Tag Archives: celebrity!

The Ship Song

It just goes without saying that a Nick Cave show is a rad thing. He flailed and growled and punched the air with his fists. He tickled the ivories. Not quite the same without Blixa, medicine though. Who else murders a guitar with that kind of grace and contempt? Still, it was a great show and hallelujah we all did cry. Then it was up the gangway for the glitterati party. The word “honored” was stamped on my forearm upon entrance. The boys from the band were all there, besuited and besotted. I did not get Nick to cha cha with me, sadly. But it was really an amusing evening, downing Kuba Librés with Conway Savage and spinning around the deck poles. Alexander Hacke put on Slayer. I passed my catalogue around in the bathroom. Fancy!

xo

An Everlasting Love

Every girl should feel like they are loved by the sexiest man on the planet. It makes this filthy city a thing of beauty, and her sandwich taste better. If you are not doing it for your girl, try sweeping her into your arms, and whispering to her:

Andy Gibb Haiku

Everlasting Love

It’s so Tall, so Wide, so High

I won’t make you blue.

hey, that's right baby

xo

Whore-tastic!


I really have to give the casting director of my dreams a raise. Not only do I have frightful nightmares that feature Christopher Walken, but last night I dreamt I was hanging out with a couple of prostitutes, played by Beverly D’Angelo and Ellen Barkin. It must be all that time I have been spending lately, hanging out with prostitutes. I aim to pick up some tips on how to pull off sleaze with aplomb when I hit 40.

xo

Super Sexy Bingo

Once a month I troll on out to the SO36, hospital where david and iggy pop used to make the scene and probably do terrible things in the bathrooms. I save my pennies to attend the gaudy glitter of their bingo night, shop hosted by two cynical transvestites. My favorite is the platinum wigged Kitty Carell, cialis with the fake and charming Holland accent. If you dare to win, you are summoned to the stage where your person, dress, and manner are subject to ridicule by the witty and poisonous ladies. Even the prizes (donated by neighboring shops, and drawn by the winners themselves) seem to mock you! A crocodile handbag goes to the mannish lesbian. A tome about American Indians is handed to the young, bouncy boobala who is waving chirpily to her boyfriend. Kitty casually disdains them all, and coos with self-love.

A girl after our own twisted and glamorous hearts!

xo

(special note to Licketysplit when she returns from her washboard lessons: avoid the squirrel stew and the cherry kiafa. Virginny always wreaks havoc on your poor gizzard!)

I’d like to thank the academy

From the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,
In a few weeks I’ll be graduating from college. Normally, I skip tiresome ceremonies, but my own dear

school has sweetened the pot by offering a nice cash prize to the graduating senior with “the best literary

instincts.” Naturally, the winner is announced at the very end of graduation, so there’s no sneaking out the back if one doesn’t get it.

It’s a small class, and while I’m no Eudora Welty, I’ve written a thing or two in my day, and there’s maybe a

20% chance I’ll win. Every year, camera crews descend on the winner. Mostly, they’re from no-account local papers, but depending on what else is going on in the world that day, wire services and sometimes even TV networks pick up the story. I’m nervous, Kitty. I’ve never dealt with the papparazzi before. Please give me some pointers on how to display a heartfelt and photogenic reaction to good news, should

I receive it.

-Inkstained and eager on the Eastern Shore.

Dear Eager Beaver,

Kitty has cracked this nut wide open: you must repeat to yourself “What would Anna Wintour do?” Make sure you get your hair blown out, and wear large dark glasses. That way, even if you have to fake a smile, no one will see that the muscles around your eyes are not crinkling appropriately. And really, even if one is overjoyed, why court premature aging?

Kitty assumes that wardrobe is not an issue because you will be wearing some sort of cap and gown ensemble? In that case, focus on selecting a good pair of shoes. If they are open-toed, be sure to get a pedicure. Of course you will want a manicure, the better to grasp your oversized novelty check. You’ll want to wear a spot of makeup, to look fresh and vibrant, baptized with the dew of youth. But too much makeup could indicate you whorishly slept your way to the prize! Remove the foolish hat before being photographed.

Take a lesson from the recent Nicole Kidman Oscar speech fumbling: prepare a few gracious remarks in advance. Something along the lines of “I lead a charmed life, this is to be expected.” Or “I always knew I was better than everyone else; vindication, at last!”

All kidding aside, it is sometimes a good ruse to pretend to be choked up. You can dab daintily at imaginary tears, press your palm to your chest, and whisper “I am so touched! Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. This award truly belongs to all of my fellow contenders, who inspired me greatly.” Note that you should not actually give them a damn cent. Also, don’t forget to thank the faculty, unless you’ve already paid them off. Should the press continue to hound you, you must smile wanly and say “Thank you again for your kind interest, but I must celebrate with my family now.” Your family will want to dump a cooler of literary Gatorade on you at that time. This could affect your blow out, but could make for a good human interest shot.

In case you don’t win, the pressure is still not off! Try not to let your face freeze into a rictus of horror at whatever illiterate cretin is selected. This is also where the dark glasses come in handy. You’ll want to give an awkward little hug. Again, don’t waste an eye crinkle on this person.

Finally, you will want to review Kitty’s Victim Tribute Photo Tips:

Kitty suggest a 3/4 view for a head shot, as it is most flattering. You should also tip your chin down, while tightening the muscles beneath it, and look upward just a bit — never directly at the camera. Kitty learned this from Princess Di, and it never fails.

Onwards and upwards,

-Kitty

The stars at night are big and bright

Licketysplit

Today’s theme: piddly celebrity encounters! It is partially inspired by the new Gawker Stalker column, and partially because I was just talking about Cher. And someone rightly pointed out that I’ve met Cher! I used to work at Tower Records during school, which afforded me access to such luminaries as Cher, Ozzy, and…Joe Jackson. Oh wait, and Jay-Z. He was rather confident. His visit meant hearing “Hard Knock Life” approximately 13,000 times, in a loop.

Cher was promoting her memoirs. I had to stack a gigantic pyramid of them, beneath a Chairman Mao-sized soft-focus portrait of her. She was demure, wore a purple streaked wig, and was mobbed by men in hot pants who stood in line for a very long time. She also graciously received the gift of a fruit platter.

Ozzy was just shopping with a small entourage. This was back in 1999, and no one cared about Ozzy then. In fact we all thought he was some deinstitutionalized psychotic, until I noticed his knuckle tattoos. He was peeved because we didn’t have the Monty Python DVD he was after.

Another time I put on dark glasses and stormed through LAX while my friend ran ahead of me, jumped out of the crowd, and snapped my photo, yelling “Over here, over here!” It was a long delay.

But other people’s celebrity encounters are always better than mine. For instance, a friend has seen Douglas Coupland eat a cheeseburger! I would have swatted it out of his hands. After that last stinkeroo of a novel, some fasting for atonement is in order. Clearly she has more restraint than I do. She also met David Sedaris, who told her that her nicotine patch was “disgusting” and that he’d rather smoke. And she had a chance to club Dave Eggers to death with a skullcracking work of 485 pages, but she didn’t do that either. I say opportunity only knocks once. I still rue the day I didn’t kill Carrot Top. Among others….

In beautiful people, another friend had a class at NYU with Christy Turlington. Still another person used to always wait on Gwyneth at a coffee shop. Gosh, I have a lot of friends!

Last and probably least, I sat next to Creed and some hangers-on in a euro-trash bar at Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas. I would rather meet Richard Simmons I think. Or Siegfried and Roy.

-xxoo

Obla di Indeedy

lambchop

The video of captured american soldiers was impossible to escape on television here in Europa. But tears and hours of shaking my fist at the screen, enraged at the folly of humanity, was not doing any good. My usual civic philosophy is that you cannot change people, make them less apt to failure and unmerciful behavior. That the most you can do is arrange the world to make the best of our given nature. In this case, we have the opposite- everything is giving way to hunger for dominance, fanaticism, and brutality.

To combat such lowly thoughts, Steele shanghaied me from my television and my overflowing ashtray and took me for a ride on his BMW motorcycle. Its a high powered touring bike that he got for desert racing in Dakar. Vroom vroom! We would have kept going all the way to France, but I was getting a bit of a chill, and we had an oscar party to go to! Sunday night found us in the Hollywood hills toasting with Harvey Weinstein and chuckling amongst ourselves over Nicole Kidman’s oratory skills, which go something like “the world situation is ummm crazy. and umm, uhh, I believe that people are getting hurt in other countries, for example”.

Lunch is served, America, and it’s a giant shit sandwich. But darned if Steele didn’t look marvelous in his oscar night suit.

smooch

in Just- spring

A young woman’s fancy turns to shoes. Sassy wedges, kicky slides. My kingdom for a pedicure! Oh, to a find a crooked surgeon who will amputate my little toes in a cosmetically-appealing fashion and ply me with narcotics. The better to cram my wee goat feet into the casual buckle-detail mules.

My weekend was a sad ordeal through no fault of my own. I didn’t do anything fun like take candy from babies or set women in fur coats on fire. There were no acrobats, no jugglers, no mysteries of the trapeze. Instead there was a lot of driving. And listening to bad radio stations. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock, together at last… If you haven’t heard that painful spot of nouveau country, consider retiring to a remote mountain cabin posthaste!

I’m still in a foul mood, no way around that. So I had some more coffee and put on some show tunes! Broadway right in my living room, promises the cable radio display. Seems I can add jazz hands to my own personal raft of the Medusa (er, the couch with the puffy pillows) with the click of a button! Some Bernadette Peters sure soothes the savage beast. At nine, Bernadette received her Equity Card. At nine, I was still biting my sister.

I used to work at the Art History department at BU, and we called the circulation desk cubicle in the slide library the Raft of the Medusa. The work wasn’t bad. Filing, reminding professors that the little dot on the slides went to the upper right. Occasionally overhearing students pleading about grades, or even faculty pissing contests. I almost got a degree in Art History, but I realized that would lead to years more of expensive graduate education, not to mention the emotional price of seriously discussing Tracey Emin or Damien Hirst. I did write a rippin’ good paper of the “storms of fortune in the paintings of Poussin.” hoo dee doo. I’m sure continuing to do such things would have been ever so financially compelling. Thank god I’ve always been more motivated by cold, hard cash.

-yr dime a dance gal

Mutton dressed as lamb?

From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I was sorting through my wardrobe today and looking over my snazzy collection of miniskirts — leopard, glitter, pinstripe, houndstooth. But then I got to thinking: I just turned 31 and I don’t want to end up like one of those garish middle aged hags you see on the subway in ankle boots, dripping mascara and showing off leathery, sagging thigh. When do I know when to say when with flashy clothes and glittery makeup? I am a tramp with Dignity!

-hot diggety

Dear dig dug,

Kitty thinks you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. You’re never too old for glitter! Sagging breasts? Just think of that as feature-length cleavage. Kitty looks forward to seeing the old whore who lives down the street waiting for the bus, as do the neighborhood school kids. You should hear them call out in their cheerful childish tones!

Really, cupcake, you should dress in a way that makes YOU feel good at the time. Damn the feelings of others! Vogue magazine might tell you to invest in a closet chock-full of Escada and a platinum Rascal scooter, and these harpies will tell you What Not to Wear. They firmly decree that “No woman over 35 should wear skirts above the knee.” So you have a grace period of about 4 years! Problem solved?

But Kitty feels confident that there are no definitive rules, with the one exception being that VPL is déclassé at any age! Pull up your pants, Paris Hilton!

That old whore from the bus stop is happy, and that’s good enough for Kitty. Kitty personally can’t wait to age another 20, er, 40 years so she can really work the “whatever happened to Baby Jane?” look. Scarlet lips lined outside the natural border, eyebrows plucked off and drawn back on? The stuff of legends. Add an ivory-tipped cane, and you’ll be rapping the knuckles of orphans in no time!

You might try to pick a role model for your impending golden years, someone you feel oozes class and style, and hop that train. Joan Crawford? Debbie Harry? How about the Queen Mum or Mrs. Hannigan? Loni Anderson? Ah, or Vegas Ann-Margret.

Anyhoo, dignity, schmignity. After all, you don’t want to cheat your loved ones out of a Jenny Jones appearance? See You’re Too Old, You’re Somebody’s Mom, That Sexy Gear Is NOT The Bomb!

Once more into the bleach,

-Kitty

Could you be mine, would you be mine?


Lambchop

Mr.Rogers

O, Mr. Rogers! You have gone on to tv heaven. Every afternoon in 1978 Little Lambchop sat too close to the tv, rocking her bottom and singing along while Fred cardigan swapped. I don’t really have any jokes to insert here, because I am having a rare moment of a sincerely fond recollection.

I must add, however, that I am rather agape at Mr. Rogers mode of checking out. What’s the point of me trying to quit smoking and curb my alcoholism if Mr. Bloody Rogers dies of Cancer?! How can such a soft-spoken man have been riddled with tumors? Can’t really picture him bingeing on red meat and pouring vodka down his throat, lighting a smoke with the butt of the last one and screaming at his wife to get off his back about the goddamned dishes, can you? Well, another of the universe’s mysteries.

Thanks for Sharing. Farewell, Fred.