Necessities

Sticky

This quarantine feels like a supernova pharmaceutical speedball of sedatives, uppers, and Midol. I’m jumpy from the lack of activities, then drowsy by how overwhelming it all is – often while battling a small headache. I waver between relishing being home and panicking that if this continues, I won’t have a home.

It’s not the solitude, I’m at home with five people, it’s the freaky germ awareness. I’m a messy person and I’m now cleaning with no real purpose or mission. I don’t know how to clean. I think cleaning is something you’re taught, and I never got around to that lesson in childhood, I was too busy writing love notes to Prince. Sure I can clean surfaces but scrubbing floors and toilets has always been for a biweekly housekeeper. Now it’s my job and I’m remarkably bad at it.

But hey, on the verge of the apocalypse, who cares how clean or dirty my house has been? This is the first time I’ve been home and not working in over a decade. It’s refreshing and foreign. It’s also given me a lot of time to obsess over a few thangs.

Out, damn spot.

Mascara is a Dear Friend

The world can take away the restaurants, libraries, and malls but I will stab someone with my L’Oreal wand before they take away my extra-black mascara. As my deodorant application becomes infrequent and my eyeliner has disappeared from my droopy eyelids, my mascara is applied with a heavy hand!

Perhaps I’m a thinker, not a doer.

All this time has given me so many ideas! Register for an online course, brush up on my Spanish, explore Scientology. But what I truly want to do is watch “Little Fires Everywhere,” every episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and “Mindhunter.” I’ve polished off more books than I can remember and haven’t gotten to that online course yet.

Fancy Frocks Get You Nowhere

Feel low? Buy a dress. Celebrating a milestone? Fetch a froufrou frock.

Dress adornment has gotten me through the highs and lows of life but wowza, all those dresses are of no use to me right now. My knowledge of chiffon, silk blends and how to iron linen is useless. You know what I need more of? Sweatpants! I’ve been alternating between two pairs for weeks.

Things I don’t Care about Anymore

The fight nobody cares about. (Photo by Larry Busacca/Getty Images for NARAS)

I’m DESPERATE for a celebrity scandal but not the day-old donuts Kim Kardashian and Taylor Swift reignited rift. Yawn. Who still cares what zonked-out Kanye West said in a 2016 rap song NOBODY heard?

Katy Perry and Orlando Bloom are having a baby. Who cares? Their parents and that’s about it.

Remember the college admissions scandal? It feels pretty silly to whine about the wealthy getting their kids into college while we can now complain about the privileged getting coronavirus tests WAY before the peons. Disappointing? Sure, but surprising? Come on.

Gal Godot embarrassed herself and all her celebrity pals with this literally tone-deaf “Imagine” cover. I haven’t watched anything this bad since I slogged through the first four minutes of this season’s “This Is Us.” Gadot should fire her inner voice and her celebrity pals should just fire her.

When in doubt, go to Beck.

COVID-19, Shopping, and an Inability to Act in a Crisis

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I’m extra twitchy.

Sure, I do dwell in a perpetual state of anxiety and weirdness but be forewarned, I’m acting much crazier than usual. COVID-19, coupled with my total inability to handle a crisis, has me shopping like Celine Dion and sweating like Amanda Bynes’s parents on visitor’s day.

My list of neurosis is as robust as my closet and hovering close to the top is a whammy: In a catastrophe, I’m immobilized by fear and can’t do anything other than shop, obsess and read.

White ceilings, bright overhead lights. Finally, I’m home.

Since my completely-sober Corona blackout, I’ve purchased a new wardrobe and polished off a book every other day. I don’t even know what the books have been about, I just read them until I can sleep.

Want to know what I haven’t done? Stocked up on necessities, contacted my doctor about doubling prescriptions, or sanitized my house. I’ve burrowed myself deep into a K-hole of inactivity and dealt with my fear by analyzing every word of The Weeknd’s creepy new masterpiece, shielding my eyes while watching HBO’s “The Outsider”, and wondering what Fiona Apple is doing. It’s all I know how to do.

Does Beck have a pre-existing condition? Will he be okay?

This behavior goes way back. Fresh from college, I drove across country with a male pal to move to Portland, Oregon. I had no reason to do this, no plan when I got there, and no thoughts on returning. My parents were on my back about getting a job with insurance and I just wanted to party, stalk Elliott Smith and get away from a pretentious manchild I’d been obsessing over for years.

So, to prepare for this ridiculous journey, I slept. I slept like I’d never slept before. I slept right until it was time to say my “goodbyes” and climbed into a car to travel 3,000 miles to party and stalk a new manchild. I can’t remember if I ever even wanted to go to Portland, I just didn’t know how to get out of it.

Portland-bound without a plan.

You know that part in a movie, right before someone delivers horrible news and they say, “Do you want to sit down?” That question is for people like me. People who get woozy at bad news and faint in times of turmoil. Don’t count on me in an emergency.

Some may blame it one laziness, but I think not. I’m not lazy, just crazy. I can’t even deal with this coronavirus stress by overeating because my inability to act landed me right into obesity and now I’m intermittent fasting like a millennial.

Can’t Kit-Kat may way out of this one.

For years I lived without a scale and with a false sense of comfort that I wasn’t THAT fat. Heck, I’d had three kids and could still wear all my ethereal tent dresses —how chubby could I be?

Because I also have a deep fear of doctors, I rarely had to step on a scale, and I enjoyed my make-believe land of thinness and health. But a nasty sickness landed me in the emergency room with a DEMAND that I get a doctor and lose weight. Yup, I knew I was getting fat, but I combated the problem by never stepping on a scale or going to a doctor. PERFECTO!

So, I’m going to fight Corona with everything I have: impressive clothing, an expert’s knowledge on The Weeknd, and a hunger for food after 6 p.m.

See you in the bunker! I’ll be the really well dressed hungry woman.

The Oscars, Insomnia, and Narcissism

Sticky

As I stuff my face with chocolates, but only between 11 AM until 6 PM because I’m intermittent fasting, I ponder the Oscars and how annoying insomniacs are. Happy Valentine’s Day to you from me!

To know me is to know I’m plagued by insomnia, and that’s because I never shut up about it. I wonder: Are insomniacs really narcissists who just can’t stop thinking about themselves long enough to fall asleep?

I think I’m onto something here.

I occasionally go a night without sleep and find myself telling strangers about my sleepless night. “Good morning, how are you?” asks uninterested coworker. “Well, I had a dose of total insomnia last night, let me tell you,” I begin.

That unasked-for response elicits an Oscars-sized yawn from all. I mean, who, other than my mother, cares that I can’t sleep? Nobody. But that doesn’t stop me and fellow insomniacs from detailing our plight for all.

That’s another problem I have: an almost compulsive aversion to small talk. I must go ALL in. Is this another sign of narcissism? Damn, I’m in trouble.

An innocent response is that I should take Ambien, but if you happened to know me in September 2003, you’ll surely remember why I can’t take Ambien.  I treated that stuff like it was Molly and stayed up for hours calling friends I hadn’t spoken to in years. If I liked driving, I’m sure I would have pulled a Patrick Kennedy (whom I love and have a history of hitting on) and drove around Rhode Island in a stupor.

Billie Eilish Wtf GIF by The Academy Awards - Find & Share on GIPHY
The eye roll felt around the world.

Jaoquin + Renee Z. Worry Me Sleepless

After watching the Oscars last Sunday, crazy ol’ Joaquin Phoenix and batty Renee Zellweger caused a bout of insomnia that lasted till morning. I’m worried for them and the Oscars in general. If a bunch of Hollywood stars looking beautiful can’t create a watchable evening, who can?

I blame Joaquin Phoenix’s jarring acceptance speech and his insistence that I drink my coffee without milk! I don’t sleep, coffee with milk and Bravo are the only things keeping me alive. No milk with my coffee? Joker, puhleeze.

Don’t take my milk from me, Phoenix.

I can’t think of what I would like less: being forced to watch The Joker or drinking my coffee without milk.

So, here’s what I was thinking about while I tossed and turned:

  • Timothée Chalamet is a vision of beauty.
  • Renee Zellweger’s accent is as unpredictable as her acceptance speeches. Welcome back, crazy lady, but don’t stay too long, your cats are waiting.
  • Brad Pitt is Hollywood royalty and his acceptance speeches are as lovely as his hair.
  • Thank you, Oscars, for not including the Kardashians.
  • Eminen has still got it.
  • Hot damn I love that Billie Eilish, but I ask her to pipe up a little. Her singing is so…quiet and I’m slightly deaf from a 1996 Ministry show.

May your Valentine’s Day be as warm as Angelina’s heart is cold.

The 2020 Grammys, Worse Than Christmas 2019

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The Grammys are like Christmas for me, minus the failed expectations, strained family conversations, and excessive spending. Much like Christmas, the Grammys give me pop culture gifts that I savor all year, it involves weird Jesus talk, and feels like it lasts for an eternity. This Grammys we had Alicia Keys act as our Lord Savior, spouting ridiculous self-help gobbledygook and Camila Cabello played Scrooge by ruining everyone’s night while also losing her own soul.

Well, ho, ho, ho…Merry Grammys!

I do love a flautist.

Lizzo opened the Grammys with a whiff of fresh air, her unmistakable bellowing voice, and a sassy sense of humor. Heck, she even busted out the flute. Love her, dislike her, you can’t deny that she sang the songs you heard everywhere in 2019 and she was the perfect opener for a bummer of an evening.

No, Gwen, NO!!

Gwake just jumped the So Cal shark.

I either just caught my son’s Christmas flu, or watching Gwen and Blake Shelton sing insipid words to each other made me dizzy and feverish with discomfort. Their “Nobody But You” song will soon destroy every wedding dance floor, but for now it just hurt me to watch these two lovebirds grasp each other’s hands as tightly as they’re holding onto their fame. Come on Gwake, hurry it up and release your children’s book, country cookbook, followed by a boring memoir and then perhaps we can all be done with it.

Tyler the Creator Stuns Karens Everywhere

Tyler the Creator, someone I only know from my infinitely cooler 18-year-old daughter, was beautifully jarring. His frenetic set was absolutely new, dangerous and visionary. All the Karens, Chads and OK Boomers were up in arms that they “just didn’t get it.”

Yup, we didn’t and that’s the point. I give Tyler the Creator the best performance of the evening. Sure, I’m not sure what the hell he was singing, but damn did it sound cosmic.

The Jonas Brothers: Not getting better or worse.

Now onto my favorite trio of brothers since Hanson rocked my world, the Jonas Brothers! They keep that mic away from Kevin as far as they keep Demi from Joe. I have nothing bad to say about the Jonas Brothers, other than that they used to be a lot cooler before they got married.

I Love You, Billie. Please No More Ballads

Billie, I love your music and prune juice.

Billie, Billie, Billie, it’s hard to be your biggest pre-menopausal fan when you sing such a lovely…BALLAD… at the freaking Grammys. NO! Hasn’t your mild-tempered, ginger souffle brother coached you that you should rock out and show the world your angst?

It was so good and yet so disappointing.

I’m afraid to make fun of this as much as I want to.

Odds and Ends

  • Wow, who knew Demi Lovato was such a good actor?
  • “Old Town Road” just gets better with age.
  • Alicia Keys is a solid host.
  • Aerosmith could have used another practice, or two.
  • Ariana Grande was good, but what’s there to write? She’s been good for a few years now, singing the same kind of songs with the same kind of look.
  • Lana Del Rey’s “Norman F$%king Rockwell” was my favorite album of 2019 and it’s unfortunate that she didn’t win anything.
  • Camila Cabello’s serenade to her father was the worst few moments in recent pop culture history. I thought she was was canceled? I demand her cancellation!

The 2010s + the Onset of Middle Age

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Cheers to the freaking 2010s, a decade of reality show saturation and political devastation. Ten years that left me wondering where all the poorly behaved celebrities have gone and if there are any original ideas anymore. It was a decade of sequels, reboots and trilogies that left me longing for the pantyless brouhaha of Lindsay Lohan’s youth.

Everything I know, I learned from Housewives of NYC

Thanks, TV. I’ll never leave my house again.

Who needs to leave one’s home when programs as delightful as “Mad Men,” “Veep,” “The Handmaid’s Tale,” and the “Housewives of NYC” are playing in your cluttered living room? The 2010s provided me with more streaming services than job changes and that’s saying A LOT. Ten years of silly superhero movies left my bloated middle-age belly full yet unsatisfied, but my TV was the coolest movie screen in town.

Adele + Anything = Coma < Facial Tattoos + Youth = Cool

Billboard’s best performing singles of the decade commenced with Kesha’s “Tik Tok” and sauntered to an end with 2019’s “Old Town Road,” both sonic gems. And while Adele wowed everyone for most of the decade, she lulled me into a coma where I was surrounded by other drips like Maroon 5, the Chainsmokers, and Shawn Mendes.

The Weeknd, Post Malone, Billie Eilish and SoundCloud freaks thrilled me with their youth, resplendent with danger, beauty and sexiness. No, I didn’t buy much of their music but respect that it’s the new alternative. I mean if I’m digging 6ix9ine, something’s gone wrong in the land of rebellion and teenage wasteland.

And really all I need is my Lana Del Rey, the best worst singer of all time. I absolutely love her.

The Royal Family: A Joke With No Punchline

Kate and Meghan: Even more boring than your in-laws.

Kate Middleton; her bearded brother; Meghan “monochrome” Markle; her yoga-teaching mother; her overweight father on the cusp of a heart attack — what do they ALL have in common? I have no idea why I even know who they are and I’m begging the world to harass a new family. I dunno, the Trumps of the Beckhams will do. Please.

I don’t care what Kate or Meghan are wearing. Here’s a spoiler for those of you who do care: Meghan’s wearing solid colors with high heels and Kate is sporting a printed dress in a chiffon-like fabric. And their faces are adorned with the pained smile that belongs to those who have sold their souls.

I don’t give one crumpet if William and Harry duke it out over high tea at Windsor Castle or what happens at any of their royal engagements. Gosh, I’m SO sick of the royal family that I actually tried and couldn’t finish watching “The Crown” because, yeah, you guessed it: I DON’T Care.

Celebrities Behaving… Well?

2010 started off just right with Lindsay Lohan doing a little time for violating probation but the rest of the decade took a depressing turn with celebrities acting okay and when they acted poorly, it was just pathetic.

Sure, Demi Lovato’s been onto the path of recovery more times than I’ve polished my resume, but that’s not newsworthy anymore. Same goes for Selena Gomez. Poor thing’s crazy, I get it, but she’s no Britney Spears coo-coo crazy, she’s snooze crazy. Wake me up when it gets bad.

What’s more boring than this pairing? YAWN.

Arnold Schwarzenegger’s secret love child was definitely better than Chris Pratt marrying his yawner of a daughter, but still not spicy enough for me.

The college admissions scandal that shocked everyone and no one.

And while Ariana Grande’s donut lick seen around the world was sexier than her engagement to Pete Davidson, it still lacked the oomph of the ’00s. Even the worldwide outrage of the college admissions scandal left me confused, we all knew that this was happening all along, right? Did America think that every celebrity spawn was bright enough to get into NYU? Come on, this is called life and I don’t understand the outrage or surprise.

My Nuggets of Wisdom

Youth is pretty.

The 2010s firmly cemented me into middle age with a newfound understanding of humanity with all its beautiful flaws. I’ve learned some powerful lessons along the way and here are a few:

  • If someone is starting a conversation with “I don’t judge, but,” they’re ready to judge. For sure.
  • No, Jennifer Aniston doesn’t look better now than she did 20 years ago. Nobody really does and anyone who tells you that is probably lying.
  • The sequel is never better than the original.
  • There’s not one thing wrong with Adam Driver. Not. One. Damn. Thing.
  • People with facial tattoos probably hate their mother.
  • Our youth was rarely as dangerous as we paint it to be.
  • Nobody wants to listen to you explain your dreams; I wish they did, but they just don’t.
  • Married couples are often content and rarely happy. And that’s okay.
  • A bad therapist is worse than no therapist.
  • We should all go out and party more.
  • It’s always a good time to put your freaking phone DOWN.
  • “I don’t know how you do it all,” feels more like a gut punch than a warm compliment.
  • I didn’t know how much I was going to miss Lena Dunham until she went away.
  • When people don’t like you, you usually know.
  • We all need to stop peppering our conversations with the word, “honestly.” Honestly, we do.

Happy New Year, y’all!

The 2019 American Music Awards: A Blissed-Out Buzz

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The American Music Awards were a pop-culture blissed-out buzz. After three hours, I hobbled into bed with a surprising appreciation for Ozzy Osbourne, a reminder of my love for Kesha, and a concerned plea for Selena Gomez to extinguish the torch she’s carrying for Justin Bieber and get some vocal training.

Come on producers, why get greedy with the Auto-Tune now? Post Malone drank all the booze, he didn’t steal all the Auto-Tune.

Hey, who cares? Madonna can't sing either.
Hey, who cares? Madonna can’t sing either.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

Poor Selena looked lovely and sounded awful. Did Kevin Federline crawl out of obscurity to supply Selena with an extra dose of the concoction Britney was on while performing at the 2007 Video Music Awards (methadone, anti-psychotic meds and 3/4 of a bottle of chardonnay is my educated guess)? But while Britney’s legendary performance was so bad it was good, Selena’s was so bad it was sad.

Bieber and the Forgotten Baldwin

I dig the two songs Selena sang, just not the sounds that escaped her mouth. I like the idea of both songs and am fascinated that Justin Bieber can break someone’s heart so strongly. While he’s playing house in make-believe marriage land with the Baldwin family’s secondhand cousin, Hailey Baldwin-Bieber, Selena’s been nursing a broken heart with multiple rehab stints, a kidney transplant and a Lupus battle.

Come on Selena and get well. Everyone loves you, especially Jennifer Aniston and Taylor Swift and they’re all that really matter in Hollywood.

Kissing Cousins Without the Sexiness

Camila Cabello and Shawn Mendes have the sexual chemistry of me and my first cousin. Actually that’s not even fair because my first cousin and I used stage our own wedding…so let’s just say that Shawn and Camila have the same kind of sexual friction of Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick. It’s an act and not a very believable one.

The couple’s never-ending award show performances of “Señorita” are a combination of “will they or won’t they kiss!?,” Camila trying to appear sexy and Shawn looking cute. I nominate each for the next round of cancel culture. Yes, cancel Camila and Shawn. Send her back to Fifth Harmony and him to Canada, I think the Bare Naked Ladies are looking for a new member.

Um, okay.

I’m so confused, did someone slip me Selena’s drink? Why is Toni Braxton performing on anything in 2019? I don’t care how she sounds, she’s Toni Braxton and she’s boring.

Taylor still feigning surprise she’s a winner.

Taylor Swift, America’s mean sweetheart, sashayed onto the stage with her talent, confidence, wit, and evil eye. She sang a medley of past hits and some off “Lover”, but she was really there to ruin Scooter Braun’s life just a little more than he already has.

Team Taylor all day, every day. And where does she get her lipstick?

And the performance of the night goes to…Ozzy?

I enjoyed the evening and was rarely bored. Billie Eilish and her ginger brother Finneas are the best sibling combination since Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen and Kesha’s rebirth is welcome and refreshing, but um, gulp, my favorite performance was Ozzy, Post Malone and Travis Scott. I don’t even know why, it just felt new and a little scary.

The Grammys: Let’s get mean.

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I know we all want to live in this nice, dull world where we’re kind to each other and nobody cares to be honest about pop culture’s dwindling purpose, but here I go with a scathing review of Grammys 2019.

What better way to bask in negativity than ridiculing celebrities?

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Something in this picture is not right.

Why is Jada Pinkett Smith at the Grammys?

Other than annoying me on a daily basis and giving birth to children who educate others on the merits of dropping out of school before the age of 15, what is Jada Pinkett Smith’s purpose in life?

Jada’s recent stint as host of Facebook’s “Red Table Talk” has resulted in a horrifying display of oversharing.  If anyone cares about Jada Pinkett Smith’s child-rearing tips, deranged marriage to Will Smith or her obvious Scientology affiliation, please get help. I propose that Jada and Dr. Phil get their on show. In hell.

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Lady Gaga, always affected.

Lady Gaga Gives the Performance of the Night (In Two Ways)

A perusal of Lady Gaga’s Wikipedia page illustrates that she’s won 85 awards in her 32 years on this planet. 85 awards! So why does each award illicit such an EMOTIONAL response? The tears, the shock, the befuddled acceptance speech wrapped up in a carefully orchestrated manner. She’s the new Taylor Swift of awards shows!

So, dear Academy, we all know that Glenn Close is going to nab the Oscar for “Best Actress” but please do consider a new category for “Best Actress at an Awards Ceremony.”

In fairness, Lady Gaga did deliver the performance of the evening, just less affectation next time, puhleeze.

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Do I lose my alternative cred for making fun of Kiedis?

Anthony Kiedis: Shirtless since 1927

Like we didn’t suffer enough with Adam Levine’s nipplegate at the recent snoozefest Superbowl, now I’m forced to watch dirty grandpa Kiedis take off his shirt, too? I mean, he’s been doing this shtick since I looked hot taking my shirt off. Anthony’s  looking good at 56 and his hair’s still there but a well-tailored shirt always helps a 56-year-old man.

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Oh no she didn’t.

Jennifer Lopez is to Motown what I am to Mensa

Jennifer Lopez’s universally-panned Motown tribute was wowza bad. What J-Lo lacks in talent, she makes up in grit, drive and flawless performances but this just wasn’t her night.

And why does Alex Rodriguez have to be everywhere now? I hate it when the sports world intertwines with the entertainment world. Stay in your own lane, people!

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Nice isn’t fun.

We have a National Crisis: Awards Show Host Shortage

Alicia Keys is lovely and talented but so dull as a host. If I wanted to listen to someone drone on about the spiritual importance of music, I would have joined a church choir. We get it: music can change your life, let’s all be kind and douse ourselves with a bucket of ridiculousness. This is an awards show, we want to listen to the host say shocking words about celebrities sitting in front of them! We want to wince with discomfort, not blanket ourselves in a leather onsie of warmth!

What’s going on in America when we can’t land a decent host for awards’ season?

Mac Miller Dies, Cardi B Entertains + a Lil’ Rhody Celebrity Hangout

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Six years ago, or five jobs ago in my strange sense of time, I worked at a middle school where I clung to my youth by grasping onto the cool kids to find out what’s really going on in pop culture. I flocked to my peeps — the ones who always know, the kiddos with fruit-colored locks, gamer eyes and hoodies.

The cool kids rarely disappoint and they led me smack into Mac Miller. “Mac Miller’s the shit,” a girl told me while I unsuccessfully tried to help her print her report. That girl’s report never did print, but my interest in Mac Miller began.

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Middle school kids turned me on to Mac Miller.

“Who is this Mac Miller?” I wondered as I spent hours of insomnia watching amateurish  videos of him rapping and slurring while looking stoned and attractive. I followed his career through slicker videos of him appearing even higher and hotter, but his music got much cooler. I watched as he and Ariana Grande embarked on a quiet relationship and dealt with the Manchester Arena suicide bombing attack with class and I dug deeper.

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Mac Miller and Ariana Grande, One Love Manchester benefit

Who knew? Mac Miller was my fantasy man, minus the neck tattoos and lean habit. He was a Jewish kid from a well-heeled family with red hair. He’s from impressive stock with an architect dad and a famed-photographer mother. He went to school in Pittsburgh with Wiz Khalifi and his stage name is a combination of his and his brother’s name. His brother is Miller and was Mac’s graphic designer.

He was kind of my dreamboat, minus those damn neck tattoos. Like many other troubled rockers that I took a shining to, he’s now dead from a drug overdose and I’m incredibly bummed out about his death at the ripe age of 26.

I was busy mourning his loss by watching endless streams of his videos when WHAM,  damn ol’ Cardi B. and Nicky Minaj had to get into a fight at a fancy-shmancy NYC fashion event and the whole world forgot about Mac Miller to scrape the internet for footage of these two ladies getting into it. If you haven’t checked it out yet, you’re welcome.

Hot damn, this was quickly becoming as thrilling as my recent hangout with Ebon Moss- Bachrach and his equally attractive brother at a bar in Lil’ Rhody.  Yes, Desi from HBO’s Girls and Micro from Netflix’s The Punisher was just hanging at a suburban bar with the rest of the middle-age common folk. And where did he just happen to sit to enjoy his hand-rolled tobacco? Right next to Rhode Island’s resident celebrity magnet, um, okay… stalker. Me.

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Oh, Desi, how I loved to love you. HBO’s Girls

I proceeded to do what every accomplished celebrity stalker should do: I repeatedly told him how much I dig him, asked him a bunch of nosy questions, thanked him for his on-screen nudity, bought him and his brother a round and clumsily and unsuccessfully asked him for a selfie. I never did get that selfie, but I enjoyed every awkward second.

So, what was this beautifully-chiseled, blue-eyed actor with cheekbones that could shatter sea glass doing in Rhode Island? He’s filming a new series, NOS4A2, a supernatural horror drama based on Joe Hill’s 2013 novel. And not taking selfies with strangers.

Party on, peeps.

Dolores O’Riordan: A Study Abroad Love Story

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What is it about these rock stars’ deaths that shakes me so? It seems that each one has its own personal connection to my formative years. I grieve for them as I lament my youth slipping away. Dolores O’Riordan of the Cranberries always seemed so much older than me, but really, we were peers. Contemporaries. If she were a male rock star, I’d be way too old to be her lover.

Dolores O’Riordan’s death at age 46 sends me back to my senior year in college when I studied abroad in Ireland. I went alone, opting not be part of a large group of Americans trekking over to Europe together and ended up surrounded by a bunch of cool Irish girls at St. Patrick’s College in Maynooth.

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21-years old in Ireland.

I was nursing a broken heart and an increasingly-nasty designer-drug habit, but nobody there knew that.  My family and friends certainly didn’t know that I was envisioning this pilgrimage as a kind of cleaning out process, a rehab with college credits. Surely, I wasn’t going to hang out with the same crowd in Ireland that I was in America.

I was right. I cleaned myself right up, quickly gained 20 pounds and enjoyed every drunken second of the endless, yet wholesome party. I put away the tweezers, paused the black eyeliner fascination and started eating meat. I can’t tell you why I decided to stop eating meat as a teenager, but after one day in Ireland, I was wolfing down cheeseburgers like I was used to sucking down Camels.

Really, I’d never looked better.

Some fresh Irish country air: Better than rehab.
My own private Ireland.

This was before the time when music lovers had an arsenal of tunes at their fingertips. I didn’t lug any music with me in my overstuffed luggage; how was I going to pack Nirvana cds when I had so many corduroys and Doc Martens to bring? But, this was Ireland and The Cranberries provided the new lush soundtrack to my life. “Linger” was my battle cry, an answer to my lovesickness for a boy that I hated so much I was convinced it was pure love.

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Sometimes you have to leave home to realize how screwed up it really is.

In Ireland, I learned that my adolescent obsession with Sinead O’Conner was respected, but that The Cranberries and Dolores’s piercing voice were truly the sound of Ireland. Perhaps it was because I was no longer home that I relinquished myself to this fresh sonic love. I shed my Nirvana obsession and enjoyed some moody, Irish pop music.

Rest in peace, Dolores and thanks for all that beautiful noise.

This Week in LaLa Land: ‘Stranger Things’ Warps, Beck Charms, the Tao of Winona + Taylor

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Today,  I want to dunk myself in silliness, then scrub off the Weinstein sewage of  sexual harassment stories from my enlarged pores. Let’s get back to the insipid stuff for a second, okay? Don’t worry, we can quickly return to wondering if civilized civilization is deader than Kevin Spacey’s career. But don’t worry about too much because we’ve always got our moral compass, Courtney Love, to lead us.

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Beck approves my Taylor fascination.

Taylor Swift’s “The old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now” is the new “It’s Britney, bitch.” It’s the battle cry for all the T. Swizzle lovers out there that just can’t take the critiques anymore. After going back and forth about the uncoolness of my affection for Tay and wondering if my make-believe friend Beck would unfriend me because of my Taylor obsession, I’m okay with it and in my mind, Beck loves Taylor, too.

I’ll eventually forgive Taylor for neglecting to invite me to her Rhode Island “Reputation” listening party. Perhaps she watched me prowl her property donning my homemade “Will Sell My Soul for Taylor” shirt or maybe she knows about my college side job of stalking.

Whatever the reason—I was clearly not on this list.  But really, it’s Taylor’s loss. She and I would have had such a girly time, I can see it now: I would’ve asked her if John Mayer is a true Lothario or a needy mother’s boy with abandonment issues, I’d then segue into a discussion over how her brother Austin feels to be so overshadowed by his big sister, then end with a probing question asking if she actually likes Lena Duhman. You know, small talk!

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Oh, Jim Hopper.

“Stranger Things” just might be the best thing that has happened to me since Johnny Depp celebrated his love for Winona Ryder in permanent ink with his soon-to-be Wino Forever tattoo. The show makes my heart skip a beat like the good old days of Mulder and Scully ridding the world of aliens with the help of sunflower seeds and religion.

What is it that I love about “Stranger Things?”

Let’s start with the revival of Winona Ryder’s career, one crazy eye at a time. I never did understand where Winona went. Big deal, she got a little pilled out and stole a few frocks from Saks. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? She also dated every influential 90s alternative rocker, befriended and became enemies with everyone’s favorite mean rich girl, Gwyneth Paltrow. She even dated Matt freaking Damon. The woman is the “It Girl” for strange girls and I never understood why her career fizzled after the shoplifting fiasco.

Either way, Wino’s back forever!

My fondness for “Stranger Things” does not end with Winona Ryder. I’m also in love with Chief Hopper, the gaggle of cool and geeky kids and the new feisty redhead, Max. And, may I ignite the Sean Astin  “Best Actor” Actor Emmy campaign right now?

Back to the Beck thing. If you still purchase music and are into Beck, I highly recommend that you check out “Colors”. The album is whip smart and gleeful. It just might make you dance and smile. Don’t worry, there’s still a healthy dose of Beck being Beck with his perfect combination of weirdness, poetry and his strong grasp on the current world vibe, but more than anything, it’s a crowd-pleasing rainbow of an album.

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Cheers to Twitter employee that suspended Trump’s account!

While I am handing out nominations, can someone also get the Nobel Peace Prize committee on the phone and help me nominate the Twitter employee that suspended Donald Trump’s Twitter account for 11 minutes? That person just saved the world for 660 seconds.

Till next time.

I’m measuring my life in fainting spells.

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Like any good alt-Victorian lady, I’m prone to fainting spells, fond of hats, hysterics and cumbersome clothing.

I like to think of these fainting episodes as a true mark of my neuroses. Trails of my faints weave throughout my life and color memories of doctor’s offices, tattoo parlors & rock shows.

I can’t be sure when it began, but I do recall an unfortunate slip of a stapler in 4th grade that produced a bloody finger, panic and my 1st school faint.

Sybil
Do yourself a favor, don’t ever watch this movie.

I went on to faint TWICE during a teacher’s attempt at teaching high school psychology by showing the 3 1/4-hour mediocre miniseries, Sybil, in class. Creepy Sybil crashed her hand through a window and, much like my brother’s same exact faint 2 years before, I crashed out of my lab chair and forever cemented myself in my classmates’ freaked-out minds. In the ensuing chaos, the teacher failed to turn the movie off and guess what? I came to… just to collapse again.

I will never be able to look at Sally Fields without getting swoony.

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Like a Victorian woman, I’m prone to fanciness & fainting.

Like everything else, the faints of my young adult years morphed into a more disturbing condition and at a higher rate of consistency. Damn, I was passing out left and right. When I couldn’t take the heat, literally and figuratively, I would collapse into unconsciousness for a minute or two.

True to my alternative roots, I longed for piercings and tattoos. Three piercings & fainting spells later, I was looking pretty cool…and wimpy. I fainted with each new hole in my body. But, I REALLY wanted that nose ring, so I went for it.

That’s some twisted braveness.

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My fainting was at an all-time high. Can’t explain the dolls hanging from nooses made of tulle.

The tattoos were another episode.  At 16, I gifted my already-tattooed super-cool high school flame with a gift certificate to a tattoo shop. My ride to purchase it? Um, my mom. Later, 3 of my friends & I embarked on an ill-advised pilgrimage to get the same tattoo. I fainted and caused a scene, we were obviously underage and the “fainting girl” is always a party-pooper.

Even writing about fainting makes me want to faint.

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a 1744 oil painting by Pietro Longhi called Fainting

Another legendary faint happened during a party I was hosting on a college break.  This party was a little different from the nightly parties I threw while my mother spent weekends in another state, this party attracted the loveliest girl from high school. She showed up and she fainted! Just from witnessing her faint, I fainted. I came to by myself, alone, slumped against my refrigerator while the whole party fawned over my co-fainter. I got it, I was old news in the fainting circles.

Dual fainting girls really brings down a party, I assure you.

I went on to have 3 children naturally. As you can imagine, it wasn’t because of a dislike for painkillers, it was because I fainted even thinking of that needle. As luck would have it, I fainted in my sister’s delivery room while she was receiving her IV. I woke up and was immediately moved from the premises.

I fainted last weekend from intense pain in my lower back and it’d been a few years since I’d done so. It’s terrifying and funny, and it feels close to death. You’re in there somewhere, but everything is muffled. I only realize I’ve fainted because I remember the familiar fog and the panicked voices coming in and out, “wake up, wake up!”

Gotta go, I’m feeling a little woozy. Till next faint.

2017 Oscars: Odd clapping, human herding, Viola Davis’ self-righteous speech & more about me.

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I fell into a deep slumber on Oscar night, I blame my exhaustion on a steady weekend  stream of margaritas and vomit. The margaritas were drunk my me to deal with the constant regurgitation from my son’s mouth and onto most of my home. Sop up the body fluids, then revive with a margarita. Repeat. I was just so darned tired come Sunday night that I couldn’t even keep myself awake to make fun of celebrities.

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Scientology  is a hard thing to shake. Via GIPHY

And, what a scene I missed.

The whole show leading up to the envelope-switching fiasco was a study in poor time management. Between Nicole Kidman’s strange hand-clapping practices, which are certainly a byproduct of her years toiling in the Church of Scientology, to the human herding of tacky common folk sprung from a Hollywood sightseeing tour and thrust into the auditorium like circus freaks, the show was dying a slow and painful death.

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Oh my! Real poor people! Via Giphy

I think I passed out right after Rhode Island’s own Viola Davis gave the most practiced, self-righteous acceptance speech in the history of well, a plethora of them. Listen, just like any good Lil’ Rhody, I am incredibly fond of Viola Davis, but her speech almost made me think that I’d caught my son’s stomach bug. I quote directly from her here, “I became an artist and thank God I did because we are the only profession that celebrates what it means to live a life.” Margaritas, vomit, repeat.

Oh Viola, tell that to the doctors, writers, nurses, psychologists, social workers, firefighters, police officers, bartenders or any other person that is holding down a job in this thing we call “life.” You’ve got to be kidding me.

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Wow Viola, how…ridiculous a statement. Via Giphy

Then, thankfully, so that we actually have something to talk about at the water cooler of existence, came the moment we will all remember instead of the excellent films, the reading of the wrong winner for Best Picture. The horror! The outrage! Let the mobs get whoever is to blame for such an injustice to these millionaires.

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Looks like they all just read the reviews of Batman v Superman (Al Seib / Los Angeles Times/Polaris)

Can we just call the mishap a work casualty? A danger in a work environment where employees may earn up to $ 20 million per role and get lauded with accolades for months during awards season for doing their jobs. My gosh, some commoner from an accounting firm had the audacity to make a mistake and the whole country is treating him like he’s a Trump supporter or something.

Come on, people, they’re stars…just like us. Just like me. And, all this fuss over a mistake reminded me of an error that ended up working out for me.

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The year was 2000, my hair was dirty and my waist was tiny.

The year was 2000 and the scene was the booming dot com industry. I was flourishing in this environment and suckling from the teat of a soon-to-be-derailed company’s irresponsible spending. I reveled in the long, liquid lunches and constantly drank fresh lattes from the brand new espresso maker in the run-down company lounge. This crew of slackers turned professionals took smoke breaks every hour and spent morning, noon and night drinking and sleeping with one another. I was 22 and this was my 1st job. I was a copywriter, which just so happens to be tragically close to my current occupation, but my lack of ambition is a different story.

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Office Space, 1999.Crazy things happen after you think you’ve been fired. Via Giphy

This story is even better, it’s about the time that I was mistakenly fired. Yes, fired in error.

in the chaos of a massive cleaning of corporate house, I was let go. I was fired by  the big boss that had only spoken to me once before while screaming at me for ordering him the wrong sized car during a business trip. See, this guy didn’t really know me and he confusingly thought I was on the chopping block. So, without many words, he kindly told me to complete the week and not to come back.

Well, what’s a young woman with no responsibilities do in such a time? Go out with all her coworkers for one last pub crawl and proceed to spend an evening telling people what she really thinks of them. There’s nothing that I am better at than mixing an evening of alcohol, honesty and awkwardness.It was awesome and awful, filled with tears and truth: two things that should never mesh with work.

I crawled into work the next day with my eyes barely open and was informed that my firing was an error and that I didn’t actually even make enough money to be let go. I was, in fact, a valued employee. So, after a night of trash talking and inappropriate behavior in a land of inappropriate behavior, I kept my job and lost a little of my pride and liver.

Till next time, la la land!

 

The 2017 Grammys, a smorgasbord of phoniness & disappointment.

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Why do I set myself up for disappointment? It’s like I’m in college again and trying to date the Greek god, it’s just never going to work out, at least not in the way I think it might.

I was so excited for the damn Grammys, and now I have no idea why.

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Louder, Hetfield, we can’t hear you. Via GIPHY.

I suppose I wanted to see Lady Gaga outcool Metallica, an all-time least favorite band of mine. My hatred for Metallica harks back to the year that they headlined the 1996 Lollapolooza when I was basking in my Riot Grrl phase. I traipsed through Metallica’s crowd wearing a dirty white slip and a crown of thorns while proudly displaying the word “slut” written on my arm a la Courtney Love. The Metallica crowd didn’t get my shtick and it was one of the few times I was really picked on. Then Metallica was escorted to the stage via a helicopter and I threw up my party accouterments.

Oh, thank God cameras were barely used during my misspent youth.

But hey, Lady Gaga & Metallica is something that I can get behind. Unfortunately, the sound technicians couldn’t and James Hetfield’s microphone wasn’t on. It was embarrassing to watch him have to switch mics mid-song, but it was worth it to spy his rock star temper tantrum afterwards.

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It was magnificently…dull. Via Giphy.

But who cares? Let’s get to the icky part- the Beyoncé verse Adele battle of phoniness.

First, before the Beyhive swarms into my modest home and steals all my gin, Beyoncé should have won Album of the Year, without a doubt. Lemonade is a religion, while 25 is a  Church of Scientology in Arkansas. And, Adele bores me more than Beyoncé’s performance annoyed me, so there’s that.

Part of me gets it, that I’m not really supposed to get it. First, I’m old as dirt and am clearly out of touch. But, I do possess a freakishly high bullshit/phony meter and during Beyoncé’s performance, it was higher than Mike Posner. I mean, who knew being preggers was so profound? Two married billionaires that already have one child had sex and that act resulted in two living things in Beyoncé’s belly. How… bourgeoisie. I’ve squeezed 3 brats out and I caressed my belly less throughout those 27 months than Queen B did in her way-too-long Grammy performance.

Beyoncé’s performance was certainly better than most, but for it to lauded as epic and groundbreaking just seems silly. The spoken word element, freshly torn from the sticky pages of a 14-year old’s discarded journal were funny, but I do not think that was the intention. But, I am an equal opportunity hater because my Holden Caulfield-inspired phony meter was at an all-time high (again, Posner) with Adele.

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Can we start again? No, please, no. GIPHY.

Adele, you won. Take the award, thank a bunch of people we don’t know, make a thinly-veiled political statement and leave. Oh and while you’re performing, try to sing the flipping song without swearing on national television and having to start all over again. That’s what you get paid  millions of dollars to do. It was so sad to watch the crowd applaud her mediocre tribute to George Michael with tears in their eyes, not tears for George Michael’s recent passing, but because they felt badly that Adele felt badly that she messed up. Again.

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What’s worse than a sore loser? A bad winner. GIPHY.

Oy vey.

I did enjoy a lot of the Grammys. The Weeknd was excellent, Chance the Rapper was awesome, and even Katy Perry was better than usual and I absolutely loved her blonde hair. Ed Sheeran always entertains and is utterly charming.Most importantly, Bruno Mars, Morris Day & The Time did Prince right. It was a tribute worthy of pop star royalty.

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Blackbear, Mike Posner. Posner’s seen better days. Via GIPHY.

And, let’s give it up to Mike Posner who appears to be 8 days away from death or rehab. Wow, didn’t this guy just look like the former Duke University frat boy that he is? It looks like he took a lot more than a pill in Ibiza, he looks like he emptied the whole  pharmacy.

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Damn, this is Mike Posner a few years ago. Wowza. Via Huffington Post.

Till next year.

2016: Our Own Upside Down World

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2016 began, for me, with a small spell of alcohol poisoning.

And, the year never really lost that distinct aftertaste of vomit, Prosecco and wasted promises. The last 365 days were exhausting. I just finish getting over my last brassy dye job, only to see baby white hairs sprout again. And as a final “screw you,” I now spy them in my eyebrows. As if I didn’t inflict enough damage on my damned brows in the ‘90s, now middle age will finish the job of completely eradicating my brows.

#Blessed makes me #Sick

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Can you #killme before I #choke ?

Oh gosh, forgive me, I forgot that I am supposed to feign positivity instead of being honest.

My negativity is grating, and I just don’t care. Can I be forgiven for intellectually knowing that I have it pretty damned good, but internally feeling down and out? Can I eliminate myself from the hashtag blessed bullshit that permeates every adult conversation I’m forced to endure? Yeah, I get it, I could have it so much worse, but instead of respecting that, I’m going to complain about everything. I am nothing if not consistent. Well that, and a bummer.

Pain is relative. We can’t all compare our own pain against those with more pain. Pain is pain, and to engage in insipid conversations about how much worse life could be doesn’t actually make anyone feel better, not for any longer than that talk lasts.

2016’s Little Pockets of Love

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“Stranger Things” dominates 2106.

There were rainbows of coolness that sprang from the mushrooms of shit, little pockets of love like Winona Ryder’s cool-girl reemergence in “Stranger Things,” and Netflix’s newer installment of anxiety-inducing terror, “The OA”. And, The Lumineers’ “Cleopatra” is just about as good as it gets for music to my ears.

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Jaon’s Isbell’s Twitter presence is one of the better things in life.

I was transfixed for every second of FX’s “The People vs. OJ Simpson” and  transported to my idealistic youth and my horror at the OJ trial outcome.  I went to see Jason Isbell at the College Street Music Hall in  Connecticut, and I remembered that life is beautiful and talent like his is an amazing thing.

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If only I knew as much about geography as I do about Scientology.

A&E’s new hit docuseries “Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath” is perfect for my Scientology obsession. This show gives Leah Remini the role of a lifetime and shows that Scientology is scarier than “Stranger Things” upside down world.

Awash in Melancholy

Film and Television

“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land” T.S. Elliot’s The Waste Land

But, it’s not all Pop Tarts & Quaaludes here, peeps.

In April, Prince died at the age of 57. To make Prince’s death even worse, he died from an accidental drug overdose and it was like a final blow- not because I think less of Prince because he used drugs but because I thought he was one of my idols that didn’t. The thought of Prince, alone and dead in an elevator at Paisley Park isn’t how I wanted him to go.I’d much prefer to think of him dying in his sleep surrounded by a harem of women, blanketed in purple sheets of the highest thread count.

But 2016 didn’t care about that kind of stuff. We lost Prince, Barb, David Bowie, Leonard Cohen, George Michael, Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds,to name a few.

But, let’s not get too down, right?

We lose Carrie Fisher, an actress from an acting dynasty, a sharp-witted writer, a paramour of rock stars and an all-around extraordinary person. She was chock-full of demons, honesty and zingers. But, we get to keep Lena Dunham, a woman from an influential family, fully equipped with a pricey  education and a rock star beau, a ridiculous lack of humor and a book that is actually unreadable.

Making fun of Lena Dunham has become easier than ridiculing the Kardashians, so in 2017, my resolution is to stop. Not because I am being kind, but because she’s just so boring.

My Celebrity-Stalking Side Gig is Booming

Between furrowing my brow and applying coconut oil all over my face, I found time to snap pictures with some of my favorite celebrities.

To celebrate the 4th of July,  I did what any good American might: I planted my whole family on a hot beach to watch  Tom Hiddelston & Taylor Swift fawn all over each other. My sunburn had barely healed before I I met lil’ Rhody’s favorite alternative rock goddess, Tanya Donelly. Not to be outdone, I capped off the year with a  New York City encounter with one of America’s original, smart and cool gals, the awesome Sandra Bernhard.

The Kardashian Curse Spreads

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Kim Kardashian’s unattractive cry gets real. Image by How Should I Sass You

For another year, I want to thank the Kardashians for all the entertainment. The ne’er-do-well son in a family filled with losers procreated with Blac Chyna, only to implode in a nasty split that coincided with their own reality show. Kim & Kayne’s marriage lasted another year, but not without a mental breakdown and an awesomely awful burglary in Paris.

So, I’ve been thinking, can we start blaming everything on the Kardashians? That’s my plan.

Book Recommendations

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Beware, I only dig disturbing books.

Well, I do still take time to read books, and here are a few recommendations:

Hunger Makes Me a Hungry Girl: A Memoir by Carrie Browntein

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi

A Mother’s Reckoning by Sue Klebold

The Girls: A Novel by Emma Cline

All the Missing Girls by Megan Miranda

My Name Is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout

Happy New Year, y’all!

Millennials Killed Feminism & Gen Xers can’t even make it to the funeral.

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I thought I had the best idea for a funny blog and plan on going ahead with it, but first, I must acknowledge that it’s been the most disgusting week , even worse than when poor Barb was found decomposing in the upside down world on Netflix’s Stranger Things.

I promised myself not to get too political on social media or at parties, but the Donald Trump “grab them by the pussy” story has got to be a new low, even for a man that bastes himself with tanning oil, chauvinism, Viagra and bad fashion.

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Oh Trumpy, do you kiss your mail-order bride with that mouth?

First, don’t get it twisted- I’m not even a huge Hillary Clinton supporter,  I am a true Gen Xer so I don’t really like anything, other than Courtney Love. And gin. And Jared Leto circa My So Called Life time.

But now that this sniffling, orange statement of tackiness, ineptitude and victimization took a dump on our political stage, I love Hillary about as much as I loved getting wasted at every Lollapolooza. Yeah, I’m that serious.

If I can find ANYTHING amusing about Trump’s recent leaked tape, it’s that he refers to himself as a  “star”: “And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything…Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.”

Oh, you misguided Ommpa-Loompa, you’re not a STAR! You’re a D-grade celebrity whose claim to fame is a show that nobody has watched in years.

Millennials Killed Feminism & Gen Xers are too “busy” to care.

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Lena Dunham-  The new leader of feminism (for every college-educated white girl in Brooklyn).

I’m a feminist. There, I wrote it. And, I loathe new-age feminism.

There, I wrote that, too.

It’s too easy to blame it ALL on the millennials, but Lena Dunham‘s smug stare of entitlement, importance and good breeding jolts me pissed and I have to cast generalizations everywhere.

Oh damn, I just ridiculed a woman, is my feminist card revoked?

Well, I’ve read every word of Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique & Jong’s Fear of Flying, do I get it back now? They both sure as hell beat Not That Kind of Girl, by Lena Dunham, but that’s another rant.

See, Lena Dunham, our fearless new leader, has formed a new brand of feminism. One where women can’t speak poorly about other women no matter what. We can’t observe that Kim Kardashian probably should have had security while she  went to bed IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY with $11 million in jewelry in her room. Lena argues that we shouldn’t be making jokes because Kim Kardashian is “someone’s mother and daughter.” Well, her mother is Kris Jenner so there goes the “someone’s daughter” argument.

Stop it! I can’t say that, we must all have each other’s politically-conscious, Urban-Outfitters-adorned backs!

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I should do something about all this, but “Reality Bites” is on tv. Maybe tomorrow.

AGH! I get so angry that I want to scream!

But, I wont. We Gen Xers are so darned busy planning our children’s schedules for every minute of their free time to make up for the neglectful parenting that we endured that we barely have time to rock the Anthropologie 40% off sale. Then, we start to feel so old & boring that we  schedule our own social lives with rock shows, book clubs and movie dates because we feel awful about how goddamned uncool we got.

It’s exhausting, so just screw it and pass me the Zima, please.

I’m About to Kick a Beyhive

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Send all hate mail right to Rhode Island.

I respect Beyonce’s astounding talent, beauty, obvious intelligence and drive. Really, I do. So please, put down your hammer. But, is it a badge of feminism to create the masterpiece that is Lemonade, and have virtually the whole album be an angry portrayal of adultery, revenge and ultimately, forgiveness?

If art is life and life is art, are we to believe that the Queen Bey lets her Machiavellian-like, father-figure of a husband, Jay Z., cheat on her and forgive him? Are we really to believe that it’s “Becky with the good hair” fault?

I don’t know, something doesn’t resonate. If that is a triumphant act of feminism, then I’ll let Trump grab me by the…well, you know.

Oh well, whatever, never mind.

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We’ve come a long way, baby. Pop singers grab crotches just like men!

I’m a feminist afraid of being honest for fear of not adhering to this new set of feminist logic. I can ridicule Angelina Jolie for stealing two hours and 12 minutes of my life by directing “By the Sea,” surely the worst movie ever made, but I can’t voice my opinion on her being a nutcase, right?

Jolie is an obvious piece of work, a homewrecker and a joke. Did I just get in trouble again? Was I just supposed to blindly side with Brad Pitt because there’s been murmurs of his drunken behavior? I mean, he is a man and I am a woman so I better just go with her.

And yes, I understand that I do not really know any of these people, but we all do know these people, right? People just like this.

I want to confess that although I love to gaze at Lena Dunham’s out-of-shape ass on “Girls” (looks better than my fat ass), that doesn’t make the show interesting, the Lenny newsletter very readable or her a spokesperson for feminism. It makes her brave and slightly overweight, but we’re not really breaking new ground here, folks.

 

 

 

Crashing the Party of the Year: Taylor Swift’s 4th of July Shindig

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I just crashed the party of the year, and it almost felt better than Taylor Swift’s arse looks.

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From left: Abigail Anderson (childhood friend), unknown taut backside, Gigi Hadid, Karlie Kloss, unknown, Swift’s photographer, Taylor Swift on Tom Hiddleston’s shoulder.

I’m as schooled in the art of celebrity stalking as I am with partying. Just ask every single one of my ex boyfriends: I am a psycho stalker.  And, what better opportunity do I have to shine than T. Swizzle’s legendary Rhode Island Fourth of July extravaganza? Mix lil’ Rhody with a dose of celebrity culture and add on some of that stalker stuff and I am happier than Tom Hiddleston’s agent!

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Taylor’s bikini reads “America,” but her passion is straight-up British.

I sacrificed my health for this stalker mission. I mean, have you seen me? I’m paler than Tom Hiddleston’s British inner thigh. I planted myself, my husband and children on a beach for eight hours to possibly spy Taylor Swift. I should have drunk a bottle of SPF 120 to make it through the day.

Just when I thought this skin damage was for naught, out descended the squad. Yes, Taylor Swift and her bevy of beautiful people opened the gates of her $17 million Watch Hill mansion and swam in the Atlantic Ocean right next to me and my chafed thighs. Their appearance was accomplished in a dizzying whirl of speed and exhilaration;  out they ran, in sync with their shared loveliness, tautness and fondness for Solo cups. (Stars, they really are JUST like us!)

The sexual spark between Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston was hotter than Gigi Hadid’s Prada shades. Soon after Taylor and Tom splashed into the water, she hopped onto his back with a mischievous look of love. They looked perfect together and I’m not even going to question why Tom Hiddleston wore a shirt into the water, let’s peg that to British modesty.

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Tay Tay leads Karlie Kloss and Blake Lively up to heaven.

And it was over as quickly as Taylor’s love for what’s-his-name, Calvin Harris. After a few photos, giggles and shared hugs, the squad ascended up the stairs and into the heaven that must be Taylor’s life. I saw Blake Lively’s burgeoning belly and Ruby Rose’s many tattoos.  Taylor’s brother Austin and I shared a glance and I wondered what his future holds, will being lost in Taylor’s shadow wreak havoc on this handsome man, or will he find his own fame? Austin, may I suggest that you marry Selena Gomez? Somebody has to get her away from any kind of microphone.

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Taylor Swift’s brother Austin. The picture is grainy, but the abs are amazing. Believe me.

As the crowd dissipated, I saw Selena. She didn’t participate in the oceanic frolic but she did watch from afar. She stood at the top of the stairs, holding a large hat, while looking pensive.  I could sense her Bieber love-sickness from below. Poor Selena, don’t pout, there’s always Austin Swift.

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Taylor, that’s my son, Holden.

Back at the ocean, we revelers were left with the type of feeling you get after paying for Taylor Swift tickets, “did that really just happen, did I really just do that?” Well, it did and I have the TMZ photo to prove it. In the madness of the moment, I almost forgot that I actually had children at the beach, but voila, here is evidence. That little boy staring straight ahead, the only person within a mile nonplussed by the hysteria is Holden, my son.

Stalk on, baby.

Prince’s Death & Gynecology: A Vacation Day Of Horror

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Nothing kills a vacation day like the death of your childhood idol quickly followed by a Pap smear.

I took a day off today to relax. But because I rarely plan anything other than partying and going to rock shows, I forgot that I’d also scheduled my annual OB GYN appointment in the afternoon. Then Prince died. What a wretched waste of a perfectly good vacation day.

A few facts about me:

  • I loathe going to the doctors. I was FOUR years overdue for this annual appointment, the possibility of having to give blood outweighs any reasoning and I neglect physicals, podiatrists and anyone with a white coat.
  • I love music like most people love their animals.

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Prince was one of those loves for me. I went to see him in concert as an adolescent and it was a life-altering experience. I was an awkward Catholic kid covered with freckles and dysfunction in a rural Massachusetts town, I had to find my own escapes and Prince delivered on that evening. I learned about sex from watching “Purple Rain.” I watched the movie so many times that I can still recite the whole damned thing. I know because I’m doing it right now.

These days hit me hard. Maybe it’s the taste of my own mortality, or perhaps it’s that I am so in love with myself at that age. I love that little me more than I can communicate. I see the promise, the intellect, the creativity and I can smell the looming derailment. It’s tricky terrain in there, like the wart on my foot that I just can’t stop digging at, I want to get to the root and pull it out to marvel at its bloody splendor.

That’s what nostalgia really is, it’s not truly about the person or thing that we loved so much, it’s more about missing ourselves at that age. It’s been a LONG time since I’ve purchased new Prince music, but it doesn’t matter, I love him for who he was and more importantly, who I was when he touched me.

Here’s to Prince, the pop icon that always stayed cool.While poor Madonna engages in a tacky custody battle for the world to see, and Cyndi Lauper disappears into “Kinky Boots” land, Prince never lost a shred of authenticity. Rest in peace, Prince.

And make your annual OB GYN appointment- the stirrups are less uncomfortable than I remember.

 

I’m measuring my life with rock show stubs and fainting spells. Lessons learned from rock shows.

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It started innocently with Cyndi Lauper. Proudly clad in a purple stoned wash miniskirt while sporting high-top mint green Reeboks, I breathed in my first concert air. It was love at first screech. Each concert taught me a valuable lesson and this one was: Opening bands can be a necessary evil. At 10, I was cooler than opener Eddie Money.

Appollonia is starting to take of her shirt. My 12-year old self is watching on repeat.

Appollonia is starting to take of her shirt. My 12-year old self is watching on repeat.

Prince and all his filthy brilliance came next. I never knew someone could move like that. I remember blind folds, heavy breathing and squeals, but mostly, I remember the music. It sounded electrifying, dirty and important. I’d already watched Purple Rain more times than I’d brushed my teeth. I’d hit pause and watch as Apollonia disrobed, shocked at her voluptuousness.

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I saw the Eurythmics in this.

The Madonna show forecasted my soon-to-be troubled teen years. 13 years old, I boldly swiped beers from a parent’s fridge and encouraged my friends to slug them seconds before entering said parent’s vehicle. Hustling into a Subaru, cheap beer on our breath, red lipstick smeared on our lips, we were caught.There were threats of canceling the night, but I knew how much those tickets cost, and I knew there wasn’t a chance. I had secretly borrowed a set of my mother’s rosary beads and her black bra. Soon after entering the arena, off came my Benetton rugby and out came my newly developed breasts and rosary beads. A star was born.

Cyndi, Prince and Madonna: the Holy Trinity of late 80s pop music. Mine for the night at the Worcester Centrum, Massachusetts. Throughout the years, beers and the hear loss, I learned more rock-show etiquette:

  1. Don’t gift your kid concert tickets unless you actually

They were better than Metallica.

They were better than Metallica.

know your kid.  Are you flummoxed that I’ve seen Bell Biv Devoe? Ditto. A good pal’s loathsome mother gifted her Nirvana-loving daughter with…surprise…three tickets to Bell Biv Devoe! Always a good sport, I laced up my Doc Martens and dutifully shook my nonexistent arse to classics such as Do Me! and Poison.

It wasn't legal, but it was fun.

It wasn’t legal, but it was fun.

2. One is never too young to fail at being a groupie: I started out small with a local band, but I had goals and aspirations for so much more. My 15 -year old mind focused on becoming a Mighty Mighty Bosstones groupie. It never really happened, but not from a lack of effort. I had what every wanna-be-groupie needs: a best friend that topped 5’10, a lusciously cascading mane of hair, a bona fide bad-girl girlfriend, absent parents and sheer recklessness. It was a recipe for groupie-galore.

My focus was on meeting rock stars more than classwork. I may have been just getting by in school, but I really wanted to get by with some B-grade rock stars. I schemed, I lied, I stalked, and I succeeded, maybe not in the biblical sense, but enough to be a lil’ rock star in my small world.

I'm with the band.

I’m with the band.

Concert-going taught me more than the nuns at my Catholic college. I soon graduated to see Hole, Beck, Nine Inch Nails and every Lollapoooza. My rock intellect was sharpening while my ears were constantly ringing.

3. Fainting at rock festivals is a downer. I was dehydrated while Lindsey Lohan was drinking baby formula. At 20, it was unfathomable to drink water when there were so many more attractive substances to drink in. Yet another health lesson gleaned from rock shows: Severe dehydration will cause a young me to faint. Fainting will certainly welcome the paramedics to visit you and your suspicious friends. These circumstances will sober you up, and ruin an evening. Drink water, bring sunscreen, and take it easy.

Riot Grrl.

Riot Grrl.

4. Rock music is religion. I spied God at a Hole concert. I remember when it happened, when I decided that I would spend gobs of time reading about Courtney Love, obsessing over her and even trying to look like Ms. Love. I was crushed against the stage at Lupo’s in Providence, RI after waiting over an hour for Hole to play. Exhaustion, paranoia and dehydration did not deter me, and right before I almost fainted, Courtney Love stammered onto the stage. I saw the light. I saw her underwear, her cleavage and a even bit of her battered soul.

These boots are made for concerts.

These boots are made for concerts.

The curmudgeon in me misses the old rock show. The smoke was always so thick, why not light up a Camel Light and contribute to the taint? Now, I spy teenagers at rock shows snapping picture after picture, what will they do with all those damn pictures? Don’t they know  they’re missing out on valuable make-out time? Priorities, kids, priorities.

I turned 40 and nothing really happened: A few things I’ve learned along the way.

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I turned 40 with aplomb and positivity. I ditched domesticity and dishwashers and hightailed it to Vegas with some girlfriends. I soon landed back in Rhode Island, the land of very little milk and honey, to land my first full-time job since 2009.

It’s been a dizzying frenzy of doing ever since: working, scheduling, partying and sleeping. Yes, sleeping. My insomnia has completely ceased without explanation. I slumber for a solid eight hours. I feel like a traitor to my own neuroses, and I can’t believe how delightful sleep feels.

A 20-year old me. What will I learn?

A 20-year old me. What will I learn?

But really, I turned 40 and nothing happened. No moment of Zen that clears up life’s issues, no bender worthy of bragging rights and shame. I was given a slice of adulthood in the form of a robust benefits package. It was all kind of dull. But, I gaze at my picture above, at a 20-year old troubled, intelligent, loyal and misunderstood young woman and think, “what has she learned along the way?”

Soak yourself in heartbreak while you can: To be awash in purely wretched heartache is a lovely and essential experience that  should be clung to once or twice. My romantic heartbreaks are, hopefully, over, but what a shame if they’d never been there. I want you to rub the dirt of heartache into your skin, breathe in the melancholy, and choke on the sad songs. Remember it. It may never happen again, and it is an experience to embrace. The sorrow ends, it gets better, love sprouts again..

A perfect ode to heartbreak.

A perfect ode to heartbreak.

And may I suggest wallowing in sadness while listening to Sinead O’Connor’s The Lion and the Cobra. That album sounds like what tears taste like.

Party like Kate Moss: Go ahead, eliminate the drugs and alcohol, but have some fun while you can. Life does not stop after 40, or after squeezing out a few kids, but it does slow down. I danced on every table that could hold me; I wore the highest heels imaginable, and walked home with bare feet on filthy streets. Tell bawdy stories in inappropriate settings. Live. Taste. Hurt. Don’t apologize…well, unless you fool around with your best pal’s boyfriend-make no mistake, that action deserves an apology and flowers.

My friend Dina. Friends since the '80s.

My friend Dina. Friends since the ’80s.

Keep your Friends: Family is life, yes, but your life is also your life. Don’t always confuse the two. If you don’t show up, you won’t keep being invited. I clutched onto my friends through moves, divorce, sickness and a bad attitude. They are mine, I am theirs and together, we are glorious.

The grass may be greener on the other side, but there’s cat urine everywhere: If I wanted a McMansion with a luxury vehicle and lavish vacations, I should not have majored in English Literature and stumbled my way into adulthood. I can own that, I can stomach it. I live on the wrong side of the tracks in a lovely New England town, and the view is divine. The sooner I realized to be content with my lower middle class surroundings, the better life became.

mom ,jMarry Well: This has nothing to do with money. Marry someone that knows you have a life, too. I’ve lost so many girlfriends to Neanderthal men that still think women should be home baking gluten-free snacks for Bucky. Gross. Don’t get married and try to change someone. A jerk is a jerk, a good guy is a good guy and a chauvinist will always be a chauvinist.

Be Good: People can be such assholes, don’t be one of them. The hierarchy of high-school popularity never ends. It’s at work, at our kid’s school, at the bus stop. I resort to my high school antics: I let my freak flag fly high, listen to The Cure and quietly laugh at how uncool cool people really are.

mom-communionOwn your faith: I’m Catholic, now let the bashing begin. Does my Catholicism mean that I am an anti-homosexual, anti-abortion zealot that accepts molestation? Jesus Christ (oops, forgot that commandment)! No, it does not, and it also does not give people the right to bash my faith to my face after mentioning that I am on my way to church. Is there any other religion, other than Scientology, that this is acceptable?

Here’s the deal, I was raised Catholic and I am raising my children that way. I take it fairly seriously and attend mass as much as I can. I don’t get into all the sticky stuff and vote in whatever way I choose. Own your faith, don’t be ashamed by it.

My celebration of 40 continues. Tonight I will toast family by attending my niece’s starring role in another Massachusetts production. Tomorrow night, I will heavily imbibe with friends, all of whom I have known since that top picture was captured. So much and so little has changed.

I’m gonna wasted-shame a rock star.

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It’s a battle to maintain a blog when chunks of your life keep falling from the cracks in your glass ceiling. I’ve been in the trenches, but spring has sprung and more importantly, there’s been another rock star citing in Rhode Island!

Evan Dando, 1993.
Evan Dando, one of People’s Sexiest Men, 1993.

Warning: Please be advised that I do not judge the following bad behavior, and I understand the hypocrisy of wasted- shaming anyone, but it’s a rock star and they are fair game. It was fair for you to wasted-shame me during my 90s tsunami of questionable choices, especially fair for my behavior at that Afghan Whigs show, hot damn, that one was a doozy! I must do what I must do and the following account of a has-been rocker and his sloppy performance is mean spirited, but true.

in 1994, I found Juliana Hatfield's home phone number and called her. Repeatedly.
in 1994, I found Juliana Hatfield’s home phone number and called her. Repeatedly.

I recently caught the Julian Hatfield Three at the Columbus Theatre in Providence, RI. The show was fun; the band got the memo and played the entire Become What You Are album. Juliana did not disappoint, she was dark and brooding while irresistibly adorable. Little fact about Juliana: She’s from Duxbury, MA. My college roomate was also from Duxbury and I engaged in a little Juliana Hatfield- phone harassment in college. I did this kind of thing a lot on college and high school.

The opening band was Potty Mouth, an uninspiring all-girl band heavily influenced by Nirvana. Okay, maybe they weren’t that bad, but I researched them and they all met at Smith College and I suffer from a syndrome called “Smith College college- envy”. My Sylvia Plath obsession leads me to be wrought with emotions over goofing off in high school and not having a shot in hell of going to Smith College. Anyway, Potty Mouth’s guitarist was pretty and I watched as her sloshed, attractive, older-looking roadie beau helped the band with the heavy lifting. I use the term “boyfriend” just because sloshed-aging-roadie guy was affectionate with this well-educated guitar player.

Supermodels always fare better than rock stars in the post-heroin days.
Supermodels always fare better than rock stars in the post-heroin days.

 

During Juliana’s performance, hot-roadie-guy kept interjecting drunken babble in between songs with an air of authority and reverence. Who was this asshole? Well, it took a moment, but much to my surprise and horror, I realized that this man was Evan Dando of The Lemonheads. You remember him, right? It’s a Shame about Ray, Into your Arms, starring role in Heavy, ex-lover to both Courtney love and Kate Moss, rehab-frequent flyer with a privileged background and a bad attitude? I once LOVED him, he owns all the bad qualities that I am attracted to in a man. He’s still swoon-worthy, but ouch, how the mighty fall hard when they fall.

 

Courtney and I have similar taste in men.
Courtney and I have similar taste in men.

At the end of the show, I wanted to ask Dando for a photograph for my Christmas card, but it was not clear if he was able to stand up properly. He had such a tight grasp on his little lady’s waste that I thought it best not to bother him. I did shake his hand and inform him that I am a fan. He looked startled, wasted and possibly a little embarrassed.

Oh Evan, it’s okay, it’s all good. You’re still beautiful and you’ve still got a way with the ladies. I see that Dando’s recent tour dates have been cancelled due to ill health. Get better Evan; you’re still one of the coolest Massholes I know.

XO

My therapist is concerned about my fake stab at positivity, so here is my list of all that is rotten.

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Yes, the world is full of phonies, SJP.

Yes, the world is full of phonies, SJP.

I suffered a temporary lapse of judgment, why go good when I do bad so well? A bitter freckled face can’t change her spots, I present my list of wretchedness and rot:

Celebrities griping about their offspring being photographed: The worst celebrity crusade, founded by outrageously overpaid actor Halle Berry, is the anti-paparazzi bill passed by the California state assembly. Backed by phonies like Kristen Bell, man-child Dax Shepherd and perpetually sour-faced Jennifer Garner, it reeks of hypocrisy. While it was amusing to watch Jen Garner sob while passionately speaking about  her children’s privacy being ravaged, the whole thing stinks. Celebrities, stop naming your children silly words, touting your body- after- baby transformations, shilling your kids’ first baby pictures to national magazines and touting the inflated wonders of breastfeeding, and we’ll stop looking at your brats’ pictures in the tabloids.

Jen garner and Halle Berry saving the world, one tear at a time.

Jen garner and Halle Berry saving the world, one tear at a time.

Also, we all know that these same stars will be peddling their kids to us in eleven years when they push them into the family biz, so can’t we get it over with now? Let’s get the Oscar shot so that we can all ooh and awe over it when little Violet Affleck lands her first plum movie role.

The iPhone Epidemic at Concerts: Have you been to a

Rock show 101:Put your phone away at rock shows.

Rock show 101:Put your phone away at rock shows.

rock show recently? I have and the iPhone has ruined the experience. Kiddos, here is a novel idea: you can remember the show in your mind! Please, take one or two photos and put your phone away. What are these millennials going to do with 148 pictures of people watching a concert?

Can we create baby decorum?

Can we create baby decorum?

Stop the baby mania: Let’s all agree that being a woman is tough work in 2015, whether you have zero or seven children, so for Christ’s sake, people, stop asking women when and if they’re going to procreate, really can’t we all cease talking about it at all? I cringe every time an infertile couple is posed with the question, “So, when will there be a baby in the extra room?” Um, maybe after we murder you and store your remains in there. Or, “So, are you having any more children?” inquired of the mom I know just suffered a miscarriage.And, not every woman wants to have a baby, can we ever accept this?

If you’re not getting it on with the person with which you’re discussing procreating, stop asking the questions.

My kid’s short, and your kid is annoying: My son, much like

I know how you feel Josh Hutcherson.

I know how you feel Josh Hutcherson.

my husband and me, is vertically challenged. I know this because I am not blind, his doctor confirmed my observation, and every other concerned parent wants to inform me of his visible shortness. I am the boy’s mother, doesn’t he already have enough issues? Must everybody remind him how small he is? Please, stop, or just know that while you are commenting on his height, I am trying to figure out how many pounds you should lose.

Mark, once a tool, always a tool.

Mark, once a tool, always a tool.

Mark Wahlberg is a humorless masshole: Yes, are you sitting down? I am a Massachusetts-bred Mark Whalberg hater. I know he’s been in some good movies and that he can act, but I can’t look at his lopsided smile, cowboy gait and insincere looks of sincerity. Every journalist tells horror stories about his rudeness, he tries to bury his Funky Bunch roots (probably his best work-to-date) and he is always talking about what his devout Catholicism. Such a phony, such a bore.

Skinny jeans are the new mom jeans: Are skinny jeans out of style yet? I remember Kate Moss wearing them at least ten years ago, they meandered their way to middle America and we’ve been left looking at women’s muffin-tops ever since. Ugh, I tried, I have a slew of unworn skinny jeans sitting in a drawer just waiting for me to proclaim defeat and give to goodwill. I can’t rock the skinny jean, that is for sure, but I don’t think I want to. Just go to a big event and count the number of skinny jeans worn with a high boot, it’s become the official uniform of soccer moms, city slickers and country folk. Can we move on, and look into something new?

Katy Perry. Roar. Bore. Whatever.

Katy Perry. Roar. Bore. Whatever.

Nothing about Katy Perry interests me. Not her music, nor her religious upbringing, her choice of lovers or her style. There are worse evils out there than Katy, but she bores me to tears. I feel the same way about Selena Gomez, Maroon Five and Ellie Goulding. I’d admit that I can’t keep a straight face when watching a Beyoncé performance, but I’m afraid the Illuminati will attack my family and rob me of my mind.

Wow, Leo DiCaprio hangs out with models on boats? Since when?

Wow, Leo DiCaprio hangs out with models on boats? Since when?

Predictability kills me. Leonardo DiCaprio and his next 24-year old supermodel illicit a yawn as much as Blake Shelton gushing over Miranda Lambert. Waiting for Kristen Stewart to go to rehab is much more fun, maybe one of the soulless Jenner sisters will beat her to it.

Of course, no list of all things rotten would be complete without the Bill Cosbys, Kardashians and football players behaving badly. But that would be really predictable, wouldn’t it?

Please don't tell anyone that I don't know if  like Beyonce. I'm afraid for my life to admit it.

Please don’t tell anyone that I don’t know if like Beyonce. I’m afraid for my life to admit it.

Bill Cosby, lecherous predator.

Bill Cosby, lecherous predator. Phony Hall of Fame recipient.

My therapist is concerned about my negativity, here’s a stab at happiness: Stuff I dig.

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Okay, enough with the constant negativity, no more cantankerous Kathleen, welcome to the spring-influenced Kathleen. I shed my persona of the malaise, apathy and disdain that I cloak it in, and want to share a few of my favorite things.

I'm not usually the princess type.

I’m not usually the princess type.

Lily James in “Cinderella” I can’t remember the last time I was so astounded by an actor’s performance and by their sheer beauty. Lily James’ performance reminded me why I go to the movies: to get lost in the magic of the story. It was refreshing to be moved without being disturbed, and to see a children’s movie without watching some Oscar-nominated actor try to steal every scene by overacting. Hello, Angelina Jolie and her co-starring “Maleficent” prosthetic cheekbones. More Lily James in absolutely everything, please..

Meet Nick Jonas. Now that Justin Timberlake’s temples are

Nick Jonas, the new Justin Timberlake. Yes, I went there.

Nick Jonas, the new Justin Timberlake. Yes, I went there.

graying and he’s baby proofing his palace for his super-human baby with Jessica Biel, allow me to pass his torch to Nick Jonas. Oh, “sacrilegious” you cry? Listen and watch again. Nick Jonas has the voice, the vision and the abs to be a pop sensation contender. He polished his roots in a pretty decent boy band, can play a slew of instruments and is flexing his bad boy muscles for all to salivate over, or is that just me?

Fennel keeps me well-preserved. I eat raw fennel every day,

This picture has me salivating.

This picture has me salivating.

all day long. It’s a fairly expensive habit, but more affordable than some of my nasty young adult addictions. I dig the crunch and the wonders of a vegetable that tastes like black licorice. I’ve been told that it cures an upset stomach, and it does calm me after my daily consumption of gallons of coffee.

Dan Harris, teach me how to meditate.

Dan Harris, teach me how to meditate.

Male newscasters are my new rock stars. Oh, George Stephanopoulos, how I enjoy your full head of ruffled hair, your small stature and smart suits. You’re so well-informed, intelligent and Greek. Let’s not forget about geek-chic Dan Harris, that meditating fox. I suggest that we all go somewhere lovely, order a few extra dry martinis and you can both explain the intricacies of Yemen and I can break down the differences between the Jonas brothers.

It’s a Redhead Riot: I am attracted to gingers, I want to be near

Florence, I want to kiss you, then braid your hair, then drink bourbon with you.

Florence, I want to kiss you, then braid your hair, then drink bourbon with you.

them, I enjoy staring at their hair and wonder if it’s turning white like mine. To be fair, my hair is a bottled red, but it was, at one time, before jadedness and wretchedness crept into my pores, it was a lovely red. Redhead’s hair tends to fade and go white, but who cares? The journey was splendid. Much like my fondness for redheads, I am also enamored of freckles, on both men and women. Yes, I am attracted to redheaded men and maybe even married one. The marriage was brief, but his hair was divine. Julianne Moore, Emma Stone, Ron Weasley, I’m talking to you, you are my people.

 

 

I love Elliott Smith in a spiritual sense.

I love Elliott Smith in a spiritual sense.

I love Elliott Smith. His music is timeless beauty drenched in melancholy, grit and heroin, his voice sparkles with delicate touches of longing, depression and humor. Watching Elliott Smith play live was a high in my life, I was so close that I could touch him and he was so fucking good. I can’t believe that he died and every year, I feel my own mortality when the anniversary of his death gets longer and longer. He died twelve years ago and his latest CD, “From a Basement on the Hill, has not moved from my life since. Give it a try, it’s angry and lovely, heart-breaking and life-affirming. It’s Elliott.

Coconut oil will cure what ails you.

Coconut oil will cure what ails you.

Moisturizer is my friend.

I’m taking aging by her wrinkled throat, and I am squeezing the life from her. I will not go down without a Housewives-style fight. I slather my face so heavily that I look like an oil spill. When I wake up in the middle of the night because of my aging bladder, I put on a dollop of whatever moisturizer I’ve got, and I have plenty.

I’m creative with my moisturizer, constantly searching for that fountain of youth. I’ve got the store brands, but I also lubricate my face with coconut oil, olive oil and a blend of vitamin e with essential oils. I’ve applied Vaseline, lemon, yogurt and avocados all over my freckled face. The results are not Jen Aniston, but I think I look younger than Lindsey Lohan.

Therapy. We should all be in therapy, there’s nothing that

I should have been a psychiatrist.

I should have been a psychiatrist.

makes me feel more important and justified. I‘ve seen so many: there was the older gentleman that would cajole me into purchasing expensive handbags because I liked them. He was like a father figure, if my father had absolutely no rules. I’d tell him about a drunken adventure and he’d listen with glee. His office was blanketed in expensive mahogany, and his magazines were top-notch.

I then moved onto a psychologist, a refined, thin, well-maintained woman of a certain age, old-age. She’d try to get at why dressing well was so important to me and chastise me for being so hard on myself. She’d often ask “Do you want to be known as the life of the party?” The true answer is that, yes, I do. Is that a crime?

See, I don’t hate absolutely everything. Next week’s list will include things that I despise and I have a premonition that it will be a bit longer.

xo

Grammys: Beck’s brilliance shines,Kayne West is dumb, Madonna delivers something, Gwen Stefani should keep to the silly stuff.

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I kept myself awake to write this stupid blog.

I kept myself awake to write this stupid blog.

The Grammys were dull and filled with ballads, but I watched it all, every off-key note, every exposed side boob and each time Sam Smith recited a totally uninspiring acceptance speech. Yawn.

beck-624-1367411586

Kayne, let me introduce you to a true visionary, Mr. Beck Hansen.

But who cares? Beck won three Grammys and if there’s anything you need to know about me, it’s that I love Beck in an unnatural way. I love Beck the way I should love my family. So, now I have a new enemy: Mr. Kayne West Kardashian. By now, we all know that Kayne, in his bare chested glory, swaggered on stage while Beck was accepting his well-deserved Grammy in protest of Beyonce not winning. What a clown. Mr. West Kardashian, you’re needed in the lobby, Kris Jenner needs her colonic and your dad-in-law Brucey needs to be reminded where his soul and testacles are located.

 The Grammy Goods

Miranda Lambert What a surprise, I never knew that Miranda Lambert was a rocker. She was the first good performance of the evening. Lambert commandeered the stage and was the only rebel that had to be bleeped for swearing.

Sia with Kristen Wig and Maddie Ziegler. What can’t Kristen

I've got nothing but love for this.

I’ve got nothing but love for this.

Wig do? She’s hysterical, a fine actress and a captivating modern dancer. “Chandelier” was the most enthralling performance of the evening, and my most-loved song of the year. How kind of Sia to write a song documenting my early 20s.

Annie Lennox & Hozier Annie Lennox was the strongest vocal performance of the night. The woman can sing and she and Hozier made a dynamic duo.

Beck Speaks Beck won three Grammys, including the aforementioned Kayne-infected Album of the Year triumph. Beck spoke and I listened to every word he

Beck is fond of redheads. Marissa Ribissi, Beck's wife since 2004.

Beck is fond of redheads. Marissa Ribissi, Beck’s wife since 2004.

uttered. He kissed his wife, Marissa Ribisi of “Dazed & Confused” fame and Giovanni Ribissi’s twin sister, and thanked his children. Beck went on to harmonize with Chris Martin for a beautiful performance of “Heart Is a Drum”.

This is what we do in lil' Rhody.

This is what we do in lil’ Rhody.

John Mayer & Ed Sheeran Who cares about this performance if not for the fact that Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift are pals as all we Rhode Islanders know by seeing the pictures of Ed hanging with T. Swizzle in our sweet little state. John Mayer broke TayTay’s young heart and continues to bash her in the media while dating her nemesis Katy Perry. Got all that? Hmm, where was that camera crew to get Taylor’s reaction to this collaboration?

I'm attracted to redheads and pretentious men. Really, I am.

I’m attracted to redheads and pretentious men. Really, I am.

John Mayer reminds me of most the boys I went to college with that wouldn’t date me for all the Brooks Brothers clothing in the world. He resembles most Connecticut bred assholes I’ve ever met: good looking, well-dressed, from a solid background and completely obnoxious.

Madonna Madonna was never famous for her pipes and voices

It wasn't great, but it wasn't bad.

It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad.

don’t get stronger with age, but she’s Madonna, and she’s freaking 56 years old. I don’t know how much puppy blood she’s consumed to look this good, but keep doing what you’re doing Madge.

The Boringly Bad

Ariana Grande, pure mediocrity at it’s prettiest. Is Ariana the new rich man’s X-tina Aguilera?

Katy Perry I do not care if this was a powerful anthem about domestic abuse, it was a sonic Ambien. The performance reminded me of my childhood dance recital skits- overly emotional, too much makeup and a lot of accolades for nothing. Katy, your crowning moment from the Super Bowl was short-lived and you’ve been placed back on my Queen of Drivel list.

They must see the same dermatologist.

They must see the same dermatologist.

Nicole Kidman & Keith Urban Are they morphing into one another? Just an observation.

Meghan Trainor mentioned her Nashville roots. I’m confused because she is from Nantucket, MA, just about as far from Nashville as possible. Maybe she meant that she and Brian Williams both saved Nashville from a zombie apocalypse brought on by her nasally voice. That makes sense.

Gwen Stefani & Adam Levine The worst performance of the night must be  given to my usual love Gwen Stefani. She warbled her way through some soul-sucking ballad with Adam Levine. Ouch. I am fond of Stefani, but let’s stick to the silly stuff and keep the power ballads to, well, anyone else. After this debacle, I don’t think she should be judging anyone’s voice on “The Voice”. Don’t believe me? Take a listen.

Mary J. Blige Once Mary J. Blige and all her self righteousness takes the stage, that’s the sign it’s time for the show to slowly peter out. I’m Sam Smithed out and his pairing with Mary J. Blige sounded great, but once again, what a bore.

Back to Kayne, one last time.

I just know that the Grammys, if they want real artists to keep coming back, they need to stop playing with us,” Kim Kardashian’s better half blabbered. “We ain’t gonna play with them no more. And Beck needs to respect artistry and he should’ve given his award to Beyonce.”

Kayne, you really are a joke and the punchline is that you don’t know it, and that makes the universal joke just so much funnier.

I stalk rock stars. Part 1.

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I stalk rock stars. It used be a large part of my life. My plan was to befriend them, party with them and maybe become a groupie, but damn my Catholic upbringing, it always gets in the way of the real bad stuff. When I was young and hot, I’d jump onstage during rock shows, lurk post-show at hotels to catch a glimpse and deliver cookies to the creepy men that guarded the backstage door. I was a detective; I’d locate the lead singer’s number and call him at ridiculous times. I was cunning. I attribute all this rock star lust and silliness to my poor grades in high school, but I was a great success.

Tanya Donelly

Tanya, remember me following you to Ocean Coffee Roasters in 1994? I'm back!
Tanya, remember me following you to Ocean Coffee Roasters in 1994? I’m back!

Just last week I met one of my idols, Tanya Donelly of Belly, Throwing Muses and Breeders fame, and an incredible solo artist. In the mid-90s I spent valuable time pestering my professor, Donelly’s step-father, for information on Tanya. I would bombard him with an assortment of intrusive questions about his rock-n-roll family and show up at Belly shows pleading with him to get me backstage. He was a kind man, but he put an end to it with one statement: “Shouldn’t you spend more time completing your papers than you do learning about my daughter’s life?”  I got the picture and a C+ in his class.

Last thirsty Thursday, I saw Tanya play at The Salvation Cafe in Newport for an intimate acoustic show that also included the consistently great Brothers Kendall. The set list included little bits of brilliance like “Not Too Soon” and “Dusted”. Special guests Gail Greenwood and Dave Narcizo added to the nostalgia. I saw Belly in 1993, 1994 and 1995 and I felt just as young watching Tanya Donelly last week.

Courtney, I’ll start smoking cigarettes again for you.

I see a real resemblance, do you?
I see a real resemblance, do you?

Meeting Courtney Love was the highlight of my life. Yes, I’ve had a bunch of kids and been married once or twice, but meeting Courtney Love was the most euphoric experience of my life. Giving birth was a highlight, but it was bloody and scary and filled with IVs and defecation. Too much? Always. 

I am not an overly ambitious person, but when given the slight chance of meeting Courtney, I seized the day, I was unstoppable. I weaseled my way past hundreds of people and managed to be the first photo- op of the evening. Courtney was at an art exhibit showcasing her own artwork and I was ready to take her with me for the rest of our lives. Love was gracious and warm, I told her that she’s “my world” and then she and I discussed how similarly we were dressed. Messed up minds do think alike.

At the end of the evening, I yelled over to Courtney and her large entourage, “Courtney, we’re on our way to a rock show, come with us, drinks on me!” She shook her head with a smirking, disapproving look. Pure bliss.

Loudon Wainwright III, we shall meet again.

Families that Love Loudon Stay Together

My brother started this one. He’s been to see Loudon Wainwright III more times than I’ve shampooed my hair. It’s been going on for decades, but my fanatic involvement has been for a little over a decade. Within that time, I’ve seen Loudon in New York City, Memphis, Boston, Fall River, the Berkshires and maybe even a few I don’t remember. At times, there’s copious amounts of alcohol swirled into these evenings.

Loudon’s performance pecks at my heart little by little each time, his voice resonates and I’m suddenly surrounded by memories, good and bad. It’s a beautiful, emotional and at times uncomfortable few hours. Loudon is a writer, a poet, an actor, a name dropper, a folk-music patriarch and a dynamic showman.

I’ve met him a few times now. My brother, sister and I have been to dinner with Loudon and those nights have been some of the happiest moments of my life. Most Irish Americans have a picture of JFK in their homes, but we all have a picture of Loudon Wainwright III.

To be continued.

The Official Rulebook on Children’s Party Decorum

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Let Buffy eat the cake.

Let Buffy eat the cake.

Hosting a child’s birthday party is stupidly stressful and I move to get back to my modest roots and reinstate the McDonald’s birthday parties of 1981. Goody bags? Here’s your Happy Meal. Games? Run yourselves ragged on that poorly constructed plastic labyrinth of fun: The Mcy D’z playground.

Where the rulebook? Every time I deliver my kid to Buffy’s Birthday Extravaganza, I just want the escape, I crave to hear those heavenly words, “feel free to drop him off and come back to 2pm.” But even then, I have to worry about the menacing dog or the delinquent older brother with the really bad skin who appears to be planning his own natural disaster. So, here’s the Official Rulebook on Children’s Parties:

To Drink or not to Drink? Even worse are the parties that are merely a means for the adults to booze. I’ve been known to take the bait and knock a few back with Buffy’s great aunt, but it never feels right, does it? Trying to swallow warm chardonnay while listening to some stranger complain about the public school department is right up there with hearing about dental work. Please, just stop.

Tie down that bouncy house.

Tie down that bouncy house.

Hosts and hostesses, stop urging parents to grab a drink when you’ve provided one bottle of white wine that’s been fermenting for an hour. I do not want to arm wrestle the grandma for a glass. And, really, I’m going to need eight screwdrivers to null the sound of the bouncy house mayhem.

It's not that hard, really.

It’s not that hard, really.

The Lost Art of RSVPs is Mortifying: Buffy’s mom & dad, we all know HOW busy you are, mostly because it’s the only conversation we ever have, “I’m so busy I forgot and spoon-fed Buffy gluten!!”, but here’s refresher: RSVP is a request for a response from the invited person. It is derived from the French phrase Répondez s’il vous plaît, literally “Reply if you please” or “Reply please”. So, if I am going to invite your bundle of joy to my little shindig the least you can do is call, text, email or throw something at me to let me know if Buffy is gracing us with his adorable presence. The same can be stated for adult parties (yes, I still throw some of those, too). Just do it, you’ll feel so much better.

Even Allison eats the cake. Sexy.

Let Them Eat Cake. Really, just let Buffy eat the damned cake. Nobody wants to listen to the insipid negotiation over having a slice of cake. Please, just let Buffy eat the cake, and the ice cream and the potato chips. It’s a party.

Watching the Detective. How did you get your house so thoroughly clean? We’re all engaging in some investigative research while attending these parties. I’m spending every moment wondering how people clean their house so well, but other questions I’m pondering include how often the parents get it on, if they have a housekeeper, how much the parents love/loathe each other and I’m also scouring the joint for pictures from their youth. Just beware, we’re all doing it.

Cheers to the kid that recently greeted me at his elaborate front door with the greeting, “we’re rich, and we have tennis courts!” Yes, Buffy, you are rich and you do indeed have tennis courts. Unfortunately, your home birthday party was still a terrible bore, your parents appear to tolerate each other’s presence and your aunt is a lush. Happy Birthday to you!

Book Review: Susannah Cahalan’s Brain on Fire

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Not an easy read, but a good read.

Not an easy read, but a good read. It will soon be a movie starring Dakota Fanning,

Susannah Cahalan’s Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness is an addictive book that tells the story of Cahalan’s nightmarish medical mystery that attacked her brain and struck her with madness for weeks before being properly diagnosed as a rare autoimmune disorder. Cahalan, a New York Post journalist, was 24 years old at the time she began suffering from seizures that soon resulted in violent, paranoid and erratic outbursts. She was a driven, articulate, interesting and beautiful daughter, girlfriend and writer that woke up to find herself hospitalized for a month, surrounded by the best doctors in the world stumped by what was happening to her brain. Cahalan chronicles her insanity and her loved ones struggles to find out what depleted their intelligent Susannah into a catatonic, sometimes manic patient left without words and barely able to walk.

At first, there’s just darkness and silence.

“Are my eyes open? Hello?”

I can’t tell if I’m moving my mouth or if there’s even anyone to ask. It’s too dark to see. I blink once, twice, three times. There is a dull foreboding in the pit of my stomach. That, I recognize. My thoughts translate only slowly into language, as if emerging from a pot of molasses. Word by word the questions come: Where am I? Why does my scalp itch? Where is everyone? Then the world around me comes gradually into view, beginning as a pinhole, its diameter steadily expanding. Objects emerge from the murk and sharpen into focus.

I know immediately that I need to get out of here.

FROM THE PREFACE OF BRAIN ON FIRE

Cahalan lives to tell her story and her sheer strength as a journalist is evident as she investigates each doctor, every false diagnosis and reviews taped footage of her hospital stay. She interviews family members, nurses and doctors while providing a thorough understanding of the brain and its intricacies. There is not an ounce of vanity in Brain on Fire, Cahalan opens her life and her brain for all to see.

Shotgun Lovesongs by Nickolas Butler

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Buy this book for your oldest pal.

Buy this book for your oldest pal.

Nickolas Butler’s smooth debut novel Shotgun Lovesongs is a poignant love story penned for the collective hometown we forget how much we love and miss. A mismatched group of music-loving Midwestern friends find themselves fleeing from, returning to, or being unable to leave their modest yet respectable Wisconsin upbringing. They adore each other and their hometown with a destructive and loyal fervor. The close-knit crew produces one wildly successful rock star, a defected rodeo cowboy and a few seemingly happily married couples. Beth, the sturdy, intelligent center of the group is loved by all and unaware of her influence on the men she’s known for as long as she’s known anything.

The book goes down like a smooth shot of whiskey bought for you by your long lost high school pal. Why do young adults run from the comforts of home just to be an unknown in a strange land? Is one’s first love the only real love? Are all relationships merely replacements for what once was? Butler tackles the sticky parts of growing up in a small town, failing and succeeding while one’s own little slice of Americana judges and applauds. 

The Golden Globes, Cameron Diaz lands a Madden, did Sia just save Shia Labeouf’s career?

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GG

Another month, another awards’ program to stomach.

Tina Fey and Amy Poehler were their usual breath of hot foul air breathed in the faces of Hollywood elite. Special thank you to both for publicly flogging Bill Cosby, he deserves every lash. Who is encouraging Cosby to continue with his ill-advised comedy tour? It’s so gross. I digress, onto the Globes. While I don’t criticize the fashion much because my own style blends Cyndi Lauper circa 1988 with grandmother chic couture, I can certainly pick on a few attendees.

Let's try some red lips, feathers and purple. It's time Jen.

Let’s try some red lips, feathers and purple. It’s time Jen.

Jen Aniston, if you applied some red lipstick and donned a big purple dress, I think we’d all forget about that silly Brad Pitt thing. You have not changed a highlighted hair on your head during your long career and the media can’t forget about your past because you don’t change. Please, consider something drastic.

KateHudson 1Kate 3Premiere of 'Raising Helen'Kate Hudson, you effervescent flower child with the visible clavicle, can you alter your California girl look? We are so proud of you for resisting the urge to have hit up Goldie for some C cups when you were a teenager, but must we be reminded at every award show? Please, I beg you for a high necked gown.

I wanted to cry too.

I wanted to cry too.

Chrissy Teigen and I looked alike for a brief second; she cried with joy over her husband John Legend winning Best Original Song from Selma while I cried because Lorde was robbed of the title. Yellow Flicker Beat is such a better song.

 Prince, you can do no wrong. The 60 seconds that you graced the Globes with your presence were the best moments of the show. More prince in everything.

The Week in La La Land

I want to be happy for perpetual cool unmarried girl Cameron Diaz finding matrimonial bliss with a Madden brother, but I

These tattoos may not age well.

These tattoos may not age well.

The Madden Bros., they're marrying well.

The Madden Bros., they’re marrying well.

notice his odd shape, and how uninspiring his tattoos appear and I start to feel bad for her. Much like my first wedding, I know that the hip kids were taking bets on how long the union would last. My bet? Four years.

How did these Madden brothers, of marginal talent, marry Hollywood royalty? Does Lionel Ritchie have to pass the peas to the Madden brother twins while trying to figure out which one is married to his daughter?

This is five minutes of pure, deeply uncomfortable joy. I enjoy this Sia song as interpreted by Shia Labeouf and Maddy from Dance Moms. I love that the video is bothering so many people and that it’s disturbing to watch.

2014: A Not Bad Year

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2014: A year of nothing much?

2014: A year of nothing much?

365 days filled with Kardashian filth, Meghan Trainor’s increasingly annoying voice, Chris Pratt’s hotness, ebola and a flurry of hacking scandals.

2014 Loves

Donna Tartt's latest novel will capture you for days.

Donna Tartt’s latest novel will capture you for days.

FKA Twigs, currently better known as Robert Pattinson's girl, is a fresh face in music.

FKA Twigs, currently better known as Robert Pattinson’s girl, is a fresh face in music.

1. Movies were good, “Gone Girl” “Guardians of the Galaxy” and “Boyhood” were highly entertaining. Cool books include Donna Tartt’s “The Goldflinch” and Meg Wolitzer’s “The Interestings” and “Belzhar”. New music by Lana Del Rey, Jack White and FKA Twigs were stellar standouts.

2. Lana Del Rey is exactly what I crave from a rock star; she’s troubled, intelligent and beautiful with addictive tendencies and questionable taste in men. Del Rey’s sexiness and darkness make up for all the stupid things she keeps saying in interviews and for her lack of credibility. I do love a Connecticut girl gone bad. Her macabre album Ultraviolence is hauntingly cool and her videos are luscious.

3. Jay Z. and Solange: Hate in the Elevator This was the must see silent movie of the year. It cements my belief that Beyonce is not human, she’s actually a robotic alien that Jay Z. created when he was slinging crack as a teenager. She never did give birth to Blue Ivy, Blue Ivy is actually a robotic alien that eats money and platinum for nourishment.The silent movie of the year.

4. Jack White is the coolest man in the world. It’s unhealthy how much I dig him. I don’t know that I can ever forgive myself for missing his Newport Folk Festival performance this year. Lazaretto does not disappoint.

5. Who was Lena Dunham first? Her or me?  I think I could have been Lena Dunham, but better. I watch “Girls”, speed read through her ridiculous friggin memoir “Not That kind of Girl” and smash my modest upbringing, “I’m Lena Dunham without the NYC pedigree and famous folks!”

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She’s stealing my shtick.

Sour grapes? Maybe. I love to hate Lena Dunham, hate to love her. I’m repulsed and turned on by her constant state of undress. I cringe at and envy her homely designer clothes. I appreciate her rocker beau’s band The Bleachers. She’s so complicated, a lot like someone else I know.

6. Nick Jonas: Goodbye purity ring, hello abs.

Nick Jonas, you can put your shirt on now. We get it.

Nick Jonas, you can put your shirt on now. We get it.

I always knew that Nick Jonas was the hottest Jonas Brother, even when he was the 12 year old kid breaking Miley Cyrus’ heart. Nick Jonas, welcome to the perverted world of every middle aged woman that took their kids to see Jonas Brothers: The 3D Concert Experience and could sense your pre-pubescent attractiveness lurking under your fedora. Did I mention that I am fond of this song?

7. Shovels & Rope is a terrific new band, this husband and wife duo are a gritty mix of whiskey, talent and love. Bruno Mars’ Uptown Funk” may be the best song of the year, and he was the best part of both the Super Bowl and Saturday Night Live. NBC’s Parenthood is just about as good as a television drama can be.

The Lowest of the Lows

1. Bill Cosby is a predator and anyone that is defending him is on my shit list. Whoopie, I am talking to you. His first public display of poor decision making was firing my first bad girl love Lisa Bonet in 1991 for “creative differences”. The girl was merely exercising her artistic freedom.

Fun times.

Fun times.

2. Gwynnie and Chris Martin “consciously uncoupled” or started to loathe each other after a bland ten years together and filed for divorced, as we mortals call it. This breakup will remain friendly until they start fighting over the juicer machine, tan cashmere sweaters and yoga mats. Yawn. Martin almost redeemed his own mediocrity by dating Jennifer Lawrence while the rest of the world just gazed at Jennifer’s nude photos. Didn’t last long, but good try Chris.

Kardashian broke her face.

Kardashian broke the internet and her face.

3. What do I despise about the Kardashians? I hate their deep voices void of infliction or words over three syllables long, I cringe at their dead valley girl jargon. I detest their dark, shiny and glossy hair screaming for a different style, I abhor their hairy babies with stupid names. I’m disgusted by their mascara application habits and shared taste in bohemian wear and I especially cannot tolerate that I once thought Kanye West was the real deal.

Andy,stick to scouting for Housewives trash.

Andy,stick to scouting for Housewives trash.

4. Andy Cohen, you need an image consultant. 2014 thrust you on the edge of awful. I actually sat down and read this “book” you just published “A Deep Look at a Shallow Year”. Andy, I am worried. I thought you went to BU? I thought you were smart. After reading this book I was reminded of my journal as an 8th grader. But, you are a 46 year old man. Your first novel was a fun read, but this is a waste of time. Do I have to read 24 pages to get to two stories that include you partying with Madonna? Your Housewives franchise should partner with America’s Most Wanted. Tacky.

5. Roger Goodell, most of Sony and my local Starbucks barista should be fired.

During my misspent youth I was fired for getting my nose pierced, wearing a Ministry t-shirt to work, habitual lateness and for throwing up in a cafe bathroom during 4th of July weekend in a tourist town, but these executive-level assholes just can’t get fired.

Isn't there another person that can do a better job for over $40 million?

Isn’t there another person that can do a better job for over $40 million?

I make a sport out of not watching football, but this season has been difficult to ignore.No amount of Tom Brady closeups can get rid of the taste of domestic assault, child abuse and rapes that Goodell is not handling properly. Roger Goodell made $44.2 million in 2013. Why is he still employed at the NFL? He is a public relations disaster.And those public service announcements that are now being played ad nauseam  are terrible. Stop. Yes, I know nothing about football but I do know a thing or two about being fired. Let him go!

I give Amy Pascal another 7 months at Sony.

I give Amy Pascal another 7 months at Sony.

Amy Pascal and the gang at Sony are guilty of not having a clue. Don’t we all know to be careful when composing corporate emails? How can this group of professional ass kissers still be employed after biting the hands that feed them? The stars that they are paid to worship.

Yeah and my local Starbucks barista is a mess. I can’t believe that I give him money to screw up my coffee order every week.

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I will pay you to stop Grande’s career. Her brother may stay, but she’s got to go.

6. Ariana Grande is as wretched a human being as she is a pop star. Reports surfaced that she berates staff, insists on being cradled like a baby after performances and only allows photographers to frame the left side of her face. What can I do to stop her meteoric rise? Can I pay someone with my soul to produce audio of her saying racist words? Can we drum up a child abuse story? Anything, just put an end to the Ariana.

Lice, homemaking and me.

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I found something that made me want to stay home and clean: lice.

Lice invaded my world and my mind.

Lice invaded my world and my mind.

Yes, lice, I can’t even type the word without mauling my scalp with my fingernails. Lice invaded my home and stayed for a few itchy days. I have never cleaned, washed and embraced homemaking before seeing a louse in my son’s hair. It was both disgusting and amazing. How, where, why? I was energized every time I located a nit or a bug. The joy I had with every removal was pure and unbridled.

I scoured the internet for each and every at-home remedy. I washed my hair with Listerine, slathered coconut oil all over my scalp and sprayed a blend or rosemary and tea tree oil all over my house.

Come to momma, you little louse.

Come to momma, you little louse.

I bagged clothes, toys and bedding and exiled them all to the backyard giddy with excitement over the lice being frozen to death. I whispered in my son’s ear in a sing-song voice “we’re going to kill those bugs in your head, don’t you worry”.

I lost my mind.

I had to end the week with enough vodka to silence the bugs I thought were in my hair and the ones that invaded my mind.

The Sony scandal: A Christmas present to me.

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Angie & Amy Pascal in happier times. "Angie, "Cleopatra" will be the role of a lifetime," Pascal whispers in Angie's ear.

Angie & Amy Pascal in happier times. “Angie, “Cleopatra” will be the role of a lifetime,” Pascal whispers in Angie’s ear.

The Sony hacking scandal is a Christmas present to me from the pop-culture Gods. It started off so promising (Angelina Jolie is spoiled brat!), but it’s fizzled into another tale of corporate executives behaving poorly. Shall we recap what we’ve learned?

Angelina sucks what's left of Amy Pascal's soul out.

Angelina sucks what’s left of Amy Pascal’s soul out.

  1. Angelina Jolie is spoiled: Again, not shocking. What I do enjoy is that Rudin calls Jolie untalented because I partially agree. I know that Jolie has talent somewhere hidden in her 95 pound frame, but I haven’t personally witnessed it since 2005’s “Mr. and Mrs. Smith”. What has Jolie been in that is even remotely watchable? I will not include “Maleficent’ because that’s a children’s film. Here’s an email from Rudin about Angelina Jolie’s maddening pursuit to star in “Cleopatra”.

I’m not destroying my career over a minimally talented spoiled brat who thought nothing of shoving this off her plate for eighteen months so she could go direct a movie. I have no desire to be making a movie with her, or anybody, that she runs and that we don’t. She’s a camp event and a celebrity and that’s all and the last thing anybody needs is to make a giant bomb with her that any fool could see coming. 

Sandler models the latest in junior high P.E. garb.

Sandler models the latest in junior high P.E. garb.

2. Adam Sandler is an asshole: This is no big surprise. Adam Sandler’s movie career has been in catastrophic decline since the early 90s and I will never forgive him for stealing two hours of my life with “Grown Ups”, I still cannot believe that there was actually a sequel to this movie. Unbelievable.

Here’s Amy Pascal, another executive that has never heard of spell check, take on Sandler:

“Adam is an asshile [sic] and this is more his fault than anyone’s but what we did was not communicate with each other and make assumptions maybe I didn’t pay attention when you were telling me what I was walking into but it also comes from a non alien meant between us all and too many people doing everything and no one taking responsibility and I mean myself as it is my responsibility to let you guys know what I want to breath [sic] life into,” replied Pascal.

Scott Rudin, I think I love you.

Scott Rudin, I think I love you.

  1. Executives don’t spell check, capitalize or care about grammar: Damn, I’m a part-time corporate writer and even I do not send out an email with grammatical errors, rampant USE OF CAPITALS and general distaste of punctuation that these media titans do. Amy Pascal and Scott Rudin each make an annual salary of over 3 million dollars. I do not have a fancy MBA that taught me to reread what I have written and to be very careful of what I put in an email. Tssk- tssk.

Deep thoughts on the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show: Rock Stars Marry Angels, Hozier is Having an Identity Crisis

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What is a week without an awards show? I forced myself to sit through the recent VS Fashion Show and concert. No, not for the fashion, I’m more of a full-support, serious-looking kind of bra wearer, but I digress.

Kings of Leon were awesome a few albums ago. In their band infancy, I really bought their toxicity, appreciated their familial hotness and was impressed with their public displays of debauchery and public drunkenness. But their schtick got stale, they made that pop ballad and didn’t get any better. Did Caleb Followill’s marriage to VS Angel Lilly Albridge contribute to his cleaner image?

Caleb, before he married an angel.

Caleb, before he married an angel.

Lilly, his rock band is not cool anymore. You can do better. May I introduce you to Hozier?

Caleb, post-Angel matrimony.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adam Levine is also married to a VS Angel and was, not surprisingly, previously engaged to a different VS Angel. This freakishly handsome man-child from a privileged Hollywood background will never go away, he is here to stay. Yes, his music is ordinary and mediocre, but who cares? He’s got charisma oozing from his well moisturized pores.

What will fade first? His tattoos or their love?

What will fade first? His tattoos or their love?

Right before I nodded off, I was thanked for my hard work with a doozie of delight: Ariana Grande almost got knocked on her noggin by one of those huge Angel wings.

Ariana Grande's constant ponytail permanently disfigured her face.

Ariana Grande’s constant ponytail permanently disfigured her face.

Oh, Hozier, what were you doing there? Sometimes, it’s just not your venue and you’ve got to pass on exposure for artistic integrity. Watching this earnest Irish folk singer singing about God in front of lingerie-clad models was not even ironic in a cool way, it was just awkward. Even worse, his suit was awful and in need of a tailor. Hozier, please do not make me regret praising you and begging others to listen to your excellent CD.

Hozier, call a stylist; this cannot happen at the Grammy's.

Hozier, call a stylist;
this cannot happen at the Grammy’s.

Taylor Swift was amazing. I refuse to be negative about Taylor Swift because she has a home in Rhode Island and I have got serious geographical pride. And, Ed Sheeran is a redhead and I do not criticize redheads, I only adore them. I suffer from a little known disorder termed “Ginger Hysteria”. This condition forces me to think people have red hair when they, in fact, do not have a strand of red hair. I am being medicated for this condition.

Ed Sheeran is alright with me.

Ed Sheeran is alright with me.

 

Should I join the Church of Scientology?

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ChurchofScientology
Scientology, will you have me for a week?

Can I become a member of the Church of Scientology for a week? How much of my soul must I sacrifice to do so? How much of my paltry life savings will it cost me? I am willing to try, just don’t tell my husband.

I am a practicing Catholic. There, I said it in print for my seven subscribers to read. I don’t even know what that means, but I know that I feel a lot of guilt over bashing Catholicism in print. Not because I actually feel badly about it, but because I am a goddamned Catholic and that is what we do: we feel guilt. People tell me that’s what the Jews do also, but I wouldn’t know that because I am not Jewish. I’ve wanted to be Jewish since I was a child but that’s just another of my disappointments. I wanted to be taller and Jewish, wanted to get into Smith and date Elliott Smith, but none of that happened. I did stalk Elliott Smith for a minute, but everything else was impossible to attain, getting into Smith being the most out of reach.

Should Plathism be a cult?
Should Plathism be a cult?

Why Smith? Sylvia Plath went there and I am completely obsessed with Sylvia Plath. If you have not read “The Bell Jar”, stop reading this drivel and read it. Now! Yes, I am talking to you in Ohio, really, it will change your life. Read it and you just may be happy like me.

Elliott, thanks for dropping the restraining order.
Elliott, thanks for dropping the restraining order.

I digress. You, in Silver Lake, call Beck and tell him to get me into the Church of Scientology. I want to talk about my weight gain with Kirstie Alley, then discuss fashion with that droll speaking redhead from “Orange is the New Black”. I’ll spend my nights listening to Juliet Lewis’s awful band and talking addiction with Giovanni Ribisi while stalking his brother-in-law Beck. Yes, Beck is married to Giovanni Ribisi’s twin sister and they’re all kooky scientologists.

A redhead Scientologist and a low talker, love her.
A redhead Scientologist and a low talker, love her.
Your music is awful, but I love your religion.
Your music is awful, but I love your religion.
"Ted" Los Angeles Premiere - Arrivals
This man is Beck’s brother-in-law.

Much like Catholicism in Rhode Island, Scientology seems to be the cool kid religion in Hollywood and I want in to that club. Damn, I should have thought about this twenty years ago.