Wednesday, November 09, 2005



I'm not sure how I came to deserve such an honor, but I received tickets to a taping of the brand new Isaac Mizrahi show. I chose my friend and business associate Stephen Brackett to accompany me.

We stood outside the studio in line behind three middle-aged women from Long Island, the sort that consider themselves fashion MAVENS because they have Chanel bags and a gay friend. Not the tacky kind of overpriveleged housewife--those are in New Jersey--but the kind that wear Burberry raincoats and mink on the High Holidays and even though they go to Europe every year and maybe have a friend that is planning a 60th birthday adventure outing to Antarctica they still speak with that accent the one that involutarily makes me say "What? I didn't do it!" These children, along with the lawyers and stockbrokers they are married to, have raised some of the most repellent children on earth. That however, is a story for another time.

Before long, we were joined by a 6'4" black transvestite in an ankle length leather coat with leopard accents and a wig that appeared to have been recently salvaged from Ricky's of Baghdad the day after Halloween. Interestingly, she wasn't the sort of the solitary trannie that makes me feel sad and lonely, much in the way I empathize with people forced to hand out fliers for cell phone stores on the street as the freemen swim around them, but accompanied by several non-trannie companions. Relatives, it seemed like, from the familiarity in the group.

A producer came along and asked if we had any questions for Isaac's "Sketches and Answers" section, where he fields challenging style questions from hapless, dumpy audience members and normally I would have kept my mouth shut. I like to be an observer, not a participant. It's much more difficult to muster scorn for something of which you are a part. But the strange new appendage to my personality that my grandmother calls "MY LITTLE RACHEL, A BRIDE!!!!!!!" spoke through my mouth like a satin crazed dybbuk.

"I have a question! I want to know what to wear to my wedding!"
"I LOVE IT!" shouted the producer, sensing Middle American appeal written all over me, despite the cut-off biker t-shirt under my ladylike tweed suit.
"You know what I see you in?" said one of the Long Island Ladies appraisingly, when she had gone. "Beachy. Something, beachy and gauzy."
"Bohemian," said another, "like you're barefoot on the beach."
I am not a beachy person. I wear fisherman's sweaters in summer. Nor do I go barefoot, if I can help. One of the many traits I share with George Costanza's father is self-consciousness about my foot odor. His smelly feet cost him the love of his life. Mine have simple made a hundred yoga classes very unpleasant, but still. I'm not going barefoot at my wedding. In public, nice people wear shoes.
"You should call up the producer from the O.C. and find out where they buy their clothes," said the final woman. "I think you need something very Californian. Something summery."

I'm getting married in October. Whatever. Far be it from me to contradict a pushy woman in a pantsuit, and really, who's it going to help?

As we were ushered inside with out assigned elevator group, one of the PAs announced to us with no little pride that we would be receiving VIP tickets to the Daily Show as a special gift. This was the first of many promises to be broken. Isaac Mizrahi dashes dreams. He's a dream dasher. He turn you into a big, gay, Technicolor balloon, and then he takes one of his cuff links and he pops you, just as you're about to fly up to the sky to freedom. Unless you're Mandy Moore.

Isaac loves Mandy Moore. Isaac loves Mandy so much that he has his servant make her a cappucino with a smiley face drawn in the foam. Mandy Moore is seven feet tall. Maybe he thinks she's a man, that's why he loves her so much. I think he's totally one of those gay men who goes on and on about how much he loves women, but he's lying, I think. Because he's a dream dasher. He is kind of weirdly handsome though. I don't generally lust after gay men, for the same reason I don't freebase cocaine. It's self-destructive and tacky, but still, I caught myself attracted to him several times during the taping. Especially during this exchange.

NUTRITIONIST EXTOLLING THE VIRTUES OF MIRACLE FOODS LIKE OLIVE OIL, GARLIC, POMEGRANATES AND GREEN TEA: Now, you know you should stay away from sugar substitutes whenever you can.
ISAAC MIZRAHI: Oh, I know. Because of the anal leakage.

Anal leakage. Anal leakage. I wanted to kiss him on the mouth, even though he seemed like a control freak nightmare with major contempt for people who shop at Target. Of which I am one. Because Target is AWESOME.

Mandy Moore talks with a sort of affected lisp, and very, very slowly, as though she chooses her words carefully in an attempt to sound smart. I know what this is, because I did it myself when I was her age, before I embraced my inner redneck. Maybe she's smart. Who am I to judge. I'm not so smart either. It took me four tries to correctly add up the total of the checks I was depositing at the bank this morning. Besides, I've always kind of liked Mandy Moore. I like that song "Candy"

Another broken promise at the Isaac show--the filler comedian who had been torturing us during the commercial breaks with movie trivia questions--which were all about Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy, and thus baffling to the entirely white audience promised a special prize to the audience member who could name a sitcom he did not know the theme song to. We were quiet a moment, until I shouted "BLOSSOM!"

He was stumped. Did I receive a prize? I think we all know the answer to that one.

Finally, I was called upon to ask my question of Isaac. He bullshitted.

ISAAC: Well, the second I saw you, I pictured you in a halter dress. I'm drawing a sketch, okay? A halter dress. Something sexy. Sexy. Sexy."

He dashed off a sketch in Sharpie, signed it, and handed it to me. The show was over.

As soon as they yelled cut, he called back. "Promise me you won't wear that dress. That's a fucked up dress. I don't know what I was thinking."

The lyrics to "Blossom" coincidentally, are these.

Don't know about the future
That's anybody's guess
Ain't no good reason
For getting all depressed
Buy up your pad and pencil
I'll give you a piece of my mind
In my opinionation
The sun is gonna surely shine.

Stop all your fussin',
Slap on a smile
Come out and walk
In the sun for awhile.

Don't fight the feeling
You know you want to have a good time
And in my opinionation
The sun is gonna surely shine.

Remember when Mayim Bialik wore a sequined frock coat and tap danced on a piano? Those were the days.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

HOW I LOVE THE NEW YORK CITY MARATHON! AND NOW, A POEM.


Blind Item

I’m the Queen of Sheba!
I’m a catfish!
I’m an alcoholic!
I’m the President of the Clean Plate Club!
I’m a Vietnam vet!
I’m a voyager on the Starship Enterprise!
I’m an alien slave girl in a fur bikini dancing for a shackled William Shatner!
I’m a prostitute!
I’m a crystal meth dealer!
I’m a lady-in-waiting to her Most Serene and Royal Majesty!
I’m the Grand Vizier!
I’m a person who gets perms!
I’m your grandma’s ceramics instructor!
I’m a rapist!
I’m the guy who killed your Lord!
I’m the Nobel Peace Prize!
I’m Zip the Pinhead!
I’m a deeply sensual woman!
I’m fucking your dad and your husband!
I’m Nancy Reagan!
I’m the World’s Fattest Man!
I’m masturbating!
I’m a leprous beggar swathed in robes woven from my own filth!
I’m a pop-star sibling with a show on Nickelodeon!
I’m a murderer of children!
I’m a child who murders!
I’m sorry, but I’m just on my way out the door!
I’m contagious!
I’m a paid companion with poor personal hygiene!
I’m missing two fingers on my left hand!
I’m the Avon lady!
I’m a shipwrecked sailor, dragging what’s left back to shore!