Friday, November 07, 2003

Rolling

Your deep concern for my hair has touched my blonde, processed heart. I finally got to shampoo today and things were a little less Sally Ride this morning. I curled, I sprayed, I learned about myself and others. If you see me from the back, though, you're probably wondering who took my parachute pants and hugeass wavy earrings.

I certainly hope Lewis, the stylist who rolled me, trolled me, and blew me dry, is having a good day. Lewis is very very very very gay. That's fine. He also made me look like I just fell out of a Journey video. That's not so fine.

He practially got in a slapfight with another stylist over which perm solution to use. This occured while my hair was doing something Lewis called "depolimerization," which involved spraying a substance on my head that, as time passed, created a refreshing thousand-candy-canes-ramming-into-my-scalp sensation. Mintiest. Hair treatment. Ever.

Lewis began rummaging around a supply closet as the York Peppermint Patties pressed into my skull. "What are you using?" asked another hairdresser. "Number Three: For Fine And Resistant Hair," said Lewis, holding up the box.

The other stylist paused. "Why?"

I was beginning to further doubt Lewis' expertise, a concern that began when I first sat down at his work station and noticed that his cosmotology license was precisely three weeks old. "Her hair is very resistant to perming," he said, pointing to my hair as it lay limp and defenseless in the sink, sad blonde roadkill on the Vidal Sasoon Road of Life. "She just got a body perm two months ago, and look at it."

I think Lewis began to sense my discomfort as he led me from the sink back to his workstation, a towel wrapped around my hair (That is the only pure nudity left now: A woman and her face, bare before the world.) "Don't worry--we talk shop all the time around here," he said, dumping chemicals over my head. "It wasn't nearly this much fun when I studied computer engineering in college."

"I talk shop all the time with my writer friends too," I said. It's true. I can't tell you how many times I've placed an essay on an editor's desk, then as he sat there redlining it picked up the phone, all, "Becca, seriously, how much did that last paragraph suck? I really don't know what I'm doing, do I?"

"Hair," Lewis said as I sat with my head encased in a gigantic Baggie while the perm processed, "is a big part of my life." I smiled and nodded; so much was clear from his chosen major. It's nothing but combs and mousse when you sidle up to a Dell. And then, from the No Shit category of stylist-customer patter, he added, "Probably it's because I'm from San Francisco."

Lewis gasped as he removed the rollers. "Oh," he murmured. "This turned out gorgeous." Certainly, if you're on your way to a Family Ties taping.

One of you fine, fine readers out there, Ginny B., had some weeping to do in exact non-adherence to my directive to turn off your PC sensors when I first alerted you to Lewis' work. "I didn't know there were "levels" of homosexuality," she emailed. "You got some 'splainin to do, Lucy!"

Well, there are indeed "levels" of homosexuality, Ginny. Yes, there are. You got your Rock Hudsons ("He's GAY?!") and you got your Elton Johns ("Oh, he's gay.") Then you have people like one of my co-workers, who is ostensibly straight but came to me in a panic last month because he had forgotten to wear a belt that day and was wondering if he could borrow one of mine. The Earth actually stopped rotating for a few seconds as I struggled to process just how many thousands of things were wrong with that question.

Also, Ginny, I do believe that you owe the entire Hispanic community an apology for your "splainin' to do" comment. That was unforgivably stereotypical and insensitive, my friend, and by God we don't do that here.

Email the Keeper of All Jelly Bracelets at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

If We All Tell Trista Rehn She's a Heckova Gal, Will She Go Away?

Wasn't her 15 minutes up like four or five presidential administrations ago? She just showed up on the American Country Music Awards. The American Country Music Awards. Because when you think country music, you immediately think "reality show famewhore." Trista, country is where I go to get AWAY from you. Siddown, bitch.

Hate Trista. Hate hate HATE. I honestly--and this is saying a lot, in today's world--have never seen one person get so much attention for doing so little. What has she done? What has this woman done, to warrant an agent and a salary and an entire career of Being Trista? Really glad I submerged myself in that MFA program when I simply could have distributed my wonderful Me-ness throughout America for a living. Where's my Kentucky Fried Chicken endorsement deal? (I have never EVER seen a person out-acted by poultry, but somehow Trista managed.)

When it gets to the point where she's a parody of a caricature of herself and I don't even need to sharpen the Mocking Scalpel because she's done such a good job of it all on her own, I throw up my hands. This happened tonight. She actually introduced Brad Paisley's "Celebrity," which is a song about.... people getting famous for doing nothing. There's a line in there about what a pathetic person you have to be to want to be on a reality show. THE BACHELOR IS MENTIONED. Like, specifically. And there's Trista, standing next to WILLIAM SHATNER, for God's sake, flinging her arm in Brad's direction. This tells me one of two things about Trista:

1) She's too much of a dumbass to know she's being mocked practically by name in a sarcastic country song.

1a) You have to be pretty damn spectacularly mockable to spawn a sarcastic country song. This the same genre that gave the world "Goin' Through the Big D An' Don't Mean Dallas," people.

1b) And if that sailed right over your highlighted head, Trista,

then

1c) may God have mercy on your soul.

2) She DOES realize that the song is mocking her, but is such a FAMEwhore that she finds this a magnificent opportunity to pimp herself out just a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitle bit more.

Either way, I'm happy to scan her ticket for the Celebrity Charter Jet With One Flaming Engine.

Oh-- oh! Look at this! Jimmy Buffett.... my Jimmy Buffett, my Jimmy, part of the reason I reside in Florida, has just won "Vocal Event of the Year" for "It's Five o' Clock Somewhere," which he sang with Alan Jackson. Jimmy has never had a number one song. Jimmy has never even won an award for anything he's ever done, musically, and look at this! Both in the same year. "I'm glad I can do something to help your struggling career, Alan," he said before sauntering off with his new pirate swag. I love you, Jimmy.

Okay, there's a little bit of good and balance in the world now. I can go on. It's okay. I can--

OH GOD NO HERE COMES SHANIA TWAIN.

Dr. Kevorkian, please email at blondechampage@hotmail.com

It Takes a Village Person

The gayest man in the history of the planet permed my hair yesterday. I mean he just permed the living hell out of it. I possess neither the time nor the energy nor the therapy to go into it in detail right now, but since I care about you, my Reading Public, I felt an obigation to inform you that I now have You Can't Do That On Television hair. Updates on my condition and conditioner shall follow. Until then, reflect upon the quote for this moon cycle: "When life gives you capri pants, make Capri Sun."

(And you bleeding PC'ers, get your hands off the keyboard. The fact that I was poodle-haired by an extremely flaming stylist remains that: a fact. If you want to call me "the most hetero woman in the history of the planet," go ahead on.)

I'll be in the bathroom, SHAVING MY FREAKING HEAD.

Email The Poodle at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Tuesday, November 04, 2003

High Society

I'm reading a biography of Grace Kelly. Says here she took a pass on the following:

1) a marriage proposal from Bing Crosby

2) an affair with Sinatra

Can you imagine any girl in her right mind doing ONE of those things? She did BOTH! Sinatra! Turned him down FLAT!

Then again... she was Grace Kelly, and could pull off that sort of thing. Me, if I even tried, I would wind up with a restraining order.


Email the musical comedy unfolding before you at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Monday, November 03, 2003

When did this happen?

Can somebody please enlighten me as to the moment when I stopped growing up and started growing old?

I think it was the day the following sentence escaped my lips: "Oh, look, bread's on sale!"


If you jump up and down when the coupon in the little flashing-light dispensers at the end of the aisle matches what's on your list too, email: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

The Jewelry-Store-In-The-Mall Network

Feelings upon watching CBS's diamond anniversary bash: achiness, slight horror, unintentional amusement, high depression.

Ohhhhhhhhhh, how to pick a favorite part? Was it staring at Meathead's big fat yap wide open to sing along with "Those Were The Days?" Andy Rooney looking like he just fell out of an assisted living complex? Along with his roommate, Bob Barker? Smiling delightedly at the Smothers Brothers for 4.5 seconds until they got obnoxious? Bob Newhart looking like he'd just been beaten and left for dead? When did he get old? (Nice homage to Newhart's Best Sitcom Ending Ever, btw: "Emily, I had the strangest dream." Bob Newhart kicks copious amounts of ass. I still refer to men in groups of three as Larry, Darryl, and Darryl. Also, all-grown-up Ron Howard is sexy. Sexy.)

What made me drop the remote and reach for the glass of Clorox, though, was the sight of Bo and Luke Duke trotting onstage, which, when they were announced, gave me an initial tingle. Luke Duke made a woman out of me, my friends. All the mad heaving lust in my heart? I formed it all at the age of five the first time I beheld Luke Duke. That poster where he and Bo are leaning against the General Lee? I had that. My sister and I, we each had our own copies. Julie went more for Bo, for whom I for some reason felt faint contempt, a general “Naaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh,” both of which became justified when I as an adult came across the following Schneiderlicious quote: "Tom and I have a lot of fun messin' around with the 'General Lee,' the car in the show, even when the cameras aren't turning. We both drive all the stunts you see us drive, except stuff that's off the ground, or where we'd have to roll over." Well, really, John, what else did the General Lee do? What other stunts were there? The one where they ran towards the car?

Speaking of: The General Lee was a total booty rider, baby. I have, in my possession, a vintage General Lee Matchbox car, right down to the welded-shut doors. This is no eBay purchase, my friends. Oh no. I recognized a finely-tuned machine even at that tender age. I also had Daisy's Jeep, which most certainly did not earn an honored position in the top drawer of my desk as did the tiny General Lee. That slutmoblie got tossed the second I hit puberty. I hated Daisy, who trolled about Hazzard County in the perfectly sensible combination of cutoffs and high heels. I think we can thank Daisy for sparking my utter hatred of Miss America contestants, cheerleaders, midriff-bearers, and Hooter's waitresses across the fruted plain. She made me nervous when she was in scenes with my Luke. Granted, they were cousins, but still... this was Georgia.

Last night when dem Duke boys were announced, John Schneider rounded the corner and, hey, he’s still pretty much a hottie and OH OH LOOK AT TOM WOPAT HE’S FAT AND OLD AND HE’S HOLDING A MICROPHONE AND OH SWEET MOSES HE’S GOING TO SING.

Seriously. When the Duke boys start prancing across a New York stage singing the theme song from The Jeffersons and—I wish I were making this up—Mission Impossible, and they aren’t immediately torn apart with the crowd’s bare hands, the Fourth Horse is bearing down upon us, and his name ain’t Seabiscuit.

Also, can I get a woot-woot for throwing Dan Rather and Walter Cronkite out of a high-altitude weather balloon? Dan, the hair alone makes me want to end you. Walter, the only thing saving you from being a Frequent Flier on my Celebrity Charter Jet With One Flaming Engine is the fact that you’re a fan of the space program. (Uncle Walt on why journalists tend to be liberal: “Reporters start out on the streets and they see poor people and people who just can’t get a break, and so they develop a more caring attitude than other Americans.” Shut up, Walter.)

And when did Everybody Loves Raymond's Patricia Heaton start going to the lingerie department of Wal-Mart for her evening gowns? If you missed it, she was wearing this sheer black… thing… with this, like, bra and—it was hideous.

Oh, and I really enjoyed the parallel universe I was plunged into during the “Salute To Comedy Classics”: All In the Family, yeah. Newhart, God yes. Mary Tyler Moore, yeah. The Honeymooners, definitely. But... Becker? Becker?! BECKER?!?! Oh, I can’t wait until Taufling is born so I can tell him/her all about that one episode where Becker… where he—um…

Things that prevented me from killing myself:

-Identifying a brown-haired Steve Martin playing a CBS censor on a Smothers Brothers clip

-Perry Como with a gesture in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other (“So he would just stand there singing with smoke still coming from the cigarette?” I asked my mother. “It was called The Chesterton Show,” she said.) Cig or no cig, may the Lord keep The Comb.

-Julie Andrews and Carol Burnett singing a duet: Do I really have to explain Julie Andrews to you? And Carol Burnett, well, my first contact with Carol Burnett was when she played Miss Hannigan in Annie, in which she scared the living shit out of me. I’m so glad I now know her as Scarlett coming down the stairs with the curtain rod still attached. You know, come to think of it, how many people go around saying, Man, that Julie Andrews, that Carol Burnett, I can't stand that witch.

-Mr. Ed sliding into home

You are my wife! Goodbye, city life! Oh, tis a sad, sad day in America when Candice Bergen gets more applause than Arnold the Pig.

Email a true Tiffany's fan at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Sunday, November 02, 2003

C'est Vrai

"A good friend is someone who will bail you out of jail. A great friend is someone sitting next to you in the cell saying 'Damn, that was fun.'"

Email the Bitch of Cell Block B at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

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