An Open Letter to People’s Sexiest Man Alive, 1995 and 2000


Dear Bradley Pitt-Jolie,

Remember that time when we were roller skating together?  It was a party for a mutual friend who had been nominated for a big deal Hollywood award.  He was cool enough to have it at a roller rink in Glamorous Glendale.  You were still married to Jenny A. and you had the long hair and beard look for the first time that the public will remember.

You were a terrible roller skater.  I was good, possibly even great.  You remarked on it from your butt as I winged past you to some Donna Summer.  Toot toot, yeah, beep beep.

Anyway, I’m not bringing this up to pretend that we are friends or to impress others that we are long lost casual acquaintances.  I’m doing it to remind you that once upon a time you looked up to me for my mad skills.  I want you to think about me gliding around on my four-on-the-floors and listen to me when I tell you that when presented with a script as dopey and a concept as flimsy as this Chanel No. 5 commercial, you have the power to say no.  You do not need the money.

Sure, sure, all those kids’ college educations aren’t going to pay for themselves, but that’s why you and Angie Baby play act in the movies.  You do not need to shill for the Kaiser and his stinky toilet water.  Shiloh will be able to buy her own man-tailored clothing well into her fifties with the money she makes from her tell all Mommy and Daddy Dearest book she writes.

It is quite likely one of those kids will try to burn the house down.  Let’s just hope they manage to destroy all evidence of this piece of Limburger.

Also, I would like to put my vote in for the look where you are pretending to give a fuck—the one where you have short hair and you shave.  You are a very good-looking man, some would say bordering on pretty.  You might as well flaunt it.  Because after this display of poor judgment, you’re going to be on a back lot filming Ocean’s 37 before you know it.

Your friend and roller skating mentor,



Sister, Mistress, Wife?

Tell me which it is , KJU.  If I am to continue having an affair with you in my mind, I need to know who I’m up against, competition-wise.  Is this your lady friend?  Is she married pop singer Hyon Song-wul who your daddy disapproved of and would not allow you to marry?  Is it your sissy Kim Yeo-jung?  Or is she your mystery wife?

Honestly, it doesn’t matter that much to me who she is because as far as I’m concerned she is standing next to you, pudgy dreamboat and I am here in Los Angeles at my computer.  Well, if it’s your sister or some government official I suppose I don’t care all that much.

But if she’s your lady love, then it’s Xisca all over again.  Well, not exactly.  But you get my drift.

Vamos, Rafa!  Me, Xisca, KJU and the mystery woman will all be cheering you on during the Olympics.  It’s bound to be better than Wimby, right?

How I Met Your Mother. No, Seriously.

MJ:  Hey everyone!  Look at me!  You thought it was crazy when I tattooed an Eames couch on my stomach.  Look at me now that I am channeling Chris Evert and Miles Standish at the same freaking time!  I am so odd.  I’m edgy.  I’m weirder than anyone else in the rooooooooooooom.

Wait.  What?  Peter Fucking Marino is here?  Who let him into my party?  It’s MY party.  I want to be the biggest weirdo.  I want everyone to talk about me.  I want to be OUTrageous!!!

Oh Christ on a stick, fine.  I’ll let him take a photo with me but if he gives me one of those bear hugs…

Oh fuck.  Here he comes.

PM:  Goldilocks!  Who’s been sleeping in Papa Bear’s bed?  Now come give Daddy some sugar.


Don’t Believe Everything You Read on Chinese Twitter

Today, on Weibo (China’s answer to Twitter) they are saying that Kim Jong Un was killed in Beijing.  I know this because I read it on Gawker.  I refuse to believe it because one country cannot possibly withstand another onslaught of fake tears like those shed for Dear Leader KJU’s Pops, Kim Jong-Il.  Also, are people going to be punished if their displays of fake grief aren’t as convincing as they were for KJI?  I am getting way ahead of myself here, but you know, a superfan’s mind travels fast when there are so many unanswered questions.

I’m keeping this short and sweet until I have some more “evidence”.  If I had a glass coffin making business in Pyongyang, I’d be polishing up a plus sized model for Jr., that’s for sure.

Wherein I Discover the Existence of the Humilitard

I have never watched even a minute of Big Brother, but before you go commending me for my highbrow tastes please do not forget that I have watched every single second of Jersey Shore so I probably shouldn’t start bragging anytime soon about how erudite I am.

So yesterday when my old pal Mike Funes, he of 5th grade fan club fame (several of us future Gloria Steinems had a fan club for him complete with theme song sung to the Oscar Mayer Weiner tune.  Take that, feminism!) informed me of the existence of the “humilitard” to say my curiosity was piqued would be the understatement of yesterday and possibly even today.

Mike knows I like a onesie.  I mean I don’t keep it on the DL or anything—I will wear a jumpsuit over just about any other clothing choice and even found myself wondering where the blonde girl on Celebrity Rehab gets all of those weird teletubby rompers she wears every single day.  See—I watch lots of crap, just apparently not Big Brother.

But back to the humilitard.  From what I can tell, a blonde girl on the show must have done something stupid which warranted her being sentenced to wearing something dubbed the humilitard.  The name held lots of promise for me.  I was envisioning something like Borat wore to the beach or maybe some sort of modest cut flesh toned Danskin.  Instead when I googled the shit out of humilitard I found something a little closer to Will Ferrell’s costume from Elf.  Elf is a seriously awesome movie, btw and placing it in the context of the humilitard makes me feel dirty.

So anywhosit, rather than make me want to actually watch Big Brother and find out what happens to the Kewpie Doll in the “I’m Stupid/Kick Me/Propeller Hat” outfit, the humilitard has instead propelled (ha! see what I did there?) me to imagine some humilitards of my own.

In fact, I’m thinking of designing one for each original member of the Mike Funes Fan Club.  Anyone know where I can find Lynn Furst or Lisa Youngquist?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  You’re only as good as your Facebook connections, Doran.  So in the absence of all original members of MFFC I will, I suppose, have to wear the humilitard myself.

The nice people from Pajama Jeans sent me a pair of those…maybe I’ll start there and sew a bedazzled bodysuit into them.  Oh, man.  I’m gonna be rich!  I’ll call it the PajamaTard®.

Red Sole Blues

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues, so sayeth St. Bowie.  What of today’s ruling by the big bad judge in New York, which says that Louboutin can’t prevent the rest of the world from making their shoes with red soles?  Seriously?  This is a topic of discussion for anyone in a world where the stock market has just wiped out all disposable income that would have been spent on shoes, red soled or otherwise?

Priorities, people.  Depression chic.  It’s a coming.  Get used to it.

I understand trying to protect your big ideas, but red soles are a big idea?  If anything, the red sole is ingrained in a certain shallow mind as standing for Christian Louboutin (the same sort of shallow mind that likes SATC and those horrible cupcakes from Magnolia).  So I would figure the more shoes out there with red soles, the more people will think that everyone is wearing your shoes, Chris.  Do you mind if I call you Chris?

I’m going to let you in on one of the really big secrets of branding.  You WANT everyone to use your name as a default.  Here’s an example or two.  Say you have a copy machine in your office and it’s made by Ricoh.  Do you call it the Ricoh machine?  You certainly do not.  You call it the Xerox machine.  Or let’s say you need to blow your nose.  Do you reach for a Puffs?  No, you do not.  You clear your nasal passages on a Kleenex regardless if the box says Costco or Hermes on the outside.  Now, I get that people aren’t going to start calling all shoes Louboutins, but the red sole is going to have them thinking “Louboutin” in their mind when they see them.  And that is not a bad thing.

So Chris, for the love of Pete, will you stop wasting the good court’s time with your frivolousness and get to work making J Lo some new shoes sturdy enough to support that enormous wig she’s got on her head?  She’s got to look pretty for the karaoke contest she’s judging on the telly. Plus now that’s she’s kicked the Latin Steve Buscemi to the curb, she’s more than likely going to be out on the prowl wearing…you guessed it—her red soled Payless pumps.

All the J Lo chitter aside, now that no one save the richest of the rich will ever be able to afford a pair of designer shoes again, I’m kind of looking forward to faking it in a pair of red soled Cobbie Cuddlers while I watch the rest of my money vanish into thin air.  Maybe I’ll get me a cupcake to ease my pain.

Brian Wilson’s Onesie

Last night I found myself watching the ESPY’s, ESPN’s answer to the Oscars.  I tuned in because the very funny Seth Meyers was the host and he made me laugh so much at the White House Correspondents Dinner.  I figured I would watch the monologue and then turn it off, but somehow I lasted through the entire thing.  Mr. Meyers was funny enough. But it was his mancrush on the inimitable Brian Wilson and my cougarcrush on the same that kept me tuned in.

You see The Beard came in what he described as a “onesie”.  I would call it a tuxedo printed unitard, but I’ve probably spent more time with the Danskin back catalog than the Giants hurler has.

To say that I love Brian Wilson would be like Gabourey Sidibe saying she enjoys the occasional slice of pie.  He and his teammates actually had me watching the World Series and despite the absence of my beloved Yankees.   Their weirdo antics were enough to make me a Giants fan (albeit a come lately one) and gave me a National League team to root for, which is helpful when the Yanks come up short or when A Rod forgets that the season doesn’t end in September.

But I digress.  I need to focus on Wilson’s onesie. Holy Mother of God it was fantastic—it had attached gloves for crying out loud.  To properly accessorize the onesie he wore several silver bracelets and carried a “cougar cane.”  I am not sure if the cougar cane is to beat away the droves of cougars who, like me had I been in attendance, were surely throwing themselves at him or if there was an actual cougar head atop the cane.  Either way, I’m totally down with it.

I’m also down with his Ninja socks, which were a gift from a fan and with his orange bow tie, which could nattily accessorize a home uniform if Bud Selig would allow it.

There were two unexpectedly (for me anyway as I don’t think I’ve ever bothered to watch the ESPY’s before) poignant moments in the show.  One when Dewey Bozella was awarded the Arthur Ashe Award for Persistence

and the other when Arizona State wrestler and National wrestling champion Anthony Robles who was born with one leg won the Jimmy V award for Courage.  (I can’t find video of the film they played about Robles so if anyone finds it let me know and I’ll upload…)

I totally like the ESPY’s!!  But there is one last thing I need to address.  You know how that Marine asked Mila Kunis to go to the Marine Prom with him and she said yes?  Well, consider this your invitation, Mr. Brian Wilson, to put on your formal onesie one more time for a date with yours truly.

I don’t have a Marine Prom to go to, so how about you come with me to yoga class?  You’ve got to admit that tux print would look pretty freaking awesome in handstand.