Ah, Rudy, They Hardly Knew Ye!

But, still they grew to revile you.  I guess it's not just familiarity that breeds contempt.  My fondest memory of the short-lived and bat-shit crazy campaign, of America's No. 1  9/11 Ferret Hater was his decision to campaign in south Florida with the Guardian Angels, because nothing, nothing makes elderly Jews feel more at home than retrofitted brownshirts.  The man is a genius, and can work silk charmeuse like nobody since Rue McClanahan.

BEWARE: Banal Musings and Burning Man References Ahead

Know that watching this video might make you want to throw up a little and/or stage a terrorist activity at the Park Slope Food Coop.  In these few short minutes, so much crazy faux-liberal madness is imparted and so, so many stereotypes of brownstone Brooklyn are reinforced.  Burning Man?!! Sweet baby Jesus

How Much Are Firms Really Changing?

I don't think any of these changes would have made me want to stay in firm practice--the firm a started with, basically, had this level of work-life balance going for it back in the late 90s.  The problem isn't just the quantity of work, but the quality as well.  That's the thing no one seems to touch on.  Sure, it's great if an associate can choose to be on the 1800 hrs/year track, instead of 2100 hrs/year, but what matters are Mr. and Ms. 1800 going to be staffed on?  If you're just looking for a paycheck, fine.  There's just no way there can be comparable skill or career development in a firm environment if there are tiered billable tracks.  Time billed is money earned.  The only way would be to eliminate the billable hours model completely.

For the Love of Cheese

I've been happily rocking out on biryani and lamb rogan josh for the past week.  That said, fondue is going to top my things-to-eat-when-I-get-home list.  Although, totally pro dipping things in hot cheese.  The article denigrates the proud kitsch heritage of fondue.  I can't really find fault with a food that evokes images of Rhoda and Mr. Grant kibitzing at one of Mary's legendarily disastrous parties.  My mother had one in iconic Harvest Gold.  I don't remember her ever using it, though.  It just took up space on a high display shelf in the kitchen, along with the equally ubiquitous ginormous carved woooden fork and spoon, a wire basket filled with plastic fruit, and various other dusting nightmares.  Now, I have two of my own.  One in stainless steel--the Harvest Gold of the 90s.  February is fondue month!  Tell a friend.

Anti-Semitic Misogynist Dies: Four Billion, Nine Hundred Ninety-Nine Million, Nine Hundred Ninety-Nine Thousand, Nine Hundred Ninety-Nine to Go

Dude Looks Like a Lady

Doncha love Fashion, with a capital Fabulous, as opposed to just, y'know, clothes? Forget the tutu, if you can, for just a minute, and focus on the fact that the pants, these MEN'S pants, don't even have a fly, for crying out loud! Who's the bitch now? I would like to know if any man buys even one garment from this outfit (including the sweater) who ever . . . even on a dare, has sex with women. If twinks had a uniform, this would pretty much be it. That said, why was Russell Crowe so unequivocally butch in a leather skirt? Oh right, because he wasn't wearing it over a pair of Holly Golightly's pedal pushers.

Gaslight

Alas, I've seen this show before. The problem with La Clintonista's robust protestations, on today's "Meet the Press," that the Obama camp has "distorted" her words, is that the most vocal critics are not Obama supporters. James Clyburn is the Majority Whip and Donna Brazile is about as down with the DLC as you can get. Also, it doesn't help to have her husband running around referring to a 46 year old U.S. Senator as "kid." Especially, when the hubby in question is a white southern male referring to a 46 year old U.S. Senator, who just happens to be black, as "kid." Seriously? Wow. You did it. You got called on it. Frankly, no one's surprised. Let's just move on.

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Unrequited Love

I wonder if there’s an agony aunt out there that can help me. Here's the problem--I’m in love with a country that doesn’t love me. My country never seems to miss an opportunity to tell me that I am a source of dissent, despair, shame and chagrin. To remind me that I am not only likely to die alone, but that my death will be the result of any number of diseases which I am more likely to contract than virtually anyone else in the developed world. To regularly, and with heartbreaking frequency, entertain discussions among its most learned classes about possible genetic factors contributing to the academic underperformance of my children. I love my country with, what can fairly be considered, an irrational devotion, but when I say, “I know you didn’t mean it . . . and, I’m so sorry to distract you from the business of amassing wealth and smiting foes but, sometimes . . . just sometimes, not always . . . sometimes, I get shot by law enforcement without cause, and sometimes my electoral rights are, you know, maybe not denied, exactly, just curtailed a little.” My country gets really angry, and wants to know why I can’t ever be satisfied. To be honest, I ask myself the same question almost every day. Am I asking too much of my country? I guess that’s really the reason I’m writing to you. Still, it would be kind of nice, to just once be made to feel beautiful without having crawl around like a whore, you know? Anyway, sometimes my country calls me these really horrible and demeaning names, but as soon as I use those same words to try to describe the impact they have on me, my country turns around, and is all, like, “Gothca!” Like, once a word passes my lips, I forever waive my right to protest. That really doesn’t seem fair, because, how are we supposed to work out our problems, if I’m not even allowed to talk about them honestly.

Also, without getting too specific, if you haven’t already figured it out, there’s a major disparity of wealth and power between my country and I. That’s been true from the beginning. Of course, things are a million times better between us now, but that history’s still there. And, yes, my country knows that things were really bad when we first got together, but feels like that was forever ago and, again, can’t I just get over it already? After all, my country has apologized . . . well, maybe not ‘apologized,’ exactly, but there was an acknowledgement that mistakes were made in the past. It's really not my country’s problem that I can’t move on. I know that. And it’s not like I’m so perfect, right? But, sometimes I feel like a character in that movie Gaslight, with Ingrid Bergman. I’m going crazy because my country keeps denying what I can see with my own eyes, hear with my own ears and, yes, feel in my own bones. Whenever I complain, though, my country sneers and turns its broad-shouldered back, but not before reminding me that if I would just stop complaining, all of our problems would go away.

Happy Friday!

I don't know who, where, or why this man is.  All that matters is that he is.  And also, ouch.

Crocodile Tears

I know this may truly be the cruelest thing ever, but . . . HAH!  I mean, c'mon.  Really?!  Tears?  Poor, becankled Hillary.   She's just so easy to mock.  So very difficult to like.  But, don't you know she only smears, derides, evades, undermines and distorts because she loves.  She does it for the children.  For the little, baby children.

So, What Happens on the Second Day?

I'm getting a bit tired of hearing prattle about "who will be the best president on Day One." Because, the thing is, it's not a one day gig. After that ever so important first day, there are stil 1459 days remaining in a four year term--which, I believe, primarily entails listening to Tom Brokaw remark for the 2,000th time that, before JFK, presidents used to wear hats to their inaugurations. That nugget never gets old. Who's going to be the best president for those days?

CAUCUS!

I am so geeked out right now, I'm actually sweating . . . of course, that could be the cup of Jacques Torres hot chocolate I just had (thanks, Teresa!) I don't, generally, take caffeine. It was delicious, by the way. But, I digress . . . This really is exciting. I don't know what I'll do if Obama wins. Plant a tree? Maybe. Have a celebratory cocktail? Natch. Give money to his campaign? Let's not get crazy. I jest. I jest I actually made my first donation a couple of weeks ago. So, Michelle, stop emailing me!