Let's Make Puerto Rico a Steak!

At least this thingy was interesting.  Yes…I am still not over the whole JT Leroy thing; I may never recover, especially seeing as how my *favourite* fake author—Feodor Larrovitch—is being covered by no one, anywhere.  How sad.  I even wrote a passive-aggressive paper on Larrovitch once, citing him as my favourite author of all time, and ascribing to him some truly miraculous feats.  It was an in-class final for a freshman English class, I was stuck for a topic, and we had to pick from a list.  Hated.  I saw the question which asked for a description of the works and accomplishments of our favourite author (or somesuch), and I immediately thought, “Larrovitch!”  So I am evil; what of it?

Butsoanyway.

I spent most of the day out-of-doors, hustling up…some things.  It was fun and everything went well, but halfway through the day I had to wonder why it seems that almost every girl I saw in the 17-22 age range delights in walking around with not just silly outfits (I am *SO* tired of this trashy “gangsta mamacita” look, or whatever it is called, that I could just PUKE!), but fake Louis Vuitton (or Prada, Coach, etc…) handbags and fake Chanel (or D&G, etc…) sunglasses.  What in the hell?  I really *have* moved to a foreign country; when I was 17-22, I had too much pride, for god’s sake.  I really wanted to go up to one of them and ask why they thought this was a Smart Fashion Move, but I (of course) did not.  I can completely understand liking the look, but…come on, now.  And they really *do* have knock-offs of the designer labelling; the fake Chanels have interlocking circles if I remember correctly, and the fake LVs have the right print (usually, with the exception of the multi-coloured ones), but other errors that are easy to spot (usually)—just like the fake D&Bs did a few years ago (and may still; I am not up on current Dooney counterfeiting.  I lost interest in D&B ‘cos I think their more recent lines are ridiculous-looking.  Did you hear me, Dooney & Bourke?  They look STUPID.  And I am angry about it.  Bring back the AWL lines, you shits!  And, since I am already going there, bring the duck fob back!  Your current fob looks DUMB, too; it looks like a knock-off of the GV swan, and I wouldn’t carry one of your vinyl—or whatever you are using that isn’t AWL—bags right now if *you* paid *me*; I *still* have my Tetons and Equestrienne; the plastic crap you put out today will *not* survive the test of time like the quality bags you used to make).

Butsoanyway.

You’d never guess that I am descended from former (Jewish) diamond merchants, eh?  I am not a fashionista by any means; these things just stick in my brain in exactly the same way that the rules of English don’t.  It is genetic.  I can spot shit jewellery from twenty paces as well, not counting pieces that were made for travelling, and so forth.  If you want to snag a bargain at a department store clearance (::cringe!::), take me—they typically sell trash to people who do not know any better.  There are exceptions, but I said typically.  And I am not saying that I am perfect (by any means; do not misunderstand), but I *am* saying that the sight of a 22-year old with ratty hair (or, worse yet, nasty extensions; *quality* extensions are fine, but bad ones look like shit—always) carrying what is supposed to be an $800 bag, with allegedly $300 sunglasses on, and a fake 10-carat diamond on her hand as she goes to work in the school bookstore is, well…a tad silly-looking.  Maybe I *am* getting old.

Butsoanyway.  

Noticing the superfluity of Fake Stuff today (I honestly had not taken note of how pervasive it has become before now!) reminded me of ages ago, when knock-offs started first turning up en masse; I and some of my friends at the time were in one store that was selling Hello Katty tchotchkes, and we put ourselves on the floor joking about deprived children growing up never knowing what Hello Kitty was.  

Sigh.  

Ladies, have pride; if you don’t, nobody else will.  Why decorate yourself with fake shit…at least fake shit that is faked so obviously?  

I *want* to interview them and ask!  I tell you, in another life I would have been a wonderful correspondent for something like The Daily Show, or Talking to Americans.  I rilly, rilly would have.  

And then, in talking with a friend, I was reminded of another laugh riot from my reckless youth tonight:  Robert Tilton.  Yes—Bobby, the Bible-Thumping Freakboy, purveyor of Jesus Dirt and Miracle God Leaves.  A core group of disaffected miscreants with whom I hung around used to often cut school, go get messed up in one way or another, and watch ol’ Bob.  He is nuts—I mean literally batshit; the man is in need of hospitalisation, though it is hard to actually feel sorry for him when he is pulling in eighty million a year.  I was going to sue him once for making me rupture my spleen laughing, but as it turned out, I was just fine.  :-)  And he makes the god damned *FUNNIEST* faces…  Someone like Peter Popov is Evil; Bobby The Bible-Thumping Freakboy is *insane*.  

Tilton came up ‘cos Mummers phoned me tonight to advise me that I should hate Pat Robertson (this is news?) because Robertson said that Ariel Sharon is being punished by god for giving away holy land, or somesuch; a friend of hers just told her about it.  As if I cared what Robertson said about *anything*; when his name comes up in the news, my Inner Censor dubs over it with the relaxing sounds of Mantovani; that way, no one gets hurt.  :-)  To calm her down before she began phoning in bomb threats to The 700 Club, I agreed with her that he was an asshole for saying that, if that was in fact what he had said.  She is so weird; she fussed at me for saying “asshole”, and then agreed with me that he was an asshole.  Go figure.  Maybe when you are a mother, you don’t have to “speak like a lady” (her words) anymore.  Whatever.  I am beyond trying to understand her reasoning.  I don’t get her; she generally cares about news and politics never, but when she does care she cares because she has become hopping mad about something (frequently something that she has misunderstood, à la Emily Litella, or at least an almost Litella-esque way, to give her fair credit, but the fact remains that considering her as my source, I have no clue what Robertson might really have said)—and then she does something psychotic.  Well, psychotic to me; if your mileage with her varies, I will be happy to wrap her up and ship her out.  Give me an address, if you dare.  Try me.