I thank every day for wi-fi

I'm sat in the airport waiting for our flight, which takes off in four hours. We're a bit...early. C and I are both delirious for different reasons. By the time we get to our destination, we're not going to know what time it is.

"M, you will always know what time it is!"

Thanks, Flav, for your undying faith in me, but flying from NYC to Orlando to London to Athens in the space of a few days is sure to do me in. If not that, well, you should also know that C is insisting that we only reserve 20 minutes each per day for use of the computer. He's totally serious too. This only gives me enough time to post the pictures I take which is the equivalent of watching Great Aunt Edna's slides from her trip to Florida.

Sunday is my birthday - he better give 40 minutes then.

Been there, done that

Dear Ms. Cathie Black,

Quick word with you, as I'm so bothered, I had to stop everything that's going right now to write you this note. There has been a rumor going around that Glenda Bailey's job as Harper's editor-in-chief was in jeopardy. Yet Hearst recently decided to renew her contract, because they said, "If you think about it, she's really not doing a bad job".

I beg to differ. I present to you the offending piece of evidence.

Somewhere, a wrinkle of shock has broken through the Botox on Demi Moore's forehead.

No. No. No. No! I mean, why??? Anyone who would okay this cover of a pregnant Britney Spears deserves to be fired for plagiarism. Of ideas. Of concepts. Of innovation. Because this has all been done before.

Fresh...

...and then that "not so fresh" feeling

Listen, when Vanity Fair did it, it was an innovation and Demi was a hot commodity at the time. If you're going to rip off the cover, at least honor it somehow. Then it's a bit "retro" and cute, like when Esquire had Britney pose in the same way Ann Margaret did for them years ago. Couldn't you have her pose with a bag of Cheetos or wear a trucker hat with an evening dress, you know, for irony?

You can't pass off a can of Spam as pate!

Signed,

Your friendly neighborhood M

P.S. The hills are alive with the sound of K-Fed laughing all the way to the bank...

"That's my lifetime guarantee to this jet sitting right there!"

My memory and You Tube are a dangerous combination

I gots myself a job! Considering it took four separate interviews and over an hour of doing an on-the-spot writing samples, my brain is fried. So I revert to sweeter, gentler times and do a search through You Tube to fulfill my 80s obsession. And it ain't pretty.

Do you remember "Teen Witch"? I remember "Teen Witch". More importantly, I remember The 'Top That' Rap. You know what I'm talking about - Woody Allen's long lost twin discovers her inner badass, rappin' self and starts droppin' the science on the streets of suburbia.

Classic moment in movie history. We should all aspire to such moments of greatness.

From the Oscar-nominated "Kickboxer". Jean Claude Van Damme fails to realize it's not personal, they just really don't like his dancing.

There are so many ways to commemorate a great man like Martin Luther King. A music video with a cast made up of Kurtis Blow, The Fat Boys, and Menudo (?!?) is probably not one of them.

Enjoy.

Scenes from a bar

If you're ever in the Miami area, I highly recommend you forgo South Beach for a day and go into the deeps. Therein lies Churchill's , a British bar literally in the middle of nowhere. Tip: this is not for the blingin'.

I'm not just plugging the place because our friend works there and she's lovely (ask for Alex and tip her really, really well), but because it's a real dive of a place that appeals to all. It's got no particular "crowd" - just a bunch of multiple personalities. One night it's heavy metal open mic? No wait, it's jazz. Oh, I'm sorry, it's rockabilly. But on this particular day, this was the place place to go to if you're going to fly down when the England vs. Sweden game is on.

Churchill's own personalized Mini waits outside

Rapt soccer fans...

...but not so rapt that a PYT on a pool table can't divert their attention from the game

His eyes are red...red for England

One England fan makes his feelings known

It's gonna be a bumpy ride!

C said something funny tonight. He said, "Americans don't go to England for Independence Day Weekend."

Unless you're one of the Daughters of the Revolution, you do.

"George, call off Phildelphia. Tell Williamsburg it's with regrets. Pack your bathing suit, because we're going to Vegas!"

We had been discussing our imminent departure to Greece, with a one-day layover in England to see his fam. One of the perks of him working for an airline is that he's using a company ticket to fly us over. One of the downsides of this is that it's standby.

July 4th is on a Tuesday this year, meaning you can make a four day weekend out of it, if you get the Monday off. We have standby tickets on said weekend. You do the math.

Stop laughing. No, seriously. Stop.

"I don't understand! I checked last week and there were plenty of seats left! It just completely sold out!" C said.

"Your company probably did one of their promotions," I said darkly. His airline regularly does discount promotions centered around long weekends. My own plans one year - to see him in the Mother Land - had fallen victim to such a promotion.

"But why?" And then he unleashed the zinger: "Americans don't go to England for Independence Day weekend!"

Oh, how I laughed then. If we can wrangle a four day weekend out of a national holiday, we'll go all the way to Timbuktu, oh yes we will. The promise of maximizing your time off from work, for your own personal enjoyment, supercedes all.

Yes, it's a sad state of affairs when we don't honor our veterans, but don't tell me you didn't Timbuktu last Memorial Day weekend.

Memorial Day weekend, 2006 - "Wish you were here"

What makes it even funnier is how often he reminisces about the trip when he and his British cronies went to South Beach during one Fourth of July weekend. They partied with Americans, celebrating the defeat of their country on the very soil their king previously held the deeds to. Am I bold enough for you? How do you like your irony in the morning? Maybe with a side of cornflakes?

Personally speaking, however, to make that trip is pretty cool and I don't see why the shoe can't be on the other foot. I suppose I just have a "we're all in this together" kind of attitude as far as foreign policy goes. Which is a quite unpopular outlook in the general scheme of things, as I'm starting to find.

Art Therapy: Celebrity Dog-A-Likes

As it's my first full Monday that I'm not at work, it wasn't easy. I went to an interview today and almost veered west to where the office was, instead of heading back home. This was going to be tougher than I thought.

So to help me process this transition, I have once again resorted to art therapy to alleviate the difficulty of this time.

Nicole Richie vs. The Afghan Hound

Slash vs. The Puli

Donald Trump vs. The Bull Mastiff

Denise Richards vs. The Shih Tzu

(Note the dark eyebrows)

Christina Aguilera vs. The Chinese Crested

Tomorrow...Cat-A-Likes!

How the other half lives

My last day at my job was on Friday. It was totally anti-climactic. Nose Digger was out on vacation and Whiner tried to say good-bye as she was leaving early, but I was on the phone. The good-bye never happened because a) she couldn't be bothered to wait until I got off the phone and b) I couldn't be bothered to get off the phone, especially to say good-bye to her. Everybody won.

Before we leave for Greece, I've got the next two weeks at my disposal. As any worker bee will tell you, especially where I live, this is pure, unadulterated luxury. If you could combine Godiva chocolates, Egyptian cotton sheets, and first class tickets anywhere into the concept of two weeks of free time, this would be it. That it's four weeks is the equivalent of owning your own Gulfstream jet. With a runway in your backyard, like John Travolta has.

Don't say Tony Manero never did anything for you, John

Now, I can see what it is that all those people do during the day. You know, those people. They're not wearing fanny packs, white sneakers, and holding maps of New York City in the middle of the day, because they actually live here. Yet they're not in a rush to maximize their lunch hour. They're not hurrying to meetings. They actually stroll when they walk. Whenever I hustled by them on my way to the bank at lunch, they were so alien to me. "Who are you and how do you have free time???" Well, that applies to tourists too.

"Beep, beep - take us to your leader!"

I'm making it my business to find out. C surprised me with tickets to Florida for two days in the middle of next week (yay, C!), and when he did, I immediately assumed he meant the weekend. Because when else could he possibly be talking about??? But then he gently reminded my bombed-out self that I could now go during the week. As I'm still being rehabilitated to the idea of free time, he had to break it to me gently. I could go during the week - imagine that! The shock was such that I had to do art therapy and color with crayons for an hour.

After that though, I'll be moseying around the city, trying to re-gain my collegiate perspective of it. Back to when I used to wander aimlessly, making a full day out of doing nothing, yet never get bored. I'm sure I'll be excited about that for two days and then be climbing the walls to go back to work.

But I will try! I will sit at a cafe downtown in the middle of the afternoon, without feeling like the seat will eject me right back to my desk at the office. I will read the books I reserve online at the library and have no shame, when the clerk asks me what I thought as I return them! I will go to the gym during the day, when there will no Gym Nazis ready to wrestle me off the treadmill when my 30 minutes are up! I will even go into the line at Magnolia Bakery, just for the heck of it! Because I can!!!

Um...scratch that. I might have free time now, but I haven't completely taken leave of my senses.

Birthday challah

Today is the birthday of another friend, Dino, who is the Cla in "Cladam". As promised, I baked her a birthday challah.

(Earlier this week...)

Me: "I did a birthday holla for A."

Dino: "You did a birthday challah? Like you baked it?"

That actually was a proud moment for me, because she's not even Jewish.

So for you, a birthday challah!

I have also arranged for her girl, Jen Aniston, to surprise her at Cipriani and serenade her for her birthday...

The concept will be "Cabaret-esque"

A marker so you and C can draw on each other's faces to your hearts' delight

And finally, in honor of the one who helped me discover my inner boom-shaka-laka...a very special shimmy from Pat and the girls

I wish you a fantastic birthday; here's to getting everything you want! (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

Universal mind-meld

Don't make me say it. Theoretically, this is a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker and her son saying hi to the mounted police.

But I know what you're thinking. I'm thinking it. Your neighbor's thinking it. Anyone looking at this picture is thinking it.

The horse on the left is still putting the pieces together, but yes - the horse on the right is thinking it, too.

George Carlin and Ann Coulter on The Tonight Show (with video clip)

George, I think I need some space. Ever since my parents forbade me to watch your comedy act/anti-establishment rants as a kid, I was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Kind of like when I was forbidden to watch Benny Hill. And when I attended a "Journalism and the Law" class at school and learned how your "7 Dirty Words" not only became a Supreme Court Case, but helped to reinforce the integrity of the First Amendment, I worshipped at the altar of Carlin.

But this, George, is no excuse. I'm so disappointed in you. As a result, I don't think we should see each other anymore.



It's not me...it's you.

In the news today...

Tivo alert! Coulter and Carlin to appear on The Tonight Show tonight!

(Correction: Tomorrow, tomorrow - thanks to Barbara for the heads up!)

Can you just imagine? No, no, no, seriously - just try to imagine this. George Carlin and Ann Coulter sitting next to each other on The Tonight Show. You just know something will go down. MTV may be bringing back Celebrity Deathmatch, but that just pales, pales I tell you! to watching Carlin and Coulter inevitably face off. Not only because I love George Carlin, but I really, really hope he gives it to her good.

Only Ann Coulter would make her annual pilgrimage to Joseph McCarthy's grave

In other news, Julia Roberts displays humility at Tony Awards. All over the country right now, people are reading this and saying, "No. Way." while checking outside their windows to see if pigs are flying.

Really, Julia, you ought to take more credit for yourself!

As this occurrence is as rare as a Bigfoot sighting, it is well worth reporting. But as we speak, Ms. Robert's lawyers are already on the phone to the Associated Press. "We demand a retraction - Ms. Roberts wouldn't deign to, and she never will, display any form of humility! We can sue for defamation of character, you know!"

"Psssst, Julia - this is the part where they photograph me. You know...me? The Oscar winner this time? Alone?"

In non-celebrity news, Americans are shortening their lunch hours more than ever, in order to run errands or return to work quicker. Honestly, I don't know what they're talking about. I've never had that problem. Sometimes, if I try really hard, I can even extend it up to 90 minutes!

And finally, in my personal news - the Trump Magazine job I interviewed for a while back is on the market again. If that's not a sign, then I don't know what is. Seriously, what is going on over there - is Ambien their corporate sponsor or something?

Birthday Holla

Today is a very special day - it's the birthday of my globe-hopping, dancing-fool friend A. In honor of the occasion, I bestow upon her the following:

A proper pour of Guinness, until she can find a decent pint in L.A.

Cheese, lots of it. Because she has made me the cheese monster that I am today

Because the blue dog will always bark at midnight

And last, but not least...

Since our club-kid days at Limelight, one of them has gone to become a world-famous fashion designer, one of them a murderer, and one of them in self-imposed exile in L.A. But they have never forgotten those who made up their merry flock way back when...

Richie Rich, Michael Alig, and James St. James wishing you a fa-haaaa-bulous birthday!

Happy Birthday to you, lady! C and I are dancing, boom shaka-laka-ing, and shaboogie-ing with you in spirit!

Haircolor flow chart

Only two episodes in and I lurve The Hills. I mean farkin' LURVE this show!

I'd catch an episode of Laguna Beach here and there, but there were too many people on that show for my ADD-addled brain. The Hills, however, I can handle. Although if they add any more people, then I'm going to have problems.

From the second I laid eyes on Lauren and Heidi, I knew this much: Lauren's the hard worker, while Heidi the one who flits around waiting for life to just happen to her. And you know how I know? Their roots.

Haircare maintenance says it all, baby.

Heidi: perfectly blond down to the core. Consistency - flawless, perfect. Verdict: Girl keeps regular appointments with her colorist.

Lauren: traveling the brown to blond spectrum from start to finish; it's just all over the place. Consistency: reminiscent of my sophomore year in high school, when I sported "tri-color" hair as part of a self-imposed growing-out program. Bad move.

Verdict: She simply don't have the time!

I have begun a flow chart which will track the evolution of Lauren's hair from blonder to browner, as she gets busier and busier judging from the previews of episodes to come. Heidi's, I'm sure, will remain the same "buttery" color throughout. Hours of careful review have resulted in the first phase of this chart that I now proudly present to you...

I am considering a raid on the Teen Vogue offices and liberating poor Lauren from her "office" in their fashion closet, if only to drag her to the nearest Walgreen's and at least get a bottle of temporary rinse into her hands.

Ye Olde Street Fayre

Despite the glorious weather offering C and I the promise of option paralysis, the siren call of $15 pashminas and heavily discounted "Aberkrombie & Fitch" clothing was too much to resist. It's street fair season in the city, and no one is safe.

As I walked Zoe this morning, I sniffed out the scent of a street fair hitting First Avenue. Besides the avenue being closed to traffic, I saw the telltale frames of tents about go up. That, and the workers ready to convince you that their earrings are not going inflict upon your earlobes such a burning rash, it will leave you crying for Mommy.

Like Pavlov's dogs, we're all out in full force

I can't explain it, but regardless of how street fairs are all the same wherever they are in the city, it's like I've got to check this out! I don't know if it's the sense of abandon in being able to walk in the middle of a city street, the pull of the madding crowds, or being suckered into thinking there are bargains galore to be had. Maybe I'm one of the last remaining people who haven't figured out how to burn my own mix of reggae club songs from 1994. Therefore, it's only natural that I should really want that unmarked CD with "Murder She Wrote" and "Mr. Loverman" on it?

Future guests of Lenox Hill Hospital's Stomach Pump room

Take the 9th Avenue Food Fair, for example. This is the unoffical start to street fair season and it's supposed to be The Big Shebang. 9th Avenue is a great place to have a Food Fair, if you're going to have one, because of the plethora of restaurants on either side of it. You can only imagine the different kinds of cuisine they would serve from their temporary set-ups on the street, right?

Wrong.

Like the sucker that I am, I try to go each year in hopes that somehow it will different this time. And there's still the same sausage and peppers, the same corn arepas, and the same crepes being sold, as they would at any other street fair. The same old, greasy shite served up on temporary burners, while restaurant workers hide behind their windows and laugh at all us lemmings looking for "authentic" cuisine. Surely we didn't think we'd get their food at street fair prices, did we?

Oh that's right, we did.

As evidenced by the street fair in my 'hood, however, it's still possible to obtain authentic cuisine if you look hard enough, as evidenced by this photo:

We're talking about cannoli imported allllll the way out from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn! Which, as cannoli connoisseurs will tell you, is of a finer quality than that from the borough of Queens. Earthier...crunchier...just like Mama used to make. So to curb the rampant smuggling of contraband cannoli and trucks illegally trafficking Sicilian grandmothers, the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol has apparently set up shop on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Lou and Andy predict the World Cup Champion

In honor of the World Cup starting today, and the consequent start of my football-widowhood, this Little Britain clip is for C.

We were young!

As for the photo posting thing, I have to do it, I must do it. Because Blogger has fixed it for me for only future posts.

And the Boom-Shaka-Laka in me has to come out!

a

Now that's a face only a Boom-Shaka-Laka could love!

Giddy-ap

I'm still plugging my way through the 80's videos, even though C is back already, when I come across this Oak Ridge Boys video.

The only reason I even remember this song is because I thought the song was about, you know, Elvira? What other Elvira was there??? Oh, I don't know - everything was so tacky back then, it just made sense! If Frank Sinatra could show up on an episode of Who's the Boss?, then the Oak Ridge Boys can sing to the Mistress of Darkness!

"Give me some credit, will ya?"

When I look at the copious amounts of facial hair that threatens to sprout through my computer screen like a Chia Pet, I ask myself: "What were they trying to be? The Village People of country music? Who was who?"

There's the one guy who gets to do all the singing - he's like the Justin Timberlake of the bunch, except he looks more like Carlos Santana with a Cleopatra perm. And then there's the City Slicker guy, a white Barry White. His jeans are so tight he can't even stand properly; he's like "Whoa, Nellie!" The camera guy makes sure to pan on him for dramatic effect every time his turn comes up. Oh wait! It's coming, it's coming! Wai-wai-wait...

"A-room-bop, a-room-bop, a-mow-mow"

Ahhhhh, give the guy a encore! As for the other two who just sing back-up, they're country music filler. I guess if you only kept the first two guys, you'd be forced to call them Oak Ridge Duo and that just doesn't sound right. And then if you have three singers, well...Oak Ridge Trio just isn't badass enough. But Oak Ridge Boys - yes, that's right, that's hardcore! Like the Oak Ridge Boyz are in da house! Even if you have to bring back the long lost, inbred cousin of Kenny Rogers and plop a country-bumpkin hat on his head to round it all out.

As for that beard, I'm just gonna say this for the FBI: I'll give you one clue where Jimmy Hoffa's body has been hiding all this time.

You just know that this is one of those songs where if a four-year old hears it, they'll never stop singing it. And we don't want that, so I'll close this great chapter in musical history right now.

Your thoughts please

New design - are we loving it or hating it? Not sure about the white font.

Postcards from Beirut

My baby cousin, who's not such a baby anymore, is traveling through Europe and the Middle East and is now currently in Beirut. And because he is how he is, his travel snaps would be anything but ordinary.

One of his friends soaking up the local flavor

Yes, that's definitely a relation of mine

I'll see if we can put in requests for more pics - like him on a camel or something.

He writes that he's already witnessed a riot in response to a Christian TV program airing a program about Muslims, among some other funky stuff, so I've just got my fingers crossed that he remains safe and happy until his return.

Feeding the 80's beast

Update: Because Blogger refuses to acknowledge their photo uploading won't work, there's nothing I can do to illustrate this post, as much as I'd love to. Use your imagination.

Right before C left yesterday for the Bahamas, he sent me the most romantic parting gift ever – this link to an extensive online catalog of 80’s music videos. Roses? Nah. Chocolates. Pffftttt. My guy's fed me a steady diet of 80's videos to last me a whole month! Now that's love! Can we say M is now obsessed and has barely noticed his absence since?

Going back to my original discussion of 80’s cheese and poor production values, it’s only natural I would spend hours disseminating the nuances and messages lying within the countless videos in this catalog. And quite frankly, I’m not sure what message Billy Squier is trying to send in his Rock Me Tonite video. All I know is that it’s scaring me. This video, among many others, leads to the question that keeps repeating in my head: was it the cheese that was the 80’s or was it just really, really gay?

Consider the slashed top and tight pants Mr. Squier dons in his music video. Nowadays, if anyone tried to pull that outfit off with the finger-snapping, dancing, and writhing on the floor combo, we’d say he was a gay of the Richard Simmons variety. But then you think “wait, this is the 80’s we're talking about here”. Soooo...was it the 80’s or just really, really gay?

And then there’s the music video John Stamos doesn’t want you to see. Because Uncle Jesse actually had a band way back when and the name was…straight face now...Jesse & the Rippers. When he’s not busy mooching at the camera on top of 600-thread count sheets, he’s head-banging while surrounded by a million candles. Considering the amount of flammable hair products in that head of his, his insurance coverage must have been in the millions.

Can one head bang within moments of being shown holding two babies, while candles threaten to send you shooting off into the sky like a Fourth of July fireworks show? And I've never seen babies just look so confused, until I saw those two floating up around in those clouds like that. They're obviously thinking: "What the hail are we doing floating up around in these clouds for?!?" Say it with me - was it the 80’s or was it just really, really gay?

Then there’s my personal favorite – Steve Perry’s “Oh Sherry” video, the stuff that inspires my inner American Idol dreams. If you know the back story to this video, you’ll know that the girl in it was his actual girlfriend and she dumped him shortly after. Hey, if my boyfriend insisted that I wear red tights with a white dress and then wailed right in my face to boot, I’d be dumping his ass too! She looks so unenthused by the end – like, “Hello? Could you please stop doing that? I'm so embarassed to be seen with you.” She's thisclose to be jumping out of the screen to tell us it wasn't the 80's, it was just really, really gay.

There are so many honorable mentions for videos within this astute catalog, but I have to digress with one particular choice. Since each artist appears to only have one listing – did they have to choose “We Belong” by Pat Benatar? Yes, it’s cheesy, but they could have done one better with Love Is A Battlefield.

Am I right? Anyone else feeling me on this? Who doesn’t love doing the Boom-Shaka-Laka dance from the video when this song comes on in a bar? I know I do! If I’m in your neighborhood local, just put the money in the jukebox, pick “Love Is A Battlefield”, and instant hilarity will ensue.

Sadly, this video is not included. Perhaps it's the cautionary tale presented to impressionable minds, telling you what happens when you try to run away from home. You become roped in by a dance-mad pimp who makes you dance with strange men in seedy bars in East L.A. And you're forced to do it while wearing outfits only Courtney Love could...well...love!

I don’t know how you can leave out a video where one of the biggest 80's sexpots and her girls rebel against their pimp by Boom-Shaka-Laka-ing him straight out of town. This was Ms. Benatar's contribution to society, showing us that guns are not the way - Boom-Shaka-Laka is. And the message did catch fire for one sweet, brief moment. Not only could indentured dancers shimmy their way to a peaceful outcome, but gang members in patent red leather as well - as evidenced by Michael Jackson's "Beat It" music video.

The Nashunal Speling Be

Given that C has been living in the U.S. for the past 7 months, he's quite reserved about his adjustment to America and American people.

Oh don't get me wrong, that British exterior cracks on occasion. There's nothing he lovvvvesss more than going off on a self-important Yummy Mummy in their Hummer, necessary to navigate the minefields of the Upper East Side, New York City. And if one of these Yummy Mummies even so much as dare speed too close to him while he's walking Zoe, well I personally feel very, very sorry for them. Especially if their kid goes to Lycee Francais. Because C doesn't much like the French and can sniff out the blood, of any parent whose kids go there, within a five mile radius.

Segue to a Yummy Mummy shopping in Zabar's on the other side of town...

"Excuse me, would you mind maybe reaching up to get that jar of pickles for me?"

C (sniffs around first): "Yes, I do mind! Get off your fecking arse and do it yourself!"

Otherwise, he's a pretty calm guy.

So last night, after a long hellacious day, we both settled in on the couch and wondered if we were too tired to watch TV. TV won out over exhaustion and we flipped the channel on. I was leafing through a magazine at the same time, when all of a sudden he got all excited.

"I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU AMERICANS HAVE A SPELLING BEE ON PRIMETIME TV!"

Climbing back on the couch after having fallen off from the shock, I raised an eyebrow at him. Did he not not see my post about the Akeelah spellng movie? Spelling bees are the stuff of Drama! Suspense! Action!

A precursor of the bloodshed to come

This was the most animated I had seen C become about anything American. Forgoing all British courtesy, he kept muttering to himself on the couch: "I can't believe you have a spelling bee on American primetime TV. I can't believe it! You Americans are mad!"

Therefore, I felt it was best not to tell him about a story my friend told me about she and her boyfriend somehow finding old videos of the 1979 National Spelling Bee. Because if you were rich enough to own a VCR in the 1970s, you were recording a spelling bee above all things. So not only did they find them, but they decided to watch it while completely stoned out of their minds. And they loved every second of it.

I moved to switch the channel, when he stopped me. "Hang on."

All of a sudden, we found ourselves riveted, watching a young man trying to spell the word presented to him.

"Badass. B...A...D...hmm....A...er...S! Badass!"

Next thing you know, C and I are sitting up, shaking our heads. "Aw, man. He was so close!"

"His little 12 year old heart must be breaking, poor guy."

(Silence)

"I'm getting a beer from the kitchen, want anything?"

His next outburst should coincide with the arrival of Haley's Comet.

Straw Hat Attack

Now that the unofficial start of summer has begun, one of the most heinous of fashion crimes is back and hitting the streets in full force.

I'm talking about the straw hat. Unless you husk corn for a living or plan to skip down the Yellow Brick Road in the near future, you have no business wearing a straw hat.

"Who be biting my Straw Hat Mafia style?"

I hate this trend with a passion. A wierd impulse threatens to take over me when I'm on 34th street and I see yet another tourist wearing a straw hat. I just want to rip it off their heads and cry, "All that straw gave up their lives for this?!?!?!" Believe me, New Yorkers are not safe either. It makes as much sense as wearing chaps to your local Duane Reade pharmacy. So if there's a New Yorker wearing a straw hat (and there's many), their membership is revoked. As of now. By Me.

That's right. I'm the President of the Anti-Straw Hats Association. It's origins began in 1998 in the Hamptons, when it was formerly known as the I Hate Straw Cowboy Hats Club. That's when I spotted my first Trust Fund Baby trying to pass themselves off as a member of the bourgeoisie. They were wearing a straw cowboy hat while buying a magnum of Cristal for $500 a bottle at Jet East, charged onto daddy's black Amex card. TFB, hear me now - unless you're planning on trading in your Z4 for transportation of the four-legged, grass-eating variety, banish that hat to Accessories Hell. NOW.

Now, almost ten years later, my hatred has grown to include straw hats in general. If you wear a straw hat and we know each other personally, my apologies in advance. Because they're hideous. If you're wearing one in front of me, I will smile pleasantly while mentally slicing and dicing your straw hat to shreds. Straw hats make me two-faced that way.

If you need more convincing, I present to you my first and last piece of evidence, which should really settle any remaining doubts you may have about the stylishness of this item.

Don't. Just don't.