Author Archive for Lena Katz


Swiftly, annoyingly domesticated me

I haven’t left Jimmy the Pirate’s lair in weeks, and it would be shocking, except the time passes so easily and calmly, it doesn’t feel like weeks at all. Also I have an  excuse: my laptop died a couple weeks ago and without his computer, I’d be lost.  What is surprising is that, in spite of both of us having zero recent experience co-habiting with someone else, we have taken to it so happily.

Granted, we aren’t quite the conventional domesticated twosome: I urge him to go out drinking with his friends at night so I can have peace and quiet to work.  He calls me from various places (the hairdresser, the grocery store, etc.) to tell me about all the hot pieces of Hollywood ass that are giving him the eye.  I got a large shipment of Astroglide goodies sent to his office, festooned with ribbons and bows.  It goes on and on. We are both shamelessly appreciative of eye candy, horny as teenagers, and thankfully though we’re each protective of the other, neither of us are “the jealous type.” (I’ve actually always been pleased to see other women looking at my man–it proves I have good taste.)

I do wonder if things are going to change and I’ll become a typical nag, harshing on my poor beleaguered pirate about everything from his wandering eye to his middling-serious tattoo addiction. I wonder if, when the first glow fades, I’ll stop pointing out other hotties to him, or find it annoying rather than funny when one of his exes appears from the past to propose marriage. My sisters and other women would probably warn me that this is a possibility, and say that I’m only so lenient because it’s new and still “fun.”

My response is…well, I was this way when I was 20, more so at 25, and after a few years of being a singles writer and advocate of the unconventional but true-to-one’s-self lifestyle, I could never forgive myself for suddenly embracing the status quo. It wouldn’t feel right. And I don’t think I could stick with it. Actually, looking at my past relationships, I know I couldn’t. One of the greatest things about this relationship is that I don’t have to hide the fact that I used to frequent the Spearmint Rhino, that I have close working relationships with several “adult toy” manufacturers, and that I’m the proud author of such stories as “Relationship Recycling: My Earth Month Amendment” and the classic “A Blowjob, A Sandwich, And Silence.”  For once, that side of me can coexist with the cuddly little girlfriend who just wants to stay home and watch movies on a Friday nite…and forgive me if this makes you puke, but I think it’s pretty rad.


First Month Marker: Mistaken Identity & the DEA

They say the couple that plays together stays together. Or is that prays together? Anyway that question is irrelevant; my real question here is…what happens to the couple that wanders accidentally into the middle of a DEA sting operation on, hm, about the 10th date, and not only comes through it together unscathed, but also extends that date into a one-week slumber party? Because that is basically what just went down w/me and Jimmy the Pirate.

We were doing absolutely nothing untoward when it happened. Nor do we ever, really—at least, nothing that would possibly interest the DEA. My friends hahaha this, but it’s true.

What happened is, Jimmy the Pirate was parking my car right outside of his house in West Hollywood.  It was a weeknight. I had driven, but didn’t feel like reversing into a small space, so down he came b/c he is a sweetheart like that. As he’s parking, a neighbor says hello, and JTP says hello back. I cross the street over to the car. The neighbor crosses in the other direction, where I had come from–and several men run at him from out of the bushes, all dressed in black. JTP says, “Oh, shit, they just pulled guns on that guy,” and tries to lead me quickly away into safety. The random scary thugs in black shout, “Wait there was another guy. Get him… HEY YOU. We see you. Come out and put your hands up.” Jimmy walks out & two guys point 9mms at him.  At this point, we both think it is a hit and we are toast. I crouch down quietly behind a bush and start trying to get my phone and call 911, while realizing I will never be able to get the police over here fast enough to save us.  I will admit, my hands were shaking.

Then, due to how coordinated the whole thing was and how professional-like the thugs in black are holding their guns, JTP guesses, “Wait are you guys cops?” And sure enough, they start flashing badges and confirming: DEA, baby. These are not stone killers—they are cops on a drug bust. WOW.  We immediately start thanking our lucky stars, but notsofast!!  Swiftly they announce that Jimmy is being detained as the suspected accomplice of random-dude-crossing-the-street.

“Why?” I wondered out loud, crawling out from behind the bush. Whereupon the pack of overzealous policemen greeted me and, very nicely, detained me too.  For about an hour. Till they ran JTP’s license over at the home office and verified that he was not a criminal, but rather a veteran and upstanding employee of network television, who happens to occasionally rub cops the wrong way for no reason at all.

(Well, actually, there is a reason. It is because of his tattoos. If you were ever wondering whether tattoos down the forearms make a statement, I am here to tell you, yes they do. They say, “Arrest me immediately.”  Cool, right?)

Anyway. Eventually there was no more questioning or running of documents or patting-down-of-innocents to  do, so the cops took down his cell phone number and let us go. They remained outside sweeping the entire neighborhood & rounding up all kinds of folks for hours. We suspect they may have listened in on us having sex too. There is absolutely no evidence of that whatsoever, but if the DEA can accuse people of doing things on a completely unfounded basis, I figure I can do the same to them.

And happily, it did not hurt my blooming relationship in the slightest. Probably the opposite, because I can now say for 100% sure that my boyfriend (!) definitely does not have a criminal record. Not even an outstanding speeding ticket. Which is more than I can say for myself.


10 Signs He’s Just an Asshole

K I threatened promised to deliver this, and by golly I will, though truthfully I haven’t hung out with any true assholes in at least a month, and therefore my memories of them are not quite as crystal-clear as they could be. (Yes, my memory is typically sharp for longer than a month. But I block assholes right out, for the same reasons you spray air conditioner over a poopy smell in the loo.)

Anyway, here we go…

10 Signs He’s Just an Asshole

1. He tells people the two of you met on or some other equally xx-rated site, thereby making everyone uncomfortable because they a) wonder if that’s actually true, b) immediately start wondering if such a site exists and how they didn’t know about it before, and c) get an instant mental image of what your snatch might look like.

2. He not only tips strippers cheaply, but also makes them degrade themselves in some small way for each and every dollar bill.

3. Nonetheless he expects one of those strippers to go home with you and him at the end of the night. Invariably they don’t, but slip you their number and want to go out separately of him later in the week.

4. He has a “routine” that he performs with all the women he dates, so predictably that you can back-and-forth the entire thing with another ex-girlfriend of his you randomly meet. (“Then he plies you with cold sake! Then he takes you back to the house and jumps on you like an octopus! Then he wants you to dress up in an air hostess uniform!”) Provided you and the other ex are woman enough to laugh at this, you will really freak out any men who happen to be in the vicinity, especially if they are guilty of the above  themselves.

5. He decides what television shows the two of you will be watching, and even if it’s something gruesome on serial killers or the stock market, no matter how much you beg him to turn it off, he will not be moved.

6. He’s obnoxious to wait staff. In addition to being embarrassing, this means you can never take him anywhere, because if he’ll do it at a restaurant, he’ll do it at a party.

7. He tries too hard to have sex on the first date. What the hell man? Is  he afraid you’re going to come to your senses  and refuse a second date? Is he too cheap for a second date? Or does he merely have the attention span of a stoned college student? No matter what, it doesn’t bode well.

8. He makes fun of you. Helloooo! Insecure much? Any guy who’d knock his date down to build up his own smugness deserves to be knocked down himself. And then kicked.

9. He ignores your first significant holiday together (Valentine’s, your birthday, Christmas) after you’ve been dating a reasonable time (4-6 weeks), but then calls you 5-7 days later like nothing has occurred

10. He tries to have sex with all of his female friends, acquaintances and colleagues…and then pouts when he doesn’t get it.  Quadruple-bad if he does this while he’s married.

Okay, scary thing. I think I could have come up with more than 10, equally as bad as the ones listed above. But here’s a good thing: I had to review the behavior of many unpleasant past acquaintances to come up with the first 10. You see, most men are not assholes. They just like to wear the tee-shirt occasionally. And the stuff on this list, they would not do. 

Oh also…The men on this list typically have small-ish penises. I’m just sayin’.



10 Signs You’re Just Not That Into Him — Thanks Caitlin

I got an email from Caitlin Murray, the PR for AstroGlide, last week, with the subject line you see above. And of course, I had to check it out. Woo-eee, the girl is no-holds-barred, but you know what? It was funny stuff. Especially now, when the “He’s Just Not That Into You” craze that should have lasted one week–just long enough for memories of its original Sex & The City appearance to be washed away by a newer episode–has turned into a friggin’ feature film.

Without seeing it, I can tell you that I’m tired of it. In fact I’m tired of any sort of mass entertainment that is geared toward a female audience, yet written by a man. It’s s like bringing an all-female writing team to write the NFL Highlights Show–yeah they could fake it, but would they really understand?

Anyway. I liked Caitlin’s list enough to re-post it here, with my comments. Score one for Astroglide; they’ve hired a rep who’s not afraid to make a statement.

1. You call him his buddy’s name, and then justify it by saying “well you’re just all so interchangeable.”

Ouch. Really, you get away with that?


2. You update your Facebook status, write on two friends’ walls and upload a new album all before considering responding to his message.

All of those things seem much more urgent at the time. I know because I’ve totally done this.


3. He sends two dozen perfect lilies and the sweetest, most genuine card imaginable.  You cringe, roll your eyes, and call your best friend to make fun of him.

 A man who sends flowers is not one to be dismissed out of hand, Grasshopper.

4. When he asks you out you say, “Can I just have the money instead?”  You’re dead serious.

 Would love to know what kind of response this got from the poor sucker with the checkbook.

5. You don’t consider him to be worth turning off your cell, applying bronzer, or cracking open that bottle of Astroglide.

 If you even need Astroglide the first few times to get things going smoothly, he’s definitely not worth it.

6. You actively hit on another guy in his presence and obtain said male’s number—all while on a date with him.

 You have not done this!! Really? Caitlin? My gosh, kids are growing up so fast these days.

7. When he falls asleep drunk in your bed, you strip the sheets as soon as you kick him out—regardless of your hangover.

     What is he doing while he’s asleep and drunk in your bed?  Drooling? Groping?  Peeing? I can’t think of much that would propel out of my nice cozy covers at dawn, to do laundry.                

8. You suggest hanging out at your place to up the odds of him going for your hot roommate.  That way you can break it off on account of his “wandering eye.”

This is sheer genius, although diabolical.

 9. If he dares bring up the labeling of your “relationship,” you switch topic faster than, well, a guy usually would.

I know the feeling on this one. Even if I’m supposedly in a relationship lately, I tend to forget. So what’s the point of talking about it?

 10. You waited months to sleep with him, but he still became a one night stand; the next morning you decided never to try THAT again.

Hahaha. HahaHAHAHAhaha! This is awesome.


Thanks to Caitlin and AstroGlide, for your cheeky creativity. Everyone else, stay tuned–soon I’ll be writin my own list, called “10 Signs He’s Just an Asshole.” 


Negril, Estelle, but no Javaughn

It is sooo hard to blog about Jamaica in the daytime. Perfect sunny weather, endless daiquiries to be had–why am I inside? Because it is harder to blog about Jamaica in the nighttime, when everyone else is out at the clubs. Or, this week, at Jazz & Blues.

I’ve been at Jazz & Blues two nights running, and have many pictures to show you, mostly of Estelle,  AKA Miss “You’ll be my American Boy” protege of Kanye West. I always wondered what it was about her that got Kanye, who is one of the most over-competitive and non-chivalrous producers currently in existence, to roll over on his back like a puppy for Estelle. You don’t see him doing that for Beyonce, Rihanna, hell even Lady Gaga. But having seen Estelle live, I now understand all. The woman has charisma, she has a powerhouse voice, she has Tina Turner legs in a tiny silver spangle dress, and a sexy cute attitude that transcends all male chauvinism. Seriously. She got some Jamaican dude up on the stage, demanded that he bump and grind with her, and then teased him mercilessly for not knowing how to move his hips.  She schooled him and rocked his world in front of thousands of his countrymen. Then she gave him a kiss and sent him home. Go Estelle! Love that girl. 

I spent much of the rest of Jazz & Blues that nite in the manner I’d begun earlier in the day, which was: laze about, have no set plans, and drink as many Red Stripes as possible. This worked out well for me. We arrived in Negril around mid-afternoon, and spent sunset at the Rockhouse Hotel, which has to be one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. It’s on limestone cliffs, with lots of little cabana-type lodgings, little wooden bridges spanning crevasses where you can see the ocean 50 feet below, a stairway leading down to sea level, where people actually go swimming if the water’s calm and/or they don’t mind taking their lives in hand… and then a swimming pool set into a ledge that lips the sea. I could probably spend every day at their outdoor bar, watching the daredevils jump off the cliffs, and everyone else just sort of moon about thinking how lucky they are to be there…

Because my friend knew the owner, I learned that Rockhouse is opening a new restaurant called Pushcart this very night–and this is where I achieved my one significant thing for the day, which was to score myself an invitation to opening night.  What can I say–I like to be first. So tonite, if I can convince someone to drive me to Negril, I am back to Rockhouse.

Otherwise it’s third night of Jazz & Blues, which is a fun festival, as long as you remember the Jamaican principles of:  relax, be nice, and don’t worry too much about schedules or getting work done off business hours. I forgot this for a short time yesterday, when two of the Jazz & Blues PR girls waxed so enthusiastic about this  16-year-old Damien Marley protege named Javaughn that I decided to make a point of seeing his set, then  interview him. It didn’t work out so well. There was no set time he’d be performing–no finalized lineup in fact. By the time I got to the show, he’d already played–only no one knew where or what time. They also didn’t know where he’d gone.  Since I couldn’t see myself roaming thru a crowd of 15,000 Jamaicans in search of a 16 year old boy–local celebrity though he might be–I betook myself to the VIP tent (AKA free food/booze tent, nice seats) and told his reps to text me if he returned. They never did. Ah well. I guess teens have better things to do with their Friday nights than worry about their careers, Marley protege or no. 

At any rate, off I go. I do have pictures…or anyway, someone has pictures, definitely my friend Robert because he’s a photographer & took at least 17,000 snaps of the concert, including a few of me.  But they will wait. They must. I need to go be lazy.


I’m baaack (in Jamaica mon)

And like *poof*, I  disappeared.

And like that, I am back. Not just on the blog, but also in Jamaica. And it is nice to be here, I must say. I’ve missed the good times that we’ve all shared: me, you, the 80 year old rasta pepaw with the missing teeth and the parrot on his shoulder…oh wait, I took that picture down didn’t I?  Never mind, I can take another tomorrow. I’m going to Negril and I just know that  the man, or at least several snaggletoothed replicas of him, will be there.

So I took a redeye into Montego Bay and arrived at 7:45AM Monday to discover my reservation was lost. It took a full  two hours to find it and get to my hotel, and by the time I finally was allowed in my room I was just exhausted. Which really does not explain how I got into a drinking contest 45 minutes later.

I swear, I do not seek these things out. They find me.  Or maybe we are drawn together like magnets to iron maidens or something. I was walking back from a quick  lunch, nose in a trashy detective novel, when I heard a loudspeakered emcee enthusiastically cajoling/encouraging/ordering the holiday-makers to come to the front of some bar and join in a competitive beer-drinking event. I looked around to see where the voice was coming from, but couldn’t–it was omnipresent. Carefully, I sidled past a cluster of about six people, into what I thought was a courtyard…and instead found  a lineup of 12 sunburned people, looking at me challengingly. Then I glanced back. Beach bar. Shite. Beer drinkers. Right in front of me. Oh, and my stupid ass. Right in the middle of the competition floor. Nicely done, Lena!

“I’m sorry, very sorry,” I said, backing away and smiling, shaking my head no no no with great emphasis.

 “OH LOOK, WE’VE GOT A SHY ONE!” bellowed the emcee. 

I decided to try the “Ignore him; he’ll go away” tactic. It’s often effective. Pretending I couldn’t hear him, I backed up a small flight of stairs and  hid in a corner.


Nooo, I mouthed, hands up in the universal sign for “I give up, can’t help you; please leave me alone.”


Oh jeez. This wasn’t going to end. People were beginning to stare. I shuffled up to the bossy mic-wielding madman at the podium.

“Come and have a drink with us,” he said, suddenly  no longer a tormenter but merely an exuberant host. One who happened to have a microphone and an avid audience….but I mean on the bright side I was much bigger thah him. I felt sure I could overpower him if I could get his damn mic off for a minute.

“I really can’t,” I told him. “I mean, I can’t.”

“You in Jamaica now mon, you haf’ to.”

“Ya mon. You in Jamaica,” echoed back several of the bar patrons, as though they were in some sort of weird call-and-response church service.

Oh dear. Chris didn’t have an audience, he had acolytes. And they seemed in a mood to resent anyone who might  prefer sleeping over boozing, or prefer anything over boozing, or even admit to having slept at all in the past week. I know this mindset; it is common in the vacationer nearing the end of their holiday, who knows deep in their heart that that good times will soon be over and bad-weather suckiness will begin. I have been that person. Thus, I understood that  I didn’t want to fight them.

I took a seat next to my fellow beer-drinkers. Now that I was safely roped in, the audience became swiftly bored of me and began to catcall at a Jet Li lookalike in tight black biker short/swim trunk/underwear thingies. His friend got up and launched into a Kriss-Kross Humpty squaredance routine. People cheered. It was all incredibly stupid. But, okay I admit it, I was starting to have fun. There’s something heartwarming about seeing a man make a fool of himself on the dance floor and know it. (Mostly they think they’re hella sexy.)

Anyway. The beer was proffered. It was a small cup, really. This was fortunate, because–and here’s the thing I haven’t yet shared with you–I had already had two at lunch time. No, three. Something like that?  You can’t drink anything with jerk chicken except Red Stripe; it goes without saying. So I had ’em, thinking I was going to go straight to the room and to sleep…and instead here I was looking like a sweaty pale mess in last nite’s clothes, staring into a foaming cup of Red Stripe that according to CRAZY CHRIS’ latest instructions I would need to either drink or pour over my own head. The good news is, I would be doing this with nine other chicks. The bad: I would have to do it center-stage, standing up, while being photographed.  (If you read my Cabo blog, you know why I might have reason to worry about foreign drinking contests featuring insane emcees and video cameras.)

But the really good news followed a moment later: For the first round I would only have to drink one beer, not 3 or 10 as I had feared, and if I lost, I wouldn’t progress to the next round. And could go back to room, sweet room. Yay!

(At this point, a fiercely and perversely competitive voice began to speak up in my head, telling me ‘You can win this…and dammit you must.‘)

Shut up, I said to the voice.

Do it for California. Do it for yourself, the voice continued.

This is how I ended up taking my damn bikini top off in Cabo. GO AWAY, I said to myself.

And thankfully this time I listened. I came in third. My top stayed on. I did not progress to the finals, did not do disgusting watermelon shots out of the Squeezee bottle that was on offer, and went off to my room to take a nap.

I am sorry to let you down–and I know I did–but I had to. Better things were to come, like that nite, when a man named Sexy Bubba cooked my dinner, tossed my salad and flipped my eggs (I know how that sounds but…it was actually completely culinary). And the next nite when my dear old friend Donahue arrived in a chariot to take me to some cool bar furnished entirely with found objects and shoes. And today when my new BFF Marcia led me to a giant chessboard by the sea,  where I fully plan to play human chess as soon as I can rope 24 people in…and learn that damn game b/c I’ve never figured it out. And also tonite, when my van driver turned out to be a deejay who will return bearing a CD of up-and-coming dancehall artists, just for me. And tomorrow when…I go to Negril. Yay, hooray! I shall be back to tell you all about it. But for now…good night mon, and stay irie.


In Which Shannon Wentworth of Sweet (Lesbian travel co) Stirs up My Brain

So a couple weeks ago I had a nice long phone interview with Shannon Wentworth, the CEO of Sweet, a lesbian tour company based out of Northern California. Shannon’s company is new, it’s going to specialize in ecologically and socially conscious cruises, and the first cruise on their itinerary is departing New Orleans in 2009. Okay. Now that I’ve covered the basics…

Lesbian travel is a new and somewhat random thing for me to write about–not being a lesbian myself, I didn’t ever feel particularly tapped into that market, or attuned to its readers’ needs. However, I’ve written about nudists and Plushies and swinger parties without ever dipping a toe into their waters (okay, maybe a toe), so if lesbians want me to write about them, then fine I’ll do it. Possibly part of the problem in this whole situation is that not enough straight women are writing about lesbians.

And there is a problem. I didn’t realize it before, but non-straight people have it rough when it comes time to travel–or even to go out to dinner, in some places.  Or, if we come down to it, to be treated like equals. (Did anyone see the presidential debates last nite? If so, please take my point.)

Anyway. Below I’m posting a few of my questions, Shannon’s answers, and then my responses, as I took a minute to think about some of these issues for the first time.

ME:  If lesbians move in faster than straight couples, do they also speed up the “holi-dating” process?

SW: Going away for the weekend happens all the time, but they often go to events that are accepting of the lifestyle. There are so many places where you have a getaway that’s not romantic because everyone in the restaurant is staring at you, and the waiters asking if you’re sisters because you’re holding hands and speaking softly to each other.

My thoughts: The waiters are asking you about your personal status? Whoah! They need to STFU and serve your dinner, as they’re paid to do. I’ve never had a waiter get all nosy about my connection to a guy I was at dinner with. Ever.

ME: How does the lesbian mindset change the vacation fling?

SW: It does happen that someone might have an intense fling for a week, but lesbians are much more likely to try to parlay that into a long-distance relationship and then one move to the other’s city. *chuckles*  Lesbians are not really prone to the fling. We as a community have been trained to behave better so we can garner the recognition and respect we’re looking for.

My thoughts: Hm. This is nice and optimistic. However, I’d wager that a lot of straight men out there have no interest whatsoever in recognizing or respecting you. They’d much rather buy into the mainstream porno version of you, which is that lesbians are mostly all giggling nymphomaniac college co-eds who are just making do with each other till a guy comes into the frame.

ME: What’s the deal with traveling as part of a huge group, anyway? Isn’t it sometimes nicer to get away a deux?

SW: There are still big chain resorts that cater to couples, that don’t allow gay and lesbian couples to book.

My thoughts: That. Sucks. And I had no idea!!! All those “couples getaway” and “mini-moon” releases that cross my desk, and it’s never once occurred to me to ask whether there were gender requirements. What are we, in the dark ages?

SW Part II: We were just at a lesbian event the company had booked a huge hotel block, and even though we were one of 200 couples, we were one of the first to check in, and had to explain it to them. And the people at the front desk didn’t get it.

My thoughts: How humiliating. How aggravating! I would have wanted to slap someone for putting me through a round of Twenty Questions like that.

And again–what’s up with these people who are supposedly in the service industry, but can’t manage to just keep their yaps shut and fulfill the customer’s request? If you’ve got a large group of lesbians in for the weekend, it should NOT come as some huge shock when two chicks show up requesting a king-sized bed.

ME: Are you going to be starting any destination wedding or honeymoon packages geared specifically toward your market?

SW: We would love to do a Mayan Riviera wedding. However, right now, same sex marriages are not universally recognized, and I think lots of couples feel like: Why bother going to the trouble of a destination wedding when it’s not going to be legally recognized back home? But  lots of people who already got married are waiting to take their honeymoon with us.

My thoughts: I can’t imagine taking a joint honeymoon with 17 other couples, so let’s shelf that for now. However, to the first point: This is so sad to me. Especially because the one thing that Biden, Palin, Obama & McCain all agree on is that these lesbian couples are never going to be legally recognized: Nope, sorry. Your relationship is just not as holy as everyone else’s.

So, basically any straight marriage, no matter how effed up it is–even if one partner beats the other  about the head  and shoulders with a tire iron every Tuesday night, or even if the girl was forced into it because she was 16 and knocked up in, hm, ALASKA–that straight marriage is a more holy union than any two lesbians? Or gay guys?

I just don’t get it.

As you can see, I got a bit fired up when I started thinking about this stuff, mostly because I think that everyone should have the right to move about the world in peace, and pursue whatever their definition of love is. And also because it bugged the hell out of me to hear about everything Shannon et crew have to deal with on a regular basis. All the questions, and raised eyebrows, and ‘not getting it.’

So, yeah, this has evolved a bit beyond travel–sorry, I wrote about it from a totally travel angle on Orbitz, if you’re interested. But on this site I’m allowed to talk about whatever I want. And what I waaaant, is for y’all to picture how it would be if you tried to take a weekend getaway with your shnookums, and the TSA guy asked you inappropriate questions, all the people in the airport line stared at you, the cab driver wanted to know when your husbands would be arriving, and then you got to the hotel and they WOULDN’T CHECK YOU IN.

I mean really. Common courtesy? Human decency? Evolution? Hellloooo? I could have sworn they were around here some place…

Or maybe not.


Barack in your pants

DON’T get all pissy with me about this subject line till you know what I am about to say. Which is:

Last week I got a press release announcing the launch of a new line of Obama panties. And camis. And boxers, for boys. And I just think…wow, there really is no telling to what crazy heights Obamamania might go before we finally get to election day. I also think that for so-called ‘boxers,’ the boy-panties sure are awfully tight and short, and I’m not sure whether straight men will really be able to go for them. Not that they would anyway. Straight men, feel free to chime in here, but wouldn’t you feel a little bit odd wearing some other dude’s name/face on the garment closest to your, um, source of masculine power? Or would you actually be comfortable with it? Like, I got nothing to prove, I can rock Barack on my ass in a totally macho way. Or maybe, It’s all part of being a player–these Obama panties totally help me score with the ladies.

I just don’t know. And it leads me to the next part of this post, which is WHAT IS THE POINT of making a political statement in an area where, assuming you are a normal adult with a day job and a more-or-less normal wardrobe, NO ONE is going to see it?? Is it for the same reason that girls ostensibly buy super-sexy underwear for hundreds of dollars at La Perla? You know: It’s not for the guys, it’s just for me to know they’re there and feel more confident. (Which is bullshit. Allow me to tell you as one of the few honest-to-a-fault women in the world…if there’s 0% chance that a man is going to see and appreciate your underwear, you’re almost assuredly going to buy them in bulk at Target or the mall. Especially since a thong is a thong–it creeps up your ass in approximately the same fashion whether it cost $5 or $150.) 

But I digress. Where were we? Ah yes, the Obama panties. So how exactly is one supposed to make a political statement out of a garment that never sees the light of day? I’ll tell you: you can’t! Statements are meant to be given loudly, proudly, in the most visible way. That means if you get the Obama panties, it is your duty as a patriot and an activist to STRUT ‘EM in the most public setting you can find. Yessss.

 I am talking striptease photo shoots all the way down to the OBAMA money shot–posted online and on your Facebook page for all 500 of your friends and family members to see.

I am talking those hideous ’90s retro low-rider jeans like the ones skateboard punks wear…sagged like halfway down the buttcheek region so that everyone can see “Obama ’08!”  like a little campaign poster on your thigh.

I am talking NO PANTS AT ALL, if you can manage it without being arrested. there are obviously few places, but for sure Folsom Street Fair, Halloween in any big city, and probably an assortment of nightclubs. Especially if you were wearing cool footgear.

So yeah. It seems to me that if Obama panties are the fashion/political statement of the day, then that’s cool–we should just know that it entails a new R-rated era in North American campaign history. And that when some Republican from Texas comes out with Sarah Palin pasties (which they totally will!!), then in the spirit of Equal Rights, Non-Sexism and Justice, we’ve got to grit our teeth and smiiiile at pitbulls in lipstick and nipple tassles, bouncing all over the place at a GOP rally near you.


The new ‘it’ accessory for LA men

For the longest time, it seemed like every cute/outdoorsy/vaguely eligible man in Los Angeles owned a couple Labrador retrievers. Invariably they’d adopt from shelters, and sometimes if they really wanted to wear the ‘nice guy’ badge bold and proud, their Labs would be blind, decrepit or like 416 years old. I always was bothered by this because it seemed drastically unfair to all the non-Labrador breeds in the kennel–I mean there just aren’t enough softhearted women or highly evolved couples to adopt every outcast terrier/pitbull/ridgeback/rottie in the 310. But anyway, it seems I no longer have to fret because the LA men have moved on, en sudden and well-coordinated masse.

Between 7-10 times over the past weekend, I spotted hot( ish) single (or at least solo) men out and about Hermosa Beach with fluffy white button-nosed dogs. (Actually according to the general fashion/lifestyle Stylewatch rule, 3 of the same thing makes a trend…so 7-10 sightings is actually more of a CRAZE.) These dogs come in all kinds of different breeds/mixes/mutt non-pedigrees, but generally they have bodies shaped like giant chubby sausages, and round little pink tongues that constantly stick out.  In case I do not make myself clear, here are a couple photos.

Damn, these dogs are cute. They’re like walking stuffed animals, and what’s especially awesome is that they come in size Small, Medium or Large. Because if there’s anything more ridiculous than a man with a handbag dog, it’s a man with a white fluffy handbag dog that can’t put its freakin’ tongue in its mouth. PLUS, I actually used to know a man who had one of these dogs (he was in San Francisco, which of course is always ahead of Los Angeles trend-wise), and that dog kicked my dog’s ass in a fight even though my dog was 5 years younger and 20 pounds heavier–so these dogs are clearly more macho than they look!   

So all this is great; however I do have one reservation. As I was researching this whole craze, I learned that while a couple of the breeds are in the terrier division, they’re much more likely to be of Doodle-Poo extraction. You know. Goldendoodle (Golden retriever plus poodle). Scottiepoo (Scottish something-or-other plus poodle). Schnoodle (schnauzer plus poodle). Whoodle (Wheaton terrier plus poodle–the uber fluffy white dog hybrid of all time). Pookimo, Westiepoo, Jackapoo and there are tons more but to list them all would just be sheer baby-talk madness.

And the point is…how manly can a man possibly be when his DOG (AKA best friend, altar ego) is a Whoodle-Doodle-Schipper-Pinny-Poo? It’s complete emasculation in a single gibberish word.

Which is why the men NEVER admit it. When you ask them, as I did on Sunday:

‘Say, what kind of breed is this adorable sausage-bodied button-nosed creature?’(Thinking: that would look adorable on my living room sofa and by the way so would you.)

The man gives a macho shrug and is like, ‘dunno. a mutt.’

At which point I think, You lie!! It’s a fucking Whoodledoodle!  and giggle sweetly before going on my way.

Luckily not all girls are as compulsive about doing their research as me, so I think this trend–the fluffy white conversation piece of supposedly unknown origins–could be here to stay.


I now pronounce you loud and louder

At last! My sister is married. Relief.

AND! I totally wasn’t thinking about this for the past several months, but her husband has tons of nice, fun, cute male relatives from the East Coast. Huzzah!

I’d met a couple of them before, but didn’t fully realize the implications till this past weekend: Family events will be a whole lot more entertaining from now on. Instead of me and my sisters huddling together in a corner and hooting and hollering while all our prim ‘n proper aunts/cousins/indeterminate relations stare at us disapprovingly, we  now have someone to holler along with us.

 I don’t think there was a single day last week that our merry little band didn’t get some kind of noise complaint. We started as we meant to go on: At the Feast at Lele, this super-expensive luau-sitdown-dinner thingie in Lahaina, my sister’s ex-boyfriend (now Mr. Gay Maui) toasted the happy couple with vodka shots, and flashed his chest at the whole restaurant three times (“It’s boys gone wild! Boys gone wild, do you hear?”) Then he and I got in a discussion about motorboating and the merits of waxing vs. Veet–him being an inclusive kind of guy, he shared all the gory details with my mother who was two seats down. Then we changed the subject to pre-wedding mani/pedis, the Jersey Boys came over from the next table to say hello (we called them the Jersey Boys all weekend before realizing that none of them are actually from New Jersey), and next thing you know, my friend Remy has her feet on a Jersey Boy lap, and the other ones are ready to re-enact an arm-wrestling match they’d had at Denny’s–shirtless–the previous night. Fire-eating, back flips and Jim Beam-fueled rowdiness ensued.

And that was just the first night. Every one that followed was similar in all-around craziness, though the location and activities differed somewhat. I won’t go into all the details, but I will tell you that I am one sexy bitch when I throw on an Elvis costume complete with sideburns and a red scarf; that three members of the wedding party can apparently not only surf, but do handstands on their boards (I’m not one of them); and  finally, fat-free French Vanilla International Delight coffee creamer is friggin’ delicious when you blend it with dark rum.

Let’s see…what else… Oh yes. Lindsay and I gave the wedding speech in call-and-response, with friends testifying and shouting Hallelujuah as the spirit moved them. Immediately post-reception, I was so exhausted/wasted that I passed out behind the seats in our friend’s truck, still wearing my bridesmaid dress, with a steam iron on my chest. And in case you’re wondering how the gentle bride and groom reacted to all this…well, they really had no room to complain, since whatever the hell they did in their room caused such havoc that the hotel had to evacuate them, move the furniture onto the balcony, and strip out all the carpet. Not that they cared–I got them a room at the Four Seasons down the street.

So. Good times. Glad it’s over. Glad to have some Jersey Boys in the fam. Though I do foresee even more noise complaints in my future.

August 2020

RSS Click by Lavalife Blog RSS

  • An error has occurred; the feed is probably down. Try again later.