Tag Archives: Recap

Apropos Of Nothing: I Like My Bon Mots Shaken, Not Stirred

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It should all be about whose nuke button is bigger these days.
And whose hands are thankfully smaller.
Thus, I should be writing to you from the (highly probable) end of the world, like Pablo Neruda. Instead, I’ll write you long time about petty and juvenile things that got my striped tail ruffled. I’ll write to you about kerfuffles–one of my favorite toppings, so spare me the nuts with the sprinkles on top.

It’s been forever and a day and a half.
But it’s 10:00 p.m. and do you know where my bon mots are?
Without giving any of it away, let me just say that imitation is the greatest form of pilfering. As if as if, in the great scheme of new things?! Hmmm.

To one of my fave recappers–who shall remain Dameless–my words are meant to be shaken, not stirred.

If the other one of you two see any of these running amok anywhere else in the vast and shallowest end of the internets, please return them to yours truly:

1. As two of you may know
2. Apropos of nothing
3. Continue-to-continue
4. Sucks a hard boiled egg through a straw (TM/LOL)
5. Back in the day when we had more days (TM/LOL)
6. Easy breezing (Cover Girling)
7. HoWos (housewives)
8. Loathe/hate others more than ourselves for loving them (usually referring to Housewives–Real or imagined)
9. Instituents (Hapless addicts who choose to mainline deadly Bravo TV shows on the steps of a fictitious Institute dedicated to this type of sociopathic anthropological loitering–and loathe others more than themselves for loving it. Note: Yours truly not only fits that coveted red soled shoe, but is teetering on the edge of perdition in it, while chewing gum. Here’s looking at you, Mike Pence! Wish you were here with Chump and the ghost of Gerald Ford).
10. If as if
10.5 As if as if
11. Tenebrous (although I didn’t coin it, all Instituents know that I own it as Lisar only could wish and fucking dream of truly owning any goddamned thing in this bankrupt world made for people with teeny tiny hands and simple girls with butt-implant-dreams in this more cruel and punishing Joan Riverless world,sigh ).
12. Uncle Pa (a litmus test meant to identify those whose hands are teeniest, generationally speaking).
13. Yikes squared
14. Mainlining (can be substituted for “It’s raining men” or “Fetch is never going to happen”, in hapless situations. Other than that, it should be strictly used to describe an uncontrollable urge to watch depraved Bravo TV while distractedly fiddling or going to the fridge as Rome burns, so to speak).
15. Real Housewives Of All Perdition (the pettiest of Pettyfleurs that bring us all here and for whom we loathe others more than our Soggy Flicking selves for loving, mmk?!).
15.5. You can find my trademark slogans and original emoticon writing out there in the shallowest depths of the tundras or in the booniest backwater outbacks where only the tumbleweeds and the best of the HoWos blow.
15.75. Imitation is the greatest form of pilfering.

“And that is a fact. And that is that.”

I did learn from the best: Mr. Bowie, for whom I and all the Stars remain ever different each and every mournful day…
Here are my faves–still untoppable:

1. Leper Messiah (taught me Everything about Every Thing literally, literarily, figuratively, unilaterally, perpendicularly, elliptically, isosceles or merely imagined).
2. The shrieking of nothing was killing me (made me runaway to join a circus that still claims me–music–and never lets go. Fuck you Trump and your little hands, too! Have not written anything since this fascist Uncle Pa has taken our world hostage. So fuck you and the white supremacist horse of the apocalypse you ride on, you misogynist pig, you!).

3. Just pictures of Jap girls in synthesis

4. Paris or maybe hell (I’m waiting)….

5. I bless you madly, sadly as I tie my shoes

6. The entire lyrics to the song Aladdin Sane (as I just discovered yesterday to be the source of all literary aspirational pilfering and envy–or just merely wanting to ponder if any writer can challenge one’s humble self to graze such grace and effortless brilliance, where that bar is raised as high as the firmament. Pondering that, while I ask myself am I a two-bit writer worthy of pilfering? And why does it piss me off, instead of flatter me as I strive to graze this high? Without drugs, ’cause I was always persnicketily averse to them!? And where did it get me? Hahahaha.

I’d also like to thank the inimitable Mr. Salinger for teaching me the unrepentant joy of Italicizing half a word–a lowest-down honor reserved for the most pompously vapid, shallowest characters (the kind that may otherwise find reason to whine between syllables if not sternly made to sit in a corner without their cell phone, instead). And least but never last, I’d like to thank Mr. Richard Lawson for the most sublime yet triumphantly literary, inspiring, wistful and legendary Real Housewives Of All Perdition Recap endings of ye olde Gawker dayes of yore. And I’d like to thank the up and coming somebody who thankfully saw fit to follow that lead in print and not let them die with Gawker’s demise.

Aladdin Sane
By David Bowie:

Watching him dash away, swinging an old bouquet (dead roses)
Sake and strange divine Uh-h-h-uh-h-uh you’ll make it
Passionate bright young things, takes him away to war (don’t fake it)
Sadden glissando strings
Uh-h-h-uh-h-uh, you’ll make it

Who’ll love Aladdin Sane
Battle cries and champagne just in time for sunrise
Who’ll love Aladdin Sane

Motor sensational, Paris or maybe hell (I’m waiting)
Clutches of sad remains
Waits for Aladdin Sane you’ll make it

Who’ll love Aladdin Sane
Millions weep a fountain, just in case of sunrise
Who’ll love Aladdin Sane

We’ll love Aladdin Sane
Love Aladdin Sane

Who’ll love Aladdin Sane
Millions weep a fountain, just in case of sunrise
Who’ll love Aladdin Sane

We’ll love Aladdin Sane
We’ll love Aladdin Sane

Songwriters: David Bowie
Aladdin Sane lyrics © BMG Rights Management US, LLC, Tintoretto Music

The artist formerly known as Yours Truly takes her no longer ruffled, striped tail in her paw and bows deeply, madly, as she ties her imaginary red-soled shoes. I’ve been nowhere, she tells you. And you know. And it’s all merely words now. If as if themz was not fightin’ words, Uncle Pa.

All About Erika’s Jayne

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Never made it past Erika’s speaking voice (and what’s there to take one’s ear past her singing voice that doesn’t scream for snorkels and shouldn’t be played on an endless loop underwater at the Swim With The Fishes suite in the Hotel Dubai?–Just wishing). I once wrote about an imminently IT Georgie Girl easy-breezing, cover-girling about London town and it was all about Sophie of Ladies of Luncheon, thus I said what should have been said about a truly IT girl–and Erika just ain’t dat. Besides, this dog and miniature pony show is clearly not the right one anymore, long having become a draconian bore way past its Topanga Canyon Standard time.

So, what else can be added about a denuded 40+++ Barbie Girl living in a dystopian TomHell-O-World calculatedly flashing her heart-shaped box for power plays on Toms, Dicks and Dorits for all the live long days and this season’s shizz and giggles? Yes, wildly creative, beautiful fellow Instituents, we’ve answered the question of where Ms. Jaynardi’s heart is located and more importantly, in that commandoed fell swoop, we find what most makes it tick.

It does delight my bad self that she does talk as if she’s being written in a Barbara Stanwick film noir–or ombre–an even cheaper celluloid stock. I’m queasily unsure if this is the place to tell you more about my disdain for Erika and Jayne and their collective jayne, after all, I too, worship at the HoWo Institute’s faux marble alter and have but great regard for our beloved President and Dame Moylan, but it should be shouted from the rooftops that all the love in the world would be trampled by this cheap tricked, weird side pony girl (I’m looking at you, Jaynardi, in your seriously silly from zero to 13 in less than 60 confessional get-up, so-fire-your-glam-squad-last-Tuesday, already!).

What more can be said in warning to Dame Moylan that his heart wouldn’t be trampled and served on a platter a la Eileen’s at Ms.Jaynardi’s next disco balled party where she decides to have a side dish to go with the soggy cake (that, incidentally, might well be the same cake Richard Harris stupidly left out in the rain back in 69? That’s how long these chicks have gone without cake at these Trumped up rodeos mistaken for barbeques at their Pasadena backyard Versailles (just saying–and wishing and hoping and praying and raining on this caked-on, coked-out chit chow).

And can they all be permanently relocated to Dubai–in the under water suite, coz’ how can anyone, except the producers, give more than zero fucks about episode seventeen in season seven, if there’s not a glimmer of a takedown in the back of a limo between two veritable Whatever Happened To Baby Jaynes fixing to feud about who Stole MyGoddamnedHouse–and my dignity, and my pill stash on the way to the next party–as it may have gone down endless times, just that same way in chariots of past, on the way to the forum?!

Yes, wildly creative, beautiful people could it be–should it be– said that it’s as bad as even coming close to thinking that the Romans ran out of lions and here we are now, stuck with these Puritanical spectacles that aim at drawing blood, yet only end up flashing at a saggy, wilted, all-custard-layers-replaced-by-edamame-and-tofu trifle that is P.K., peeking at the heart of the matter of this sad show, bringing us back to where both Erika’s and Jayne’s closed and scared heart truly lies.

As for Dorit–she’s no Sophie It Girl, ‘coz she’s just another Jayne, like Erika –selling her youth, her soul and her jayne short to the old, dog eared, pruney, yet almighty dollar (so take that and sleep with it on those long, long, nights at the proverbial end of the day. Can I hate that trademark HoWos saying any more than need be? I’m trying, OK?!). Neither of these Jaynes are wearing pink hats with ears–as all women of true power–and the men that are big enough to love them, ought to– in this truly scary new world order, now. Just saying–and wishing and sighing.

Our Ladies of Luncheon–I Mean London–and Their Little Snake, Too

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Cheers for the Ladies of Luncheon–I mean London! What’s not to love? Besides that Prairie Homely Companion, Juliet. I’d have to say nyet, nyet, nyet to her as fashion maving, blogging, clogging and fogging about on the “East Side” of London. What a silly, sad sod without a screw, a vowel, a compass or a clue!

And what about our Julie Not-To-The-Manor-Born? Here’s what first came to mind, a season ago and still holds true to this day: That expat Julie Lady who pratfalls on air bubbles really does resemble Gena Rowlands in “A Woman Under the Influence” and let’s hope that it’s just a mere resemblance-coincidence and not more, ’cause have you SEEN the film? Without blowing the plot away–that the title alone couldn’t–let’s just say that it may explain why we seem to pick up that cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof, uber-nervous, frayed and frazzled to that very last nerve’s edge vibe about her…

As for Caroline Fleming: is she a hoot or the very best thing about a holler? What’s not to adore? And isn’t there the coolest Pippi Longstockings vibe about her? A gone worldly and blonde, gorgeously, effortlessly chic, unfreckled, bare legged Pippi vibe about her–or whatever thing that made Pippi the magical, quirky girl you wanted to hang with–if you were not daring enough to want to be her– even in your dreams?!

And Sophie–she’s the reason for the season and everything one dreams London would have to be if it could come to life as an up-to-this-minute Georgie Girl with better than Pantene hair. She’s that Prell Girl a-go-go. Imagine her in the heart of the 70s in stark Mary Quant, or Yves Saint Laurent Moroccanly haute caftans, or vintage far-out duds from Granny Takes A Trip. Easy-breezing, Cover-Girling–or better yet–Yardleying–while free spiriting and frolicking about in a decade that might have been a perfect match to her true spirit, dangled on a rock star’s arm, having songs like “Angie” or “Dandelion” written about her-only it would have to have been someone cooler than Mick penning and torch singing them–someone as cool as Bowie.

Yeah, a very much alive Bowie, making that half exception for a white chick, while still married to Angie (O.K: Here I’m going to allow myself to laugh in order to stop crying. It’s been a year. A brutal, gone to h-e-double-hockey-sticks in a hand-basket year that ushered-in-the-beast of a year! A 666 of a year. O.K?). I do see Sophie in the free spirited, swinging 70s, dancing on tables as the reason for quite a few seasons. She is the essence of the breezy elan of this fabulous show. And a nice person, to boot.

And a truly nice person on these chit-chows seems even more miraculous now, after a beast of a year that offed everyone who was a Hero-of-all-Heroes–a Would Be King! (that reassured us the very power of love would crown us all Kings or Queens, be it just for one day–a singular, transcendent day worth dying for) a Prince, a Princess, her Mother! or countless Legends that made Art-As-Magic on this planet, and in galaxies, far, far away. After such a beast of a year that brought us Brexit, and crashed that fascist global tide wave across the pond, hitting us hardest, bringing to light the crazy hatred that was always there in that vast space between our shores–what can I say but this is not my America, so fuck you, new U.S.of A. and your Trumpy dog, too–and don’t we desperately need Sophie putting some elan in a Bravo show, now more than ever?! And don’t we need to look deep within ourselves to find more reason for using perfectly unused, beautiful words like elan now?

So, now that the party’s over and Caroline Ssss has stopped farting rainbows in bubble baths because this show is no longer about her and her having to go to a literally manmade, true fart city like Dubai and nobody seems to care enough to trip over themselves to give her ponies and fare-thee-well wild seventies orgies and parties and gift baskets and libraries and…

Too bad it’s all blown up in her face since she’s iced the cool girls and has to settle to be seen with the likes of a same old, shrieking-at-nothing, stupid-is-as-pointlessly-mean-does cast member in weird prairie frocks bobbing for fashion’s gaffes and guffaws.

Too bad that it’s as saggy and sorry as having to take a dingy to a party on a sandbar in Dubai, but so it goes when it’s never too soon to have to say goodbye on your way to some buttfuck place like Dubai. Isn’t this how it should go when you underestimate that the real coolness of resfreshingly humane girls like Adela and Sophie could possibly be picked up by the TV-Eye and audience alike, and you’re made to watch them get out from under your frostbitten thumb to steal the show from under you? Too bad for you and your little snake, too, Carline. Oops, I mean, Caroline. Now, that’s a typo worth printing and worth way much more than anything I could have pulled from under my hat.

Oh, did I forget to mention Marissa?
Cricket. Cricket. Fart. Fart. Poofy. Fart. Cloud.

Season 9 of the Real Housewives Orange County Premiered: Did Tamra Judge Not Know a Plumeria from an STD?

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(Here’s a word from one of our sponsors: No, No, No, No, No, No! This isn’t the new one as that, along with visions of sugar plum fairies, is yet to come–and it will! I’m just uploading my articles onto this blog–but, seriously, who could ever tell the difference? Meghan, mayhaps?)

What is there to say by now about this soggy fruit salad that’s the Real OC? Mr. Cohen’s very first, remains my least favorite of The Real Housewives Franchise. Don’t know about you, but I wasn’t riveted last night, although I remain compelled to at least pretend-watch while polishing my nails after biting them first. I feel that there’s no need to expand on that, as we can agree to hold this truth to be self-evident, while I tell you about Heather and her new abode, instead.

We find our miss Uber-Prissess (that’s a made up word I just concocted to fool myself into staying awake) praising the quaintness of her temporary rental house because it’s nothing like a bone chilling mausoleum nor the Louvre, as that was her old house which they sold for a killing. Of course, this being in the post-Mc-Mansion-era, she and her brow beaten hubby are building a Double-Whopper-with-Cheese-Whiz, instead. Nuf-said, as NeNe might chime in to our rescue with a decidedly conclusive “plop” sound.

I can’t tell you enough how I abhor all the faux Tuscany decor, faux boobs, faux tans, faux orchids in speckled-faux-plastic-china pots and all the unpardonable faux pas of the over-bleached straw extensions in both texture and color that are signature trademark of—and all so enviable within— this bunch. Yet, somehow, I must find the strength. How else can I continue to reveal that in Heather’s soon-to-be Faux Modern Museum of Horrors, she wants a beauty salon and a Scooby Doo Room? That’s a room with a mysterious, hidden door to the unknown. I know our determinate Uberprissess will succeed, because she wears the smarty pants in the family, so let’s sincerely hope that she mistakes one room for the other and ends up with an 80’s perm headed for a galaxy far, far away.

Before we tune out, let’s mention in mere passing—or jest— new Housefrau Shannon, of the Defunct I Magnins of County Corck-It, that she and I fondly recollect. I once had a coveted olive green Jackie-Before-The-O raw silk suit that just screamed for a pill box hat that I scored in a thrift shop in Reseda back in ’88 that was an I Magnin original. Like Shannon, I still mourn that now Defunct I Magnin suit stuff.

But that isn’t all we share. It worries me to admit, that we share another common bond and that is the fact that the we can only speak into our cell phone from the safety of another room while wearing a Hazmet suit, because we “don’t want to radiate our brains out”, as Shannon so poetically describes.

There’s another housewife whose existence entirely escapes me and a premature chick-trip to Hawaii where nothing worth mentioning happens except that one of our brainy Femmebots—-was it Vicky of The Horton-Hears-A-Woo-Whos or Tamra of the Tammie-Tell-Me-Nots—- might have implied that she didn’t know a plumeria from an STD. And that, my duhhlings, announces that we’re overdo for a run out the door to catch the total eclipse of the moon, instead, and file this boo-boo in that overstuffed folder of wasted hours we can never get back.

Postcards from the Champagne O’Clock: Real Housewives Foibles from my Vulture Vault

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Here are some of my random meanderings on the Real Housewives of All Perdition of seasons past, brought to you by my mainlining on Vulture magazine boards and a word from one of our sponsors: “Depends”.

These ramblings took place in a world where Bowie and Prince were still among us. Needless to say, it was the best of times on an entirely magical, other planet where we thought we could stay forever-ever-ever-ever-ever…

What was I thinking in those days of wine and roses–and two supernovas burning to extinction under the Milky Way those nights–about Kim Richards, whose unhinged drug problem was stupidly being masked as the worst kept secret in Real Housewives history? And what of those other Housewives from the fabled Hills of Beverly and their real or much imagined betrayals, cloying ploys and kerfuffles? What of they, of silly tempests in petal pink tea cups the very lofty Lisa Vanderpump might have had Rocio serve to us on a diamante studded, silver platter–with tea roses–in her opulent, shrill-pinks-to-purple, ultra sheeny closet that would still be haunted by the ghosts of Liberace or Prince–had it not burned down? Let’s have a gander.

This is beyond awful and unforgivable–but it is, after all, why I’m here, so, has anybody wondered why Kim figures so significantly with people that are faced with serious ailments in their lives? Don’t they have strong pills? There was mention of the fact that Kim took care of her dying mother in the desert. (OK, I’m going to leave that sentence as it sounds ‘coz it makes me laugh and I’m beyond help today). That might not have been the genesis, but could it be the revolving pinnacle of her addiction, no?

Also, along with the great Dame Brian Moylen’s magical and literary heart-wrenching tail-end spins on the Vulture recaps and a fresh faced, dewy take from Bravo editing, Kim does emanate the most relatable humanity of them all this season. That, in and of itself, should be cause for great alarm for not only the other cast members, but the collective state of the world population at large.

As for another tenebrous and twisted aside, metaphorically speaking, it seems that Kim has been riding Disney ponies all her life–with Yolanda’s flatulent white horse in front of her, through one too many meandering Malibu canyons only to late-crash yet another rodeo, or mistime Wassailing on Halloween while bobbing for clowns.

As for the ever reigning Queen Bee, Lisa Vanderpump, what can I say? Go for it LVP! Scorch that earth and throw salt on it, for good measure. Who doesn’t remember the coup on Isla Perdida, aka Portovarta? Thanks for that one, Mumbles (Kim Richards). It will perpetually stick in my geographically altered mindscape where Puerto Rico can no longer be, thanks to this here great shared experience at the Real Housewives’ Institute of Wee Willie Wankery and Waffle House.

So, who can fault LVP for keeping it real, reigning it in and continuing-to-continue to be be the Uber-Reticent queen bee with that quick Brit wit and IQ that easily blows dust in the rest of the cast’s surgically deformed cat faces? Not I, beautiful people! And although our beloved Dame Moylen has helped us all don rose-tinted shades where Kim is concerned, she’s still a sputtering mess and a tad of an imbecile. As Judge Judy so philosophically waxed poetically–and with whom I so heartlessly and gleefully concur–stupid is forever. And wouldn’t LVP be stupid to forget all the insults-to-injury that this nest of vipers sharing-one-reptilian-brain tried to obliterate her with?

YoFo (Yolanda-Hadid-Foster-Once-Removed-And-Perpetually-Insufferable) was one of the unpardonable offenders. And Kyle–Et tu, Kyle? Always! Brandi: what can I say about her without resorting to a NeNe-ism: “Trashbox! Plop!”

Sorry this is not just off topic, but self revealingly juvenile: I just can’t help inserting an image of Lisar’s (Lisa Rinna) ostrich looking face–albeit a strangely gleeful and endearing ostrich face, that is–at the mere mention of the word “Depends”. Let that be that word from our sponsor brought to you, once again, by Bravo TV right here and now–unless you all prefer “Troutsnatch” which is better slated for a Real Housewives of New York days-of- future-past episode where Sonja’s weirdo gyno is looking for her withered sexy “J” with a mini-scud-missile-probe up her twat.

If as if one has to take a slow nacht–a non yacht–to Mallorca to find bootleg Chanel!? Oofff, already, Kyle. Poor, squat, little wannabe-rich-bitch, Kyle! Et Tu, Always, Kyle, with that obsessive knack–on and off that nacth–screaming to channel the sublime Elizabeth Taylor, Puerto Vallarta, circa 1973, with your diaphenously gaudy caftans, only to hit the mark with the daffy Mrs. Roper, circa 1981, instead.

And if as if we’d wanna sail at all with Kyle, all the live long days in that azure lull of the Mediterranean sea on The Champagne O’Clock!? I’d forgotten the cringeworthy name of the nacht. How could I? Isn’t that what stereotypical, chain smoking Eurotrash would think that Americans–particularly from land locked states–would find refined–or precious? I’m offending myself from both sides of the pond now–and it’s a good thing that Martha Stewart can’t hold against me.

As no guffaw is sacred, let’s mention in passing, or mere jest, Gigi (Hadid) who looks exclusively like a Guess jeans model that is storing a whole bunch more assorted nuts than the controversial two-almonds-once-daily quota–in her cheeks for the winter and away from YoFo’s scrutiny. These Guess girls don’t easily cross over (sans YoFo’s Kardashian-world-domination-plot, sans MoMo (Mohammed Hadid)’s self-rising, crusty dough, and least of all, sans Bravo TVEye-ya-yay!) into the ethereally and other worldly realm that can walk an Armani or Karl Largerfeld runway. Especally Karl’s! He’s got a laser eye for strange and utterly demanding perfection, made all the worse by his maintained weight loss and the fact that he no longer looks like he’s hiding the sweet and iconic Andre Leon Tally under his coat.

It’s no secret I’ve been known to throw away all dignity in exchange for a cheap joke, and I’m chasing myself into a figure eight from a dichotomy to an oxymoron all across this forum. As for MoMo (Mohammed Hadid), I do think he can build rather massive, and massively missive, ornate Turkish bath houses. And as for models and their intellectual properties–well, it’s back to that figure eight, all over again.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, in the state of New Jersey and denial, sequined orange leopard is the new black for Teresa Giudice.

Yolanda’s fridge is Carmen Miranda’s final resting place and Mumbles may be an imbecile, but she’s not a recovering one! Just saying.

Meow.