Wordy Nerds, Activate!

Everybody has a bit of nerd in them, and my nerdiness rises when it comes to words. Specifically, S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G. I can't write in the txt-ing lingo so prevalent among people born after 1985. I have a better chance of deciphering hieroglyphics without the Rosetta Stone handy than I do cracking this moronic code (God. Damn. Kids). I refuse to text message a mass of letter jumbles for the sake of efficiency. I'm not a holy defender of keeping language immaculate. Having a love of language, oral and written, I do appreciate when words are broken and/or their meanings are bent to create slang, colloquialisms, and pidgin. The other form of language-screwing that I detest is jargon. Jargon is used to make other people feel stupid (Graduate schools for business? That's worked out well.) and/or spend more money than necessary (effin' lawyers). Txt-ing is evil.

Being a word nerd means I will take the day off to watch The Scripps National Spelling Bee. You know, they let Canadians compete. Last time I checked, Canada was its own sovereign nation. I know America regards Canada as its personal attic for some reason, but it's really more of a forgotten annex of Great Britain, non? Either way, it's got a Prime Minister AND a functioning universal health care system, which means I can't legally vote there. Ergo, shouldn't it be called The Scripps International Spelling Bee? Actually, I'm in favor of not having Canadians participate. Create your own fricking Spelling Bee, Canucks! You're never going to be considered a true first nation until you do.

Anyhoo, I flopped on the big, green chair with a box of Cheez-its and prepared to test my skills against a bunch of scary pre-pubescents who are so busy memorizing word lists and learning language roots they haven't figured out that wearing Dockers doesn't lead to happy lives. In the rounds that count, approximately a half-dozen spellers captured my imagination and my heart. I don't remember them all now, but two that stuck in my head were My Korean Woody Allen and RockerGrrrl. I'm always a sucker for a miniature Woody Allen. Who isn't? And, RockerGrrrl, c'mon! Finally, a contestant who didn't let their mother dress them!!!!! I did a cartwheel when I saw her shaggy, hipster 'do. Frick and frack, I think she even worked a pair of leggings. Bliss.

Here's the list of words I correctly spelled (all glorious fourteen of them).

1. machtpolitik
2. stapp
3. poivrade
4. Santeria
5. escritoire
6. Moloch
7. foudroyant
8. talipot
9. Grenache
10. Anasazi
11. tagliatelle
12. blancmange
13. simnel
14. grisaille

Two things helped me to reach that stunning number--14--of correct responses: my French lessons in school and my foodie tendencies. While I did plug away at my foreign language for almost a decade, most of it took place in a public school. That means I can't speak it for merde, but I remember what letter combinations create the oral fuckery that is the French language. As a foodie, I eat out and expose myself to menus from varied cuisines and wine lists. I peruse cookbooks and linger over new phrases. So, that explains the bulk of my success.

One of the words was a lucky guess. I have no idea what is a "simnel," or if it's even a bloody noun. My startling knowledge of children's literature landed me "Anasazi." I got "Santeria" because, well, I'm a straight-up heathen and well-acquainted with polytheistic worship accompanied with blood and dancing. I don't practice Santeria (still too Catholic), but was raised with something similar.

I was quite pleased with my results. The winner of this year's Bee wasn't one of my half-dozen gunslingers, but it was still fun to watch. RockerGrrl, you brrroke my hearrrt. My Korean Woody Allen, I expect to see you next year...and, please, burn those frickin' Dockers.

***UPDATE***

simnel cake |ˈsimnəl|noun chiefly Brit.a rich fruitcake, typically with a marzipan covering and decoration, eaten esp. at Easter or during Lent.

ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: simnel from Old French simenel, based on Latinsimila or Greek semidalis ‘fine flour.’

Well. I had no idea. Maybe my stomach instinctively knew how to spell it.

Still Missing Sweet Dick Willie After All These Years

Robin Harris, 1953 -1990, R.I.P.

A tantalizing article in the LA Times alerted me to the upcoming 20th anniversary for Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing. Has it been that long? The article describes the obstacles faced by Lee trying to secure financing. I like how he gives a shout out to Tom Pollock and says that Pollock is the film's unsung hero. It also details some of the ignorant nonsense that Lee faced by the critics because they assumed black people would lose their minds and burn theaters down after viewing his flick:

"In his review in the June 26, 1989, issue of New York magazine, David Denby said that 'the end of this movie is a shambles, and if some audiences go wild, [Lee's] partly responsible.' Jack Kroll in Newsweek called the film 'dynamite under every seat.' "

And, these were the film critics! I don't think anyone is surprised when the money men and people with green-light power seem like narrow-minded fuckos who have jumped up their own asses. In theory (or am I naive pickaninny who's fresh off massa's plantation?), critics should be displaying thoughtful consideration in their writing while informing by using context and a broader knowledge of the world and film history. I don't know that actually ever existed in reality. At best, an honest opinion was delivered succinctly and distinctions were made between fine art and pure enjoyment. Now, Ben Lyons is inflicted on the public and fanboys rule the blogs. Feh. But, I digress. The topic is the miracle that was the release of Do The Right Thing 20 years ago.

To celebrate the anniversary, Universal Pictures is releasing a two-disc DVD that includes new commentary by Spike Lee, more documentary footage, and an oral history of the film's making as remembered by crew and cast. I'm a slut for oral histories, so this new edition of the DVD immediately makes my birthday wish list. The list of people speaking about the film is impressive, but the three standouts for me are Spike Lee, Rosie Perez, and Ernest Dickerson.

I like that Lee always has something to say and he's one of the last directors who can successfully translate that opinion into a provocative visual statement. Lee always brings it visually, but I find that his dialogue wins or loses depending on the actors delivering it. (I just realized that Annabella Sciorra annoys me no matter what she does.) The person who delivers Lee best is Lee himself...Denzel is damn close, but, Spike is king of his own material. I will admit that sometimes Lee has the ability to talk out of his ass, but sometimes a great improviser is going to FAIL. But, it's worth it to show up and keep an open mind.

Rosie Perez has one of the best voices ever. I would consider it an honor to be cussed out by this woman. It's not a surprise that people want to hear her say "Mookie" over and over. She should make a ringtone of her raggin' him, sell it on iTunes and count the sheckles as they drop into her bank account. I don't think it's her accent that mesmerizes me. It's the combination of tone, breath, how she hits certain beats--just like a great horn player, by the way. And, that's just the aural effect. Pair that with her eyes and the formidable body language she uses as a former dancer. She could have been born in Minsk and she'd still bitchslap people with that voice and stance.

I'm also a slut for the deft use of saturated color and bringing weight to light. This film perfectly transmits the simplicity and languor of summer, while simultaneously conveying the body-blocking oppression of city heat. So, my back will straighten and my eyes will widen when Mr. Ernest Dickerson, the cinematographer, comes onto screen. I only have loonie lurve for what this man accomplished with this film (and Mo' Better Blues and Malcolm X). The same feeling clouds my mind when I remember my first Crayola 64 box from the first grade.

As well as the three above, there are pithy insights provided by Danny Aiello, John Turturro, Martin Lawrence, Giancarlo Esposito, Chuck D (!), and more. To place the film in context, it busted loose around the time of Driving Miss Daisy and sex, lies and videotape. It's mentioned that Daisy's triumph at the Oscars still stings for Spike and Danny. And, the article's author takes a swipe at s,l&v. I can only shrug about that. (The Oscars first pissed me off when they blessed Ghandi over E.T. And, then the fakakta decision to award the piece-of-shit-directed-by-THAT-MAN over Goodfellas?) The Academy rarely gets it right. Slumdog? Bitch, please.

Another reason I find this film a classic is that it delivers one of the best hell-raising anthems ever: "Fight the Power" by Public Enemy.  I can't imagine a day when the dissonant clanging that propels the beat won't get my ass up and moving.  And, Public Enemy has one of the best vocalists of the Eighties.  Chuck D. is unique to my ears because he delivers his rhymes in a 'singerly' manner.  With Terminator X's bombastic cacophony literally blowing up behind him, Chuck D.'s voice has to be strong and disciplined, but that iron is wrapped in throaty velvet.  It's like Billy Eckstine woke up enraged one night, sheared off his conk, and joined the revolution.  Plus, I'm going to love any song that drops black history, says f.u. to Bobby McFerrin, and calls people to rise up in one breath, but doesn't let them forget how to party in the next: 

Cause I'm black and I'm proud

I'm ready and hyped plus I'm amped

Most of my heroes don't appear on no stamps

Sample a look back you look and find

Nothing but rednecks for 400 years if you check

Don't worry be happy

Was a number one jam

Damn if I say it you can slap me right here

(Get it) lets get this party started right

Right on, c'mon

What we got to say

Power to the people no delay

To make everybody see

In order to fight the powers that be

And, of course, the film features Rosie Perez jerking, jabbing and popping in the opening while this song rolls.  Damn!  It's far more sexier than anything Beyonce attempts in her recent videos (if Lah-Dee-Dah Knowles jerks much harder, I swear a titty is going to fly off).  

Finally, the film features Robin Harris as Sweet Dick Willie.  Those three men sitting around a cooler and shooting the shit always reminds me of my childhood home.  I didn't grow up in a city, so people didn't park themselves right out on the corner in lawn chairs.  Our old-time gents loitered in the town's pool hall or on other people's porches.  But, Willie, in particular,  reminds me of my grandmother because she always used to say: "Ain't no dick on this Earth THAT SWEET or THAT LONG, make me put up w' that bullshit."  (My love of baking cookies and knitting did not come from her.  Nope.  From her, I get my withering evil eye and an ability to shake a tailfeather.)  So, just hearing the moniker "Sweet Dick Willie" gets me sentimental and in the mood for whiskey.  

Eventually, I'm going to put on Harris' comedy album, Bé-Bé's Kids, and fall out laughing from "Gonna Change/Spare Change" and "Piccolo Player."  "Piccolo Player" is my favorite part because Harris' delivery is almost a song, but my father's belly laughs come rolling out for "Gonna Change/Spare Change."  My father loves that line, "I'm gonna do the...RIGHT thang!" It is a response to the question of how success is going to affect the comic.  Harris puts a walloping emphasis on "right" and manages to do two things.  One: he nods to the film that helped propel him to that success.  Two: he asserts his self-interest as the number one priority and subverts the film's internal debate.  As my family interprets that line, it's about preserving his black ass.  He's not going to end up like Radio Raheem in the film, which brings me back to the commentary included in this anniversary DVD.

There are so many issues in this film that could inspire dialogue, debate, argument and shooting the shit.  Even how the questions are framed leads to substantial discussion.  "Should Sal hang pictures of black heroes in the pizza shop?" is very different from "Why doesn't Sal hang pictures of black heroes in the pizza shop?"  When I first saw the film, my reaction was to focus on the actions of the police.  The death of Raheem generated within me feelings of sorrow, helplessness and bitter resignation.  I don't remember questioning the mob losing their shit and tearing stuff apart until after leaving the theater and talking with others.  Spike Lee sums it ruthlessly in the commentary:   "It disturbed me how some critics would talk about the loss of property -- which is really saying white-owned property -- but not the loss of life."  

The film is 20 years older.  I'm twenty years older.  And, so is America.  How will this film stand against recent history?  I'm not just referring to Obama (Didn't the Obamas see this on their first date?).  Rodney King, O.J. Simpson, NYPD, Hurricane Katrina and the Jena Six will be in the back of my mind, too.  What will be my response now?  Do The Right Thing was loaded with provocation in 1989.  Is it still brimming with a power and vitality that scared the bejeezus out of some people?  I predict that the film is still a hot, sweaty mess refusing to be invisible or voiceless.   

Hinky Embedding--Damn you, Sumner!

The post below should be a clip from The Colbert Report featuring a street theater performer, Stephen Keith. When I originally posted the clip, it was the correct clip. But, then it mysteriously changed to the guest hawking his most recent book about how Ivy Leaguers shouldn't be running the world (duh). I fixed it and it better stay that way.

Not that I'll blame Colbert. I'll blame Sumner Redstone and his greedy ass.

Escapee from Will Ferrell's Comic Mind

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Difference Makers - Stephen Keith
colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Keyboard Cat

I can't believe this guy isn't being played by Will Ferrell or Paul Rudd. But, no, Stephen Keith is walking and talking...when he's not picking cotton.
He winks.
He sashays.
He is my huckleberry!

www.colbertnation.com

There are a lot of gross beards in Arizona, which will be my third reason for never ever going there.

1. No love for MLK.
2. The state school is the "Harvard of Date Rape."
3. Old withered men with nasty beards.

Baby'll Behave

According to ESPN, I will not have to lemon up the cranberry sauce this year. Number 4 will amble into the legends wearing Wranglers and the proper Green & Gold. Thank heavens. Mater was getting spiteful, "Not even my Farvey can overcome FOUR Superbowl losses." Ouch.

New Hampshire & Its Shrunken Balls

New York, you're next.

The NH House passed the bill that the Senate approved last week. Now, it's on Governor Lynch's desk. He has the choice to sign it, veto it or let it become law without his signature. If no veto goes down, this will be No. 6 (sort of). I don't approve of the wording of this bill, and so it will get the color grey on the map.

OK, Sweet Rhode Island. Let's complete New England so we can begin working wonders elsewhere.

Number 5: Maine

1. Massachusetts
2. Connecticut
3. Iowa
4. Vermont
5. Maine
WTF? New Hampshire

Breaking News -- Number 5 signed on!

It's called balls to the walls.

Maine just became the fifth state to provide equality in marriage in the United States. Wackadoodledoo! Map is forthcoming.

The state Senate approved the bill this afternoon and then passed it on Gov. Baldacci who signed it into law according to boston.com.

MAINE ROCKS! As in a huge set that could never shrink.

Eat it, New Hampshire.

Lawnmowers & Fishing

Oh no. It's on ESPN, so I have to take the Favre rumours seriously. As long as they were on SI, I could ignore it. They're just catty bitches over there. But, ESPN. That's for real. They've posted one of their nifty polls asking what Favre will be doing this upcoming NFL season.

Poll Options:
Suiting up in the NFL
Calling NFL games as a color commentator
Fishing in Mississippi

I chose fishing. Born and raised in W. PA, my heart and soul belongs to the Black & Gold (country song!). However, we did live in Green Bay, Wisconsin for a time. That is football country, y'all. I respect that. I could never live there again. But, I will travel hundreds of miles out of my way to taste the miracle that is Storheim's frozen custard. Oprah likes Kopp's, but I find them subpar. Of course, the secret is that Storheim's is made fresh on the premises. I still dream of the day we bopped in and the special flavor was Kiwi Champagne. Let the masses have their Rocky Road or Maple Pecan, I still remember your barely-there tint and fruity piquancy. We may not have been destined to be together long in this world, but on a clear day, you can see forever... Wait, this is about football.

My mother is from Wisconsin, so she's a fan of the Green Bay Packers. And, she never rooted harder than when her beloved Brett Farvey threw the long bombs at Lambeau. I lurve me some Favre, too. If you love football, you can't help but love Favre. He plays just like every kid who couldn't resist a quick pick-up game, even though you're in your Saturday best and your daddy's gonna kill you if a speck of dirt gets on that pinafore.

It was beyond weird, awkward, unsettling and disturbing to watch Number 4 quarterback for the Jets last year. I imagine it's like sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with your dad who has just married one of your high school friends. You can't slap anyone; you can't barf on the table; and, you haven't been excused from the table. If Mommy hadn't been such a shrew (that's you, Ted Thompson), Daddy wouldn't be slummin' it in green and white. So, you just sit there hoping dinner will be over soon, and you'll be able to wash this taste out of your mouth with some Iron City beer at home. I'm not even a diehard Packers fan! Gaah!

But, then Daddy put down his big city tramp and returned to ride that lawnmower into the sunset. The world was right, and stuffing was safe to eat again. Now, there's talk of Favre zooming up to Minnesota to once again gall the eyes. OK, last time was Mommy's fault, so I behaved. This time, I'm stabbing people with the carving fork and pissing in the cranberry sauce. Have seconds, Minnesota and North Dakota.

Poll Results:
Suiting up...31% (MN & ND)
Calling games...9% (people who know nothing)
Fishing in Mississippi...59% (me and the rest of the kids)

Met's Costume Institute Gala 2009: Photo Crush

Top prize goes to the One & Only.
Anyone else would FAIL in this.
But, the Queen rises to the occasion and serves it up ferociously.
With a light in her eyes.
(Note to the young'uns: this is how you pose)

Swoon!
This is what I would have worn--except for the Bo Peep curls.
I would have gone shorter, sleeker a la Grace Jones.

I love it! Click here to see her give gorgeous face.
The poses on the carpet were a bit stiff,
but these fierce butterfly wings can't be denied.

Met's Costume Institute Gala 2009: Photo Bale

Somebody call the K-K-K, so they can take this troll-baby away.



Slurp, post-op
She stands with all the grace of a sea monster raised on a tug boat.

Slurp
Pre-op

Equality Marriage Update

An article in the L.A. Times predicts that equal marriage will reign in Maine by the end of the summer. New Jersey and New York will soon be the first Mid-Atlantics to join the party. It also posits that New England's ball of momentum has stirred up activity in Maryland and Hawaii, too.

Ah, Hawaii. In 1994, I thought that Hawaii had made gay marriage legal. I wouldn't believe otherwise until my gay uncles confirmed it. I was so sure. My greatest strength and affliction is how I know it all. I am always right...except once a year. It proves I'm human, and according to my friends, the look on my face is worth all the other 364 days of the year. So, I'm great in debates and trivia games--but a tad obnoxious at cocktail parties. Fast forward to 1999.

I'm rolling my eyes at some straight guy who is talking about the rise of gays and lesbians in popular culture. Mr. Blowhard isn't exactly down with it, and questions the statistic that gays and lesbians make up ten percent of the population. He doesn't think it's 1 in 10. I said, "Right, dummy. It's at least 3 in 10." He scoffs, and I dig my mule feet in. We're going back and forth loudly for about 10 minutes. Finally, someone points out that the phenomenal gay and lesbian talk show on WFNX is named "One in Ten" and maybe there was a reason why.

That stopped me in my tracks, and I had to concede. To save face, I dramatically shuddered and pronounced, "Ugh. The world does not need that many straight people." And, I was giving the blowhard the up-and-down over my shoulder to let everybody know why. That was the night I met my bestest gay friend. He had to chat up the loud bitch in the corner denouncing her straight brethren. Two martinis later, we were bonded for life.

By the way, I didn't believe that statistic (1:10) then, and I don't believe it ten years later. I still say it's 3 in 10, minimum.

Illustrating Poetry

"I don't like jellyfish"
by Karl Pilkington




Emily Dickinson didn't use titles, either.

My Favorite Things...Right Now (May 2009)

1. My Boys – It makes me howl.
“Decathlon, Part Deux” Season 3, Episode 4
Dream Team vs. Angola
Steak burrito and an orange drink.
Bacon AND sausage.
"I love you, Kenny, but stop naming your sneakers."
I knew it was Sampras.
“Powering Down”
“My skin has never felt better.”
“I know, right!?”
Radiohead > Coldplay (high five!)
Cheez-its > Cheese Nips (duh!)


2. my ginormous Coke glass – Lil John wishes he could drink with this thing. I think I dropped 10 lbs. guzzling water from it.


3. Sarah Vaughan – The voice that is perfect for welcoming spring.


4. cleaning – I’m scrubbing, sorting and chucking out the useless. I even found a pair of shoes, y’all! It’s been so long, they’re quite au courant.


5. brown sugar, nutmeg, and ginger – I don’t know how healthy it is but it’s a damn tasty snack.


6. The Real New York Housewives – I always thought Brown was the weakest in the Ivy chain, but now I’m giving Columbia a good up-and-down. Concerned alumni (that’s a side-eye to you, President Obama) need to research that so-called degree of Kelly Bensimon, and draft a PR release. I mean that Sleestak is ruining your name. Is it time to revert to King’s College?


7. ESPN map polls – Hot diggity! These suckers are fun. Especially when American and a small, small world agree with me.


8. Karl Pilkington’s theory of evolution – I recently watched Nova’s episode on a possible new species, which would rewrite the evolution of humans. Giggled nonstop because I could only hear Karl’s explanation of a planet full of brains, some of whom fell to earth one day, and “Thud!”, creep into monkey’s brain. Karl Pilkington, you ask?


9. Scott Cohen – This is a shout out to an outstanding performance in The 10th Kingdom, and being my favorite disposable Lorelai boyfriend (Luke is forever). Holy Moly, though. I really believed this guy was a wolf.


10. Grace Makutsi – I’m seriously considering using her as a fashion template. With a few tweaks here and there, of course. No polyester. No pink. And, my earrings will swallow Rotterdam.


11. my ratty orange cardy – I’ve got to fix all the holes. It’s a masterpiece of lava-like wool, incandescent buttons and grosgrain.

We're Not Here for the Plot...Part 2

Shocker. Wolverine claimed top spot at the box office this weekend. If you peruse the write-ups of the weekend's tally, you'll notice a bit of a flabbergasted tone at how many women showed up. Bloody 47% of the audience was female, and the ladies were evenly split on being over/under 25 years of age.

There are two entities that have never understood women: Hollywood & the NFL. They are always underestimating their female audience. Remember back in the day when husbands, boyfriends and sons across the world were shocked at how willing their wives and daughters were to check out Gladiator? There wasn't the usual struggle and negotiation on Friday and Saturday nights that hazy summer of 2000.

Pause.
Flashing back to Russell's muscles and gimlet stare.

Resume.

And, don't get me started on the NFL. They market more aggressively to foreigners than they do the Ladies of the U.S. of A. They've started to take baby steps in the merchandise, but I'm sure that was the effect of some grassroots efforts near various stadiums. NFL Network? Bitch, please. Those deep-voiced fe-bots with L.A. hair are not there for women who love football. W-H-A-T-E-V-E-R.

Deep breath.

Pinned to the wall.
Calm again.

Can I make a suggestion? Let's make Gladiator 2. Maximus is dead (but not in our lustful hearts), but he has a brother, Gluteus, played by Jackman. Gluteus bitch-slaps his way into Africa until he runs into Nefertiti, as played by me. Then all kinds of huminah huminah happens under the hot sun in the desert...causing his rampant thighs to glisten.

Don't spend too much money on the script, Hollywood. Note to the costume department: let's shorten the skirts and do away with undersmocks, OK? We're not showing up for the plot. Got it?

You know Deborah is enjoying that before too many cheeseburgers and spaghetti bolognese dials him back to something approaching normal.

Why NY Is Better Than Everybody Else - Reason No. 1

Nobody else has Bill Cunningham. Sometimes, he gets loaned out to Paris, but Mr. Cunningham always returns on a hot foot. He has another one of my dream jobs. He trots around Manhattan photographing women with a sartorial knack or the ability to devour the latest trend.

I have loved New York my entire life. Although I grew up in the hills of Penn's Wood, I was able to visit the city on a regular basis. My earliest lesson that The City was one of the world's wonders occurred on a busy corner midtown. We were waiting for the "Walk" signal on a corner. All of a sudden a scruffy bum (the term "homeless" hadn't been coined yet) stepped out of the river of stream of humanity and puked in broad daylight against the wall. No one panicked (except my mother). Not one of the hundreds of New Yorkers hustling on the pavement missed a beat. No one rushed up and offered him help. The bum efficiently spit up his business, wiped his chin, jumped back in the hustle and went his ragged way.

I was simultaneously grossed out and awestruck. That was probably one of the coolest things I'd ever seen in my prepubescent life. An amused New Yorker noticed my gaping mouth and widened eyes. He winked, and passed on these talismanic words, "Only in New York." I had been blessed. Many times I have returned to New York over the passing decades. The Fifth Lady has gotten softer, cleaner and glossier (like Giuliani performed some miraculous wash, rinse, condition and repeat on Manhattan), but I never fail to utter that phrase.

The last time was at the New York Historical Society. I turned up its steps one morning on a summer whim. As I came down from its staggering attic (Henry Luce III, you are the king of compulsive hoarders, and I love you.) and traipsed through the ground floor, a confident gay man shoved a gift bag in my hand without any ado. Okey-dokey. There was some sweet swag in there, including a DVD of The Tenth Kingdom. Not only that, I got to scarf some remnants of a nifty brunch. Mimosa in one hand and a mini breakfast pizza in the other, I sidled to the edge of the chattering throng. I asked a woman consuming some home fries on a bench what the party was celebrating. She shrugged and emphatically stated over her banana nut muffin, "I have no idea." Uh-huh. Someone threw a party, no one invited showed up, but a fabulous time was had by all. Only in New York.

Which is the long, winding path to my original point. You can only find Bill Cunningham in New York. Every Sunday, the Style section of The New York Times posts a slide show of Cunningham's photos with accompanying audio commentary. It's a succinct and charming way to peep into the daily lives of New Yorkers, as he usually informs the viewer about their survival skills, city traditions, and luscious dollops of fashion history.

If you click on this link, it takes you to today's meditation about "a premature visit of August weather." Normally, I take notes while the photos click by and ladies serve it up. But, today was a big pile of "Eesh!" I hate the maxi dress. Save that billowing mess for the beach or behind your closed front door! My Midwestern prudery (thank you, Mater) and appreciation of formality (thank you, Pater) causes me to inwardly rear up like an unbroken pony at the sight of these sloppy abominations.



These ladies look like they're in housecoats or nighties for criminy's sake. Of course, this is more of that boho-beach "fashion" that has rolled East from Crazifornia. Ugh. I shall not bow down to the influence of that hideous Chupacabra and her followers. I'd rather be a Real Housewife of Jersey, no, I take that back--nothing could make me degrade myself like that. I'd rather be a scruffy bum-ette on a puke stroll! There.

This week's peephole to Manhattan sidewalks only inspired horror and laughter (there's an Oompa-Loompa calendar girl FAILing). However, if you dig through Cunningham's archives, you'll see more dignified dames demonstrating one-upmanship with their spring coats; combinations of black and white; and other fashion essentials. Besides, it's worth it just to hear those pounding piano notes at each introduction. They suggest that students in leotards and baggy cords are about to spill out, stop traffic, and bust a move on a yellow taxi. Only in New York, y'all.

Sweet Mahalia Jackson!

Not stupid.
Not a dolly.
Just 100% HOT.

OH. NO. THEY. DIDN'T.

My father and his seven children are on the warpath. You do not disrespect JoePa in my father's house. My father loves, loves, loves JoePa. He admires Mr. Noll, probably has a solid fondness for him. But, daddy has nothing but loony-love for The Only Coach That Will Ever Be.

I grew up in Pennsylvania--Western Pennsylvania, not dumbass Philly. Fridays were devoted to high school games. Sundays belonged to the Black & Gold. Saturdays required your best behaviour in my daddy's house because that was JoePa's Day. No cussing (Save it for Sundays and the Steelers). No fighting (Friday night is all right for fightin'). No backwardness whatsoever.

Daddy is not going to like this report of snickering. Let's all bow our heads and pity those fools. Names will be sniffed out and that will beget a list. As sure as Beatrix Kiddo checked off her honey-do items, Daddy and his progeny are about to complicate some lives.