Marla, a Newport Beach-ite and fashion hawk eye asks, what the hell IS it with those jeans? We're with you Marla. After having witnessed a monstrosity walk by me in the mall yesterday, I had to stop and ponder the state of jeans today. While I realize I have yet to share my solution to Mideast Peace on the blog, writing is therapeutic and this assault on my eyes was so profound I may be permanently traumatized if I do not do some therapy. First, the female approaching me was fat. Not chubby, not abdominal muscle challenged, not voluptuous. I have very good friends who probably would call themselves fat (I wouldn't, they're beautiful). But they also wouldn't be caught dead in the freak show ensemble that vaporized my peaceful afternoon. So what was this outfit? Pubic hairline-low Seven for All Mankind jeans, a white belt, tennis shoes, a pink half shirt, 2 to 3 inch white-tipped claws, and a belly-o-blubber that would feed a California to Alaska winter migration. The topper? White stretch mark streaks across the orange self-tanner. "Lady", do you have a mirror? Does it lie to you like the wicked stepmother's mirror mirror on the wall? It is nothing short of an act of magic if she looked at herself in the mirror; because what she saw couldn't be what was or she'd a run to the nearest Clothestime for a $12 change of clothes; any scrap she bought there would be better than the abomination she wore. So back to those Seven jeans. They are a hideous, flat-assed concoction of gay men, and therefore they are made for Mankind. There is no other way to explain the shapeless square form into which curvy women are supposed to pour their hips and asses. However, even flaming homosexuality cannot explain the belief that jeans which look like they were ripped apart during a wild sexual encounter with Edward Scissorhands then repaired with iron on patches and frayed yarn are some sort of fashion statement. Only 200/200 vision comes close, but still, the price tag! Between the flat asses, the visibly hacked fronts, the fact that nearly every 20 year-old is too fat to have anything sitting at the pubic hairline, and that even those who are skinny enough to pull it off look like anorexics failing in recovery, I cannot for the life of me figure out why anyone pays top dollar for what should be an ill-conceived fashion flop.

Read all about it -- Thanks for the link Marla Just when you thought analyses on the state of the patriarchal world around us were stuffed right along with the Easter Bunny's phallic ears, along come Swedish femmes to remind us of our angst and oppression. Gee, we had forgotten; between our trips to be pampered at the spa, the intellectual pursuit of the perfect purse, and driving our luxury automobiles to the designer hat shop, we forgot how oppressed we really are. Never mind that in Sudan, women are traded with less hassle than cattle; girls are still being hacked to bits during genital mutilations; rape victims are tossed out with the Sunday paper in nearly every strongly Islamic culture on this planet. God damnit, when is Big Guv gonna pay for my broken fingernails? You know, the ones I broke when I tried to scratch the eyes out of the heteronormative barfly who had the nerve to eyeball my body two millimeters below my chin. These pampered Swedish femmes disgust me, and any breath they take to talk about their "oppression" and proposals to tax men for the violence against women is wasted oxygen. To make all things equal, I hope they also plan to tax women to cover the lost wages and funeral expenses of the children women murder, since mothers murder most of their own flesh and blood, at a far higher rate than the non-genetic mongrels the mothers bring into the households voluntarily (which are next on the list in numbers of child murderers). If Swedish women haven't made it to the head of the board room, perhaps Sweden should look at the time-off policies; with years off work paid and guaranteed jobs on return, who would work? After all, the femmes should support letting the patriarchal, woman abusing, goose stepping males do all the dirty work. And since 85% of all industrial deaths are absorbed by men (cuz femmes sure as hell won't work dangerous jobs, they're too busy taking 10 years off), what a better way to rid all society of the XY chromosome-d vermin?

Read all about it --and turn up the sound!!! If you read any of the MWB posts, it's easy to see I'm never, ever short on words or slicing commentary. However, a quick visit to Barry Williams' website (aka "Greg Brady") has rendered me completely speechless. Comments on the rap, the photo ops, anyone? This site nearly qualifies Barry for a 'win' in the "Movie Star P-Fer" category, but MWB decided against it; he seems like a nice guy and all, and harmless, pitiful, even. We're reserving "Movie Star P-Fer" awards for pigs like Hanoi Jane and Mike Pig Fucker Farrell. Dear Barry is simply a handsome version of our TV friend Al Bundy, always relishing in one great high school football pass since all adult endeavors have been flops. For example, Barry wrote a book where he revealed he boinked Mrs. Brady; eew! It was a visual none of us wanted and definitely we didn't want to read. Anyway Barry, MWB truly wishes you the best. I think, however, were there competition for a seat in the a-list restaurant described in a previous post, I might even win that seat from you.

Read all about it Enough about the poor slaughtered bulls. I have not seen anything as funny as the website above (www.uglydress.com) since the online magazine Blairmag.com did a feature called "Gay or Eurotrash." The commentary on the dresses alone is enough to give you an ab workout you couldn't get on a medicine ball with a trainer named Helga. And if you also look at the dresses, you're gonna get a sideache that's akin to appendicitis. Unbelievably, "Gay or Eurotrash" is still out there! Here you go... http://www.blairmag.com/blair3/gaydar/euro.html

This picture depicts a bullfighter taunting a bull with three swords jutting out of his flesh, his life's blood gushing down to his feat, his demise imminent. It is hard for me to imagine how a human being could have no pity, no empathy, no compassion for another living creature who has the capability of experiencing excruciating pain and fear. Human beings must demonstrate by their actions that they are higher forms of life. To torture an innocent animal in this way is hardly different from throwing two people in a den of lions and watching as the lions tear them to shreds. While I in no way make an equal comparison between the loss of human life and the loss of bovine life, I firmly believe that the person who is capable of the one is a pinky finger away from being capable of the other. A few years ago I watched a very good documentary made by a camera hidden in the burka of a woman journalist in Afghanistan during the Taliban rule. The oppressive nature of the clothing made concealment of a camera possible, even though still dangerous. The film showed a soccer game patrolled by Taliban bullies with whips in their hands. If a spectator clapped or cheered, they could be whipped (or worse). It struck me at that moment how easy it would be to find such bullies in any society; angry, power-hungry, cruel, and bitter people are everywhere. Bullfighting epitomizes this reality; in a supposedly highly civilized society, a bully (pardon this pun), a power-hunger and cruel 'person' exacts an unimaginable cruelty upon a sentient creature so that the sentient creature can enjoy some sort of elevated afterlife (this is what Spaniards believe)... it's the same philosphy that drives homicide bombers and lets them mentally check out as they walk into a crowded street and proceed to blow other human beings--women, children, men, boys, and themselves--into bits with nary a second thought.

Read all about it Last night three friends and I went to the Duran Duran concert at Staples Center in Downtown Los Angeles. This review is pretty darn close to our experience, except that it does not accurately capture the essence of our total rapture. Henry, Marla, Roxie, and Michela (moi) went headlong into the dreaded DT Los Angeles for a night of our lives, and unlike the unfortunate Floridian reviewers in this article (from Broward County no less...) who were only treated to 70 minutes (unless those crazy chad counters just couldn't watch a clock correctly), we writhed and gawked to over 2 hours of pure boy toy joy. Us and everyone around us and behind us and to the side of us could scarcely take our eyes off the dream boy band to whom we had secretly listened since grade school, nor could we bring ourselves to sit even for a second. The party was on; the closet Duran fans were out; the music was alive. There is nothing quite like hearing 19,000 people sing "Hungry like a Wolf", "Girls on Film", "Planet Earth", in damn good unison. Nothing like three girlfriends arm-in-arm swaying to "Save a Prayer" and singing with the crowd, near tears. There's nothing like holding hands with 2 gay men you have never met while belting out "Her name is Rio and she dances in the sand / just like that river flowing through a dusty land / and when she shines she really shows you all she can..." while dancing your heart out, knowing the concert is drawing to an end. There's nothing like a flash of light from special effects illuminating 38,000 arms up in the air as the 19,000 bodies to which they are attached bounce in near-brainwashed synchronous waves. We were, those 19,000 of us, bonded as we couldn't imagine possible. Just as Marla points out, they were the first boy-toy band in the history of music and they sang their own songs, played real instruments (although what Nick Rhodes really does up there is subject to debate), wrote their own songs, virtually invented the live-or-die by MTV phenomenon, and reinvent any cover they do and make it their own. They belted out a screamin', rockin', hip hoppin' version of "White Lines" that really puts the treasured original in a dark shadow. I always loved their version of "Fame"; I favor that one over David Bowie's as well, I'm sorry to say (though not performed Saturday night). I think I will always remember this show, from the fantabulous dinner at The Clubhouse, the fantabulous company, the fantabulous parking spot (we're not tellin' where it was, either!), our two new friends in front of us, shakin' their fannies and groovin' with us like there's no tomorrow, being stricken by an incurable dance fever, the dazed and confused pill popper Jenny who repeatedly tried to correctly frame the question, "Who is your fave Duranie?", I wouldn't live without one second of this night. We all had so little psychological build-up to this concert; we nearly sold our very good seats on eBay for triple the money, and then we were so blown away it's a night none of us will ever forget. Whodda thunk the boy band all grown up (along with their grown-up fans) would be able to captivate us so. Whodda thunk a band so techno-poppish and synthetic could be so outrageously good live. And whodda thunk we'd find it so cool one day to be right there, waving and screaming and boogeying and hugging as though it were 1984. Oh baby!

Read all about it Just as the research has proved for many years, the feminist claims that women make 80 cents on the dollar are anywhere from slanted to patently false. In fact, so much of the available research (helloooo femmes, that's 'r-e-s-e-a-r-c-h' as in 'scientific' as in 'method' as in 'back up your fathead claims with facts')indicates that women earn more than men in some fields. If it was truly so much cheaper to employ women, no firm in business to make money would do anything but employ women. That's an obvious fact. Few misogynists will care more about their sexist views than their wallets. In fact, I've found that pig and cheapskate seem to go hand in hand. The femmes completely ignore (it's so convenient to do so) the glaring fact that women in droves avoid high-stress, high-travel, high-danger jobs. I know not a single woman who would be a plumber even if her life depended on it. They won't work 100 feet up on electricity line poles as a repairwoman, or as Alaskan king crab fisherwomen, or as longshorewomen. Additionally, I can attest to an area patently missing women as well; the computer sciences. Just a few years back, long after the burned bra ashes had blown away, I found myself getting a BS in computer science. There were four women in the starting class of 80, and two left at the end of our program, including moi. Of course plenty of the guys dropped out too, but with only a starting number of four, there's no room for dropouts and still maintaining percentages. Forget trying to explain my little anecdote away with "girls just aren't encouraged to go into the sciences"... Yah, and a lot of guys have fathers telling them they are worthless and can't do shit either. Don't these poor guys get a pass for not having been nutured to achieve their wildest dreams and maximizing their potentials? NO? Pourquoi pas? That's because as grown-ups in a frequently harsh world, we must pick up our bootstraps, and get the job done. We must make the choice to be manicurists, receptionists, electricians, or computer scientists. We must not expect the world to bend over backwards, to create our opportunities; we must create them for ourselves and seize them when they materialize. The world will disappoint us the more we expect and demand from it without putting effort into it. With abdication of personal responsibility, how can we expect to be respected for our choices. The femmes shove big white posters of coat hangers in my face and demand freedom of choice, simultaneously they say women are too incompetent to make choices when they have the freedom to do so because some bad daddy in the past didn't help them go farther in life. So Gloria Steinham, Susan Falucci, Barbara Boxer, Diane ConFeinstein, are we responsible for our destinties, or not? Which is it?

Read all about it It first sounds like an odd proclamation; do not allow schools to proactively prepare for terror attacks. But just a passing moment's reflection on the concept shows why. First, by any standard US students score far behind their counterparts. Either we're all stupid or we're all lazy or we're poorly educated. None of these scenarios will be much helped by terror attack preparation. Second, we must fear a government who has the power to instill fear in small children; fear of terrorists and terrorism, fear of bad people, fear of jews. Fear so easily morphs to hatred. No arachnophobe feels anything less for those daddy long legs they happily drown in the shower. The likelihood that any individual school anywhere will be attacked is so microscopically small, any diversion into terrorism prevention, reaction, whatever, is a complete waste. It's nothing short of a money and power grab by some wing, whether left- or right-wing. If this proposition had any sincerity behind it, they would start by advocating the arming of all teachers with guns, as in Israel. It's been quite effective; no Israeli school has ever been attacked. Given that their schools must be the most terror-targeted in the entire world, it seems Isreal's apporach would be the most effective place to start. It might keep a few thugs home as well so the kids could really learn, which would be one solution to problem A presented above.

I have lots of ex-Californian friends. Friends who've fled to Colorado, Washington, Arizona, Nevada, Virginia, even Ohio for God's sake (but she's back!). They all send me pix of their houses and tell me, Michela, my dear, why do you stay there. Look what you get here for so much less money. This is why. It can pour down rain for 24 hours straight, then sunny and warm enough the 25th hour to put the top down on the car, and to see this view from my balcony...

and to be geographically minutes from this, on any day in January...

I'm supposed to trade this for 1000 extra sqaure and 1000 times the humidity?

Read all about it Dr. David Graham, you are truly a vile person. Yet another pompous ivory tower know-it-all ready to dictate to all humanity that pain and pain medication are things that should remain strictly in the domains of pompous know-it-alls. Dr. Graham so easily dismisses the real pain endured by arthritis sufferers and says that the best medications they might have to control that pain are not worth the risk. Dear god Graham what planet are you living on. Start with the statistics; the worst estimates of the increased heart attacks for those using COX-2 inhibitors (such as Vioxx) is twice that the rate of everyone else. That means instead of two people out of a thousand having a heart attack, four people out of a thousand will. "Yeah but you'd hate to be one of the extra two..." Really? Not if I was in unbearable pain. Second, it is impossible for one person to categorically assert that someone else's pain is not worth the risks of those medications, never mind how small or not. Let's just say the risk is big. What kind of inhuman little Hitler (we know what free speech means too, University of Colorado) is willing to force people to suffer in pain because of risk; why are those people not allowed to assume the risk in pursuit of a better life. That's what motorcyclists do every day they ride one. What I do every day I drive a car, on US highways where over 40,000 people every single year perish. Where's the outcry there... Last, the FDA as gatekeeper to all medications is the most alarming of all. Once again, we're servile children to our big daddy government (something Republicans profess to despise) to protect us from us. They stranglehold the release of medications or cause the withdrawal of medications based on absurd increased risks. Why am I not allowed to assume those risks as an informed person?