Fred is Dead and So Are the Oldies

I have no specific plan for this entry but musings. Starting with…

Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist Church is dying and who cares? This cro-magnum has ruined the funerals of countless veteran's families. Who wants to join me in protesting his funeral? I'll bring the"God Loves Fags and Hates Fred" signs.

L'Wren Scott, beautiful, and accomplished, commits suicide. Her life is reduced to "girlfriend of Mick Jagger." Not that I wouldn't mind that distinction but for Christ Sakes! She has a bit more going for her than a man known for shaking his money maker. And stop making song jokes. The woman obviously had more problems than a "19th Nervous Breakdown."

When did the oldies become eighties music? The kids in my spin class kept asking for an oldies class and I thought they meant Credence and The Turtles. No, they meant Huey Lewis, Duran Duran and Motley Crue. So my music is the "oldies?"

And while we are on the subject I just realized I am middle aged. Yep, I plan on living to be 96.

So I finally saw "The Notebook." Good God is that movie stupid. Except the part that I sobbed uncontrollably. I now have explicit instructions in my will to suffocate me with a pillow the first time I forget what I had for breakfast.

I'm on Team Woody. Yep, I am. Mia Farrow is a manipulating lunatic and I love "Radio Days." If Cate Blachett can speak out for Woody, so can I. Haters be hatin.

Apparently Angus T. Jones of Two and a Half Men fame hates the show and is a new found religious freak. Now he preaches the Gospel and ask people not to watch "filth." Hey Angus, Jesus called and said return all the cash you made playing a bratty fat kid.

Anyone else think the Malaysian plane was just boring old pilot error? I mean, if it's good enough for JFK Jr.?

That's all for now...

Been A Long Time (cue the Led Zepplin)

Where have I been, you say? You're so funny, what happened to your blog?

Well for one thing, I've been busy with the following:

Finding my perfect red lipstick.

Growing out the Keratin.

Looking up old friends on Facebook and deciding if I look old.

That took six months.

Then I had a LOT of ideas for blogs. Ideas I thought very funny. But when I ran these funny ideas by my confused Cuban/Puerto Rican husband, he gave me that "umyeahfunnybutoffensive" look. So here are some of those ideas just to give you a sample:

Baby stroller parking should be eliminated as having a baby is not a handicap but a choice.

If we give exile status to Venezuelans why can't Middle Easterners be granted it, too.

Protestants, we really shouldn't be commenting on the Pope, ok? We SPLIT from them.

Nick Saban is the antiChrist and therefore my Lord and Savior.

That took another six months.

Some exciting things took up my time and therefore kept me from my blog;

I eat all the carbohydrates I want because I gave up alcohol and amazingly stuffing my face with bread, candy, pasta, potatoes and almond croissants have helped me lose five pounds.

Adopted a dog. And as a new parent decided that baby stroller parking should include doggie strollers, too.

Turned 48 and realized I do look better than a lot of my old friends so I stopped trolling Facebook for crow's feet and saddle bags.

So now that all of that is sorted out I suppose I have some time to kill so I'm back to indulging you with some musings that may be offensive but hey I'm 48 and premenopausal and therefore offensive.

See you in the red lipstick aisle.

Celebrity BOOP

So many super celebrities are in the news these days. How we revere their good deeds and sacrifices. Once upon a time actresses were glorified casting couch cast offs (or much worse, my mother would say). Today these leading ladies lead by example and the whole world follows their every move. Or do we?

Three of these gorgeous, talented and super rich women are at the top of the fold, making headlines with their every move. Let's take a look at them and what I believe is their common denominator, shall we?

Gwyneth Paltrow. The most beautiful and reviled celebrity in the world. How can one woman be both?    She is stunningly beautiful but has the unique habit of sticking her Manolo'd foot in her mouth, when she does not have her one cigarette a week in it. Her blog, GOOP (how one pronounces her initials), has very useful information like what to wear to a Polo Match, gazpacho your kids will love more than chicken fingers and which $2000 cashmere throw you should buy for your track home in middle America. GOOP (the woman) recently attended a costume museum extravaganza and proclaimed it "hot and too crowded." Poor Gwynie, subjected to climate control with the 1% of the 1%. The backlash against her let-them-eat-cake remarks has forced her (read: publicist) to issue a statement saying how fun the event was and she can't wait until next year and please demi-Goddess Anna Wintour don't hate me.  GOOP also won't be photographed with her musician spouse Chris Martin because they consider that work. I am so tired when I think about everything GOOP has to do to remain relevant I have to take a nap.

Jennifer Anniston. The woman who launched a thousand bad haircuts remains on every magazine cover for the being the most beautiful pathetic thing on earth. Can this woman do nothing right? She has made a gazillion dollars for making us believe that Ross was more than a Friend. Are you kidding? That nerd wouldn't have a chance with Jenn. This woman, of the rocking body, megawatt smile and who-could-hate-her attitude is truly America's sweetheart. So why can't she keep a guy and have a baby? Did I just say that? She doesn't need either! So why is it true? Jenn's problem number one is that she never denies needing either. Her publicist has convinced her that to stay relevant she has to be a victim and remain martyred. "Poor Jenn, her uterus is barren and no man will love her." Really? Listen honey, you are rich, beautiful and can smoke more than one cigarette a week unlike poor GOOP. This week, Jenn was photoed taking her fiance to Barney's for bathing suit shopping and lunch. WTF?! No guy does that ever unless her breaks up over the Cobb Salad.

Angelina Jolie. Are there any faults she doesn't have? Philanthropist, humanitarian, adoptive mother, gorgeous. Now she has revealed a preventative double mastectomy. I mean, can she do no wrong? Well AJ has done a fantastic job of turning her once um, well, STRANGE self into a polished, sleek everywoman. May I refresh your memory? Married her first husband in rubber pants and a t shirt with her blood on it. Spent three days in a psych ward before marrying Billy Bob Thorton. Had a long relationship with a woman, whom she carried on a BDSM relationship. Wore a vial of blood around her neck. French kissed her brother on TV. Hired a hit man to kill her. Right, yes, check. So now AJ, who claims she has no publicist, is planning her mega wedding and summer camp choices for her six kids.

What possibly could these women need? They have the fame, money and looks we mortals only have in our dreams. Maybe they need love? The love of a good partner, father, and friend.

Oh and don't cha know they did/do. All three of them! And it's the same MAN. Brad Pitt! He's the common denominator. The man they have all shacked up with. He is 1-3 in this three-way sandwich. Brad was engaged to GOOP. He married Jenn. He has the kids he was supposed to have with Jenn with AG. He cheated on Jenn with AG. He had the same hair color/cut as GOOP. Cute, daft, stoner Brad Pitt. This guy. I mean, he is cute but all three women?

I think Brad needs a blog called BOOP where he can take us through his lives as the world's most expensive eye candy. I'd buy a $2000 cashmere throw for that.

That's So Miami

That's So Miami
The critics snark
With an emphasis on "so"
As if we don't get their remark
Oh, we get it, our "Miami" way
Contradictory, tardy, and 
What rhymes with way?

My confused Cuban/Puerto Rican husband turned me on to the annual O, Miami poetry contest which asks budding poets to opine in 100 words or less using the phrase "That's So Miami." Well, as you can see from my quick ditty I am no poet but occasional blogger. So here are my latest musings on the City Beautiful.

While the wonderful Ultra Festival was in full "Good Golly Miss Molly" mode in downtown Miami, sedate and tranquil Coral Gables was hosting the lovely lesbian icon Rachael Maddow reading from her new book "Drift!" which is not about boat lifts or cruise ships running aground but the high cost of wars. Being lucky enough to see Rachael and Ultra converge made a That's so Miami moment.

Fifty people line up to assure a seat in the auditorium four hours early to see Rachael (note, everyone calls her by her first name but they scream it, like RACHAEL!). Said people have the same stylist; gray hair, flannel shirts, Doc Martens, peace signs, and carry Asian daughters. Oh and they are all women.

Fifty college students walk by in droves, bound for the technitronics of Ultra. They too have the same stylist. Neon hair and furry string bikinis, pig tails and white go-go boots, water bottles and lolly pops.

Rachael. Ultra. Rachael. Ultra. "What's wrong with those girls?" the flannels say. "They look ridiculous." The neons lean in. "Who dresses like that anymore, I mean, like, Kurt Cobain is so vintage."

Was this clash of the "women" and "girls" a new kind of female empowerment? Nope, that's so Miami.

And speaking of women, uber Cuban blogger Yoani Sanchez breezed into town on her world tour, which surely will be her last from that Communist wasteland. "The Housewives of Miami" surely clamored to her make over to be a "real" woman of the Miami Millennium but simple Yoani was perfectly comfortable in her long, untamed, uncolored, unKeratined hair, her hippie clothes and not a trace of Botox let alone lipstick graced her face.

Speaking to the upper crust of Cuban society, she expounded their sameness, their likeness, their love for la Isla and oh by the way, the embargo was the dumbest idea you all have ever had and could you please put a stop to it so abuela can have some pan, por favor?

Well, Yoani never did get an answer to that question but when she is the publisher of the Havana outpost of the NY Times I am sure we will hear something about it.

Oh Yoani are you the Savior and the Mona Lisa rolled into one? Or are you the Mata Hari of the Malecon, sent to spy, to pry to cajole and lie? Only that's so Miami knows.

And finally those cool kids Jay Z and Beyonce celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary not with traditional gifts--wood--but with a fun filled trip to Havana! Because coming to Miami with its beaches and beauty, its amazing food and diverse population is too dull for these two. Nope, they would rather take their mothers with them on a journey of yesteryear, and by yesteryear I mean old food, towels, sheets and telephones, peeling paint and cracked walls. Listen kids, if you wanted arroz con frijoles that has actual beans in it you can get a big plate at La Carreta for about $5 and it comes with a clean knife and fork.

I also noticed that those two kids tried to be so authentic and wear what appear to be costumes so they can be more Havana-esque. Too bad no one told them the 1950s era, Godfather II outfits they have on are no longer En Vogue. Turbans and a Panama hat? Honey, Carmen Miranda and Ricky Ricardo have been dead a long time.

Oh Jay Z (not his real name), Beyonce and Baby Blue Ivy (that is hers). Miami not cool enough for your special day? That's ok we've  got plenty of other posers here. I mean, that's so Miami.

You'd Better Watch Out, Satan's Coming to Town

It's has been a while since I have blogged. So much living, so little time. I had a feeling that the return of Saint Nick Saban to South Florida would provide much food for thought. Who is Nick Saban, you ask? Oh just the greatest football coach of our generation.

Of course, some in Miami don't see it that way. No, they see him as the man who left the Miami Dolphins after saying he wouldn't. Couldn't. Shouldn't. Except for a gazillion dollars and free reign to tell his players what to do. Sort of the F-you Pat Riley gave to the Knicks. Only Knicks fans actually wanted their coach, unlike Dolfans who were calling for Nick's noggin.

So now, after coaching the Tide to two national championships our own St. Nick returned to SoFl to take on some team of religious zealots who pray to a Jesus mural in their end zone. Sounds like some kind of dogma thing if you ask me. I had heard about this team from none other than the Miami Hurricanes who apparently hate them very much. This team is named after the French "Our Lady" but goes by the Fighting Irish. Their uniform colors are navy and gold but they wear green and four leaf clovers. A short man dressed as a Christmas elf is their mascot. Confused? So was I. Clearly a un-American team with all this Franco-Irish stuff going on.

I didn't know much about this team because a) they are not in the SEC and b) they are not in the SEC. So I had to go by what I heard and read. The first place I turned was ESPN and a man who looked like Granny Clampett claimed to be their former head coach. Other than that I couldn't understand a word since his dentures don't fit and he was spitting everywhere. Then I heard a movie was made about a student janitor who played for the Franco-Irish and made me wonder how exactly they recruit. Still eager to learn more, I discovered a book called "Things Notre Dame Students Like" and found this quote "They like things that are related to their religion and using Catholicism to guide their actions (even if for the sake of appearing more Catholic than they really are)."

So weird, right?

Anywho, after a pre-weekend of more strangeness like a Jewish Miamian telling me he preferred Hitler over St. Nick, my local newspaper proclaiming my university's most famous graduate was George Wallace (and all those disgraced priests come from where?), and being called a racist, trailer park resident and guilty of marrying my cousin which we all know is SO not true (my cousins have six toes, Mario has five) I was ready for some good old fashioned smash mouth football.

Except it didn't happen.

Apparently the Franco-Irish team opted for a religious trip to Lourdes or Bethlehem or maybe Wal-Mart. Because the team St. Nick took on came from some high school in Indiana.

As we took our seats deep in navy/gold/green territory, their fans were ready to rumble. Screaming louder, humming the words to their fight songs (which either have to no words or are in Latin), this French team kept yelling GO Irish before their team came on the field. The fans around me grumbled when I sat down and I began warming up to cheer and proudly sing "Yea Alabama." The lovely girl in front of me, a young French/Irish lass of about 20 years, turned her head slowly around. Suddenly I had visions of Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." Snarling she said "Aren't you in the wrong SECTION?" Help me Father Damien! "Uh, no," I said, "are you?" I could see one of her eyes was shut and the other open and bloodshot. Oh this was going to be fun. So I said "You know, Alabama is still the national champion until the game is over." Heresy! At that point a full on scene from the Da Vinci Code took place. Rosaries and holy water were quickly disbursed among the crowd and I was treated as the true Scarlett Letter, since I proudly wore my A on my chest. Any minute I was thinking the Inquisition was to take place and I at the center of the trials.

Several minutes into the game Alabama scored and phone calls to the Vatican were placed so extra novenas and Hail Marys could be said but as you all know the former Cardinal Ratzinger is more concerned with banning gay marriage and instituting pre-Vactitan II reforms than football. Communion was replaced by hot dogs and beer and the Tide rolled on. Was I the only one who thought the game callers were saying "STIGMATA" (from the Latin "can't tackle) when they were saying Zeke Motta's name?

While Alabama continued to slay the little high school team, shouts of "SEC" came from the stands. The Franco/Irish continued to file out of the stands, more disgraced than Cardinal Ralph De Bricissart in the Thorn Birds. A few times, shouts of "Put Rudy In!" were called out to no avail. By the end of the third quarter, Linda Blair was in rehab and cars were headed north for parts of Indiana only Granny Clampett has heard of.

As the crystal trophy was raised, thousands cheered for Miss Terry wearing white pants after Labor Day and Brett Musburger making sexual remarks about AJ's girlfriend. A few thousand friends and I sang Ramma Jamma. What a night! Until our 16th Championship, Roll Tide!

LiveWrong

Hey what's our infatuation with Lance Armstrong?

The guy has been caught doping, lying, cheating. And that's just the stuff we know. I mean, who dumps Sheryl Crow because she has CANCER? Like he did...and now he's missing a one of his two digits.

LanceStrong left something behind back when he thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. It's called humility. I think he was under the impression that his doping really made him Super Man. And forcing his team to do the same gave him the power over the little people.

Let me tell you who is hurt the worst by LanceStrong's antics. The people who benefit from his LiveStrong Charity. Much like Komen for the Cure's stumble (I'm a former local Board member) the folks that depend on Lance's good name to raise money will now see it dry up. That's fewer mammograms and other types of cancer screenings that poor people (see 47%) can't afford.

I guess when he was Tour de Doping around France, seeing all those crowds of people cheering, throwing yellow roses and wearing yellow ribbons, he thought he was invincible. And his elaborate scheme to dope, carried about by his minions terrified to lose their jobs and access to LanceStrong, was acceptable because why? He had cancer? He needed just a little "push" but was going to win anyway? Trying to score a date with Tory Burch?

I never liked LanceStrong so maybe I'm hard on him to begin with. I remember an acquaintance who was going to fly to France, leaving her three kids behind, to cheer him on because she was a cancer survivor herself. I'm sorry...where your husband and kids not there for you when you had cancer?

Our priorities are a bit skewed when we fly three thousand miles around the world to cheer a world-class doper. A tip for you fellow reader. If you need a hero--I'm sure you can find one who is a) clean b) within a five mile radius c) unsung.

When You're A Jet...

Last weekend I tested the waters and attended my first game as a new Jets football fan. Apparently no one told me I needed Kelvar and an M.D. on standby.

What a weekend! Where to begin....I arrived in Lauderdale-by-Sea to torrential rain and lightening. I was meeting a number of my fellow Jets fans from Tampa and any borough that is not Manhattan. JETS METS! The gang were all huddled underneath our hotel's abandoned pool shelter drinking Bud from a can. They immediately quizzed me on my lineage to size up what ethnic slur to use with me. I was a "Mick with a side of Spick." I wasn't imbibing which was a surprise to everyone and clearly an insult to my Mick ancestry.

To keep track of the main cast of West Side Story characters:

Stephanie - my Alabama sorority sister. Daughter of the FBI agent who arrested "Goodfellas" main character Henry Hill.

Tommy "Queens"- cousin of Stephanie, 6'1 and weighing in at 342 (but going on a diet after Super Bowl). Consumed 35 beers in eight hours.

Tony Macaroni - real last name unknown. Known profession: Chef. Unknown profession: son of a Mafia made guy, Desert Storm vet. Recently pistol whipped, wounds on face and head. Represents rap artist JoJo Pelligrino.

To continue our story, let's return to the pool shelter. I noticed that it had areas for but no TVs. The ceiling fan paddles had been removed. The bar was empty. The pool deck was missing tiles. While the hotel was beach side, signs were posted about no lifeguards and strong undertow. However, Jets fans are real troopers because they sat in the rain in bathing suits trying to get tan.

I decided to drop my stuff in our room. Apparently the name "Smelly Crackhouse with Bad Air Conditioning Hotel" was taken so it was called the Beachfront motel. My third floor hallway smelled like...well let's not go there except to say I think this hotel does some banging hourly business. The door to our room would not open unless Tommy Queen's weight pushed it open. There were no bath towels. Luckily, had I checked Trip Advisor and discovered our hotel had zero stars and did not provide towels so I brought my own. I did forget my black light which was a good thing because there was enough DNA for a full season of CSI:Miami. The one wall hanging was drilled into the wall. There was a floor safe but the white powder at the bottom could have been rat poisoning or coke so I left it alone.

Tony Macaroni, whom I had just met, was kind enough to walk me across the street to Publix to get some snacks. To get you in the correct frame of mind, he has a striking resemblance to the very handsome Uncle Fester from the Addams Family and the personality of Academy Award winner Robert De Niro's character in "Taxi Driver." Tony shared with me on our short walk that he "wanted to take it to the next level" with Stephanie, divorced his wife because she got fat from Dunkin' Donuts while he he had to sew and wash her clothes, and his dad was a made guy from the Lufthansa heist. So much information!

We all decided it was time for nighttime football and "chow." After a 20 minute cab ride to Pompano we settled on Packy's Pub. Tony shaved his head for the occasion, which only left 10-15 cuts. After wings and Tater Tots, we took a hilarious cab ride to downtown Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, which consists of a Packers bar (Brady Sucks!), a snotty bar that serves boxed wine (a-holes!) and the Aruba. Now the Aruba was fancy stuff and Tony saw some lovely ladies who were very interested in his Jacob the Jeweler watch. Tony wandered off to dance to "Come on Ride the Train" by himself.

At 1 a.m. Steph and I decided we had enough and made the guys walk us back to our hotel. It was about a quarter of a mile so Tommy Queens thought it was such as nice night he would walk back without his shirt on. What a tummy! I don't think a Spanx has been made yet for a stomach that big. A quarter mile walk that would I would normally do in a few minutes took us a half-hour. Tony, see ya' after Super Bowl!

After Steph and I went to bed the guys went to a bar next across the street. For $60 they could buy a girl with no teeth a drink and get some action in return. Apparently she had no takers. I told Tony later that was a mistake.

Bright and early the next morning I jumped out of bed because of bugs and it was Jets game day! Stephanie was feeling a bit poorly, all that dancing at Packy's and Gallo jug wine I'm sure. I went over to Dunkin' Donuts for large coffees and tip toed through a parking lot filled with used condoms and empty baggies.

Jets shirts and Alabama hats on we headed to the bus to meet our full group. Wow! So many interesting people. It was mostly single guys from Queens who flew down for the weekend. A retired state trooper who could show me hemorrhoids to prove it. Another guy who survived "the can-sa" and could no longer drink beer so he just drank straight vodka. Ramon, the Dominican who loved the Jets and Mark Sanchez because "he's a spick like me." After drinking a bunch of warm beer and eating mayonnaise foods that had been sitting in the sun, we all made our way to the stadium.

I had no idea Miami had so many Jets fans. Tons of green everywhere. And that was just tattoos! We entered the stadium and looked around for the elevators to the Sky Boxes. But Steph told me weren't sitting there. Must be fifty yard line! But we started walking up. And up. And up! And soon we were ten rows from the top of the stadium. This must be a mistake. I was in the nosebleeds. With the PEOPLE!

To give you a lay of the land, the, ahem, the large woman with tiny clothes behind me had a two year old child in tow and a very skinny friend/daddy who weighed about 120 pounds with long hair and a Dolphins jersey on backwards so TAYLOR was on in front. In front of us was a Cowboys fan who may have been lost. He was with a woman who had Dolphins nail art. Down a few seats was a shirtless man with COUNTRY BOY tattooed on his back in huge letters. That was his only correctly spelled tattoo. COUNTRY BOY had a number of zits in between the letters I offered to pop but he thought they were fine.

Across from us were the Ebony and Ivory couple of the game. Ebony looked like Samuel L. Jackson but unlike his role in "Jungle Fever" this Samuel L. really was coked up. His Ivory partner kept pulling him off Tony Macaroni whenever Tony decided that telling the Dolphins to go f-themselves was too nice and adding in the a-- was better.

The skinny TAYLOR jersey guy kept wandering in and out for more beer. He wandered back in at the fourth quarter and was bleeding over his left eye. And had an ice pack over his right. His baby mama told him to move it to the other side and he thanked by telling her to f-off. She then told him to f-off and get lost. In front of their two year old kid. And he had the car keys to drive them home.

After an exciting game that went into overtime, the Jets finally won. Samuel L's friend escorted him out of the stadium so Tony didn't get his wish to gouge his eyes out. Bummer. As the misplaced Dallas fan and I walked out he told me he had three bullets in his left shoulder and took four Percocet a day. The people you meet at Pro Player!

All in all a GREAT thirty six hours. I learned so much! Barack Obama was elected President by the Chicago mob. Teamsters are registered Republicans but vote Democrat and LOOOOOOVE fully funded pensions. Italian guys are black from the waist down (who knew?) Oceanfront property in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is available for cheap. Joe Namath is the most beloved Alabama and Jets player.  I have been mispronouncing "mutha," "can-sa," "doo-sh," andeverything you can't really describe is a "sit-you-ay-shun."

Until next time Jets fans, Squish the Fish!