Tag Archives: Bravo TV

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

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.

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

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?

(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.

Real Housewives Crimes and Misdemeanors and How To Tell Which Is Witch

Four score and a self caressing housewife ago, the ghost of GhostWriterGate, or Hashtag-Bookgate– was conjured and is still haunting this season’s Real Housewives of New York City’s reunion, the lit-up boards at Vulture magazine and ever peripherally, clanking chains in the inner recesses of my sleep deprived mind on a loop-dee-loop to infinity and beyond. Thus, with all endlessly imagined, or inflated slights and shrill cat fights over stolen dresses and side-eyed shade-casting, one-upping, cauldron-stirring, spell-casting, apple-poisoning, envy-frothing, mud-slinging, bad acting, teeth-gnashing, teeth-spitting, finger-pointing, mouth-frothing and boy-toy-banging during way-too-dirty-martinied well-hung and laid-overs on Scarey Islands and Humpty Hamptons aside, we must ask if these women can cast the seeds of a true bane in another’s existence.

Simply put, Aviva Drescher put out there, for the whole world to see in rerun perpetuity, the head-swirling idea that Carole Radziwill’s bestsellers were authored by someone else. A spell, maddeningly impossible to uncast, nor banish once seeded in viewers’ minds.

As this potential real crime began to emerge from the rabble rubble of shrill and petty misdemeanors, I took some weirdly personal umbrage at said ghostwriter branding, or wounding of character that the abhorrent monopede, Aviva Drescher, inflicted onto Carole Radziwill until what is turning out to be the end days of creation or the last breath of Bravo–whichever comes first. The latter, I bet, can be brought upon only if the endless world-wide supply of these delusional gaggles of narcissistic, self caressing women, teetering in their Louboutins and on the verge of their mid life crises, were to refuse to willfully appear on these shows that we loathe others a little more than ourselves for loving.

We know this universal boycott wish ain’t gonna happen, so we’re left to ponder and morally distinguish why this emerges as unpardonable sin or crime from the endless vortex of inane and forgettable Housewife misdemeanors and buggery. Was the succubus Aviva accusation comperable only to that of Brandi Glanville’s near-mortal blow to Adrienne Maloof for outing Adrienne’s secret option to choose birthing her children by a proxy-for-hire? Clearly, we’re in the embryonic era of a Brave New World–literary references considered and made to sit down and shiver in the corner where resignation meets and greets the brutal reality of what the one percentile is by privilege allowed, with or without our consent, nor apologetically cowering moral compass. Needless to say, as a mere aside, why would Adrienne Maloof, if she were anyone in this world, think they could keep a literal vital secret while riding that scud missile into those 15 minutes to infamy?

Provable or not, true or untrue, these spells do cross into what Lisa Vanderpump so eloquently described as “character assassination” when some accusations were being hurled her way and she distinguished them as posing non negotiable threats to one’s livelihood or self image that can live on in TV land perpetuity, wreaking damages from which there’s no simple return .

Why did it bother me–a two-bit music writer–to the tune of making me take to a rant and a holla via a recap? Because it is shizzle like thissle that can actually–and probably should– bring about a head scratching moment in time to resemble a crisis of conscience. After all, we get to clearly see how the monopede Aviva goes to a place of no return in our great Anthropological Experiment. A place where we can only shrug to imagine we would never want to meet her, nor find ourselves. A most tenebrous junction where the soul is traded as currency to buy into that last millisecond stretch before the 15th minute ends in a terrifying death rattle. All this merely to throw such bought-and-sold soul back into the vertiginous, black- hole-depths of anonymity where Jill Zarin’s screams echo through eternity, and where Andy Cohen checks his Twitter feed in glee–despite and–instead.

So, for those of you that missed it, as I might have posted a quivering link before, here’s my half assed attempt at recapping this less-forgivable-moment-in-time for shits and giggles. Or better to say that this is what I wrote over a year ago about this unsavory and ghoulish spell we still can’t awaken from:

Raspberry Bouquet for Real Housewife of New York City Aviva Drescher

What can I write about the abhorrent Monopede Real Housewife of New York City that is Aviva Drescher that won’t get me thrown in the Pen? In just the second episode of this season’s Lowest Upper Eastside Homies And Thugs In Cocktail Dresses, she has degraded herself from housewife we all loved to hate, to housewife we wish to sick The Bogo Most-Wretched-Fraternal-Sisters From The Faraway Hill Kingdom Of Beverly onto to hide her prosthetic leg during a Hamptons lawn game played with a mallet. But, judging from previews, that seems slated for a later episode—so we’ll just have to go to the refrigerator first.

What is this fauxest pas she has committed to not only piss off most couch potatoes-at-large (we may not come in one-size-fits-all as the descriptive implies, duhhlings) but an additional and more underestimated subspecies among them known as Irate Writers? Yours truly may well be leading the pack as this is being freshly penned by one of Sonja-With-A-Sexy-J’s interns known as Pickles.

Aviva has made the viably slanderous and unpardonable—among writers, particularly—accusation, aka Hashtag Bookgate, against Real-Life-Writer-And-Princess-Carole-Of-The-Radziwills , claiming that said Princess had her book ghostwritten. Does this mean that we’ll have characters named Quentin, Angelique and Barnabus from Dark Shadows joining the cast any time soon? No, duhhlings, this is much scarier than a mid-seventies, mid-afternoon Mock-Goth-Soap. This veers, clearly, into territory where the more aptly applicable vernacular of themz is fightin’ words best describes.

Aviva further insults and outright lies to Real-Life-Writer-And-Princess-Carole-Of-The-Radziwills’s face by declaring that writing is “fun” and that Aviva herself wrote her own book as just a “long email”. And this is where I part company with, take umbrage, leave no prisoners, come to the rescue of said Real Princess and my fellow Real Writers and declare this heresy not only utterly offensive but bogus! Shouldn’t the longest email amongst this bunch be typed by Wonky-Eyed-Ramona and acted out as a striptease—or Caburlesque—by Sonja-With-A-Sexy-J, instead?

TV Eye mirrors society’s veiled misogyny through Bravo’s Real Housewives shows

In waxing philosophical and anthropological about one of my main mainliners–my addiction with Bravo’s Real Housewives of All Perdition shows– I take an Imax view into the darkness that the TV Eye reveals as it dispassionately prods beneath the frothy upper layers of my beloved shows. Here’s what I see.

The part about misogyny is something that is always bubbling just a tad beneath surface level for me. But that, in a grander scheme that we know to be far greater than the strange microcosm of the Real Housewives shows, is made all the more tangible by the invasive gaze of the TV Eye trained on these women. TV Eye. I’m going to blatantly use the Iggy Pop song that brought a merciless end to the sixties with its raging roar, to refer to the camera. I credit the brilliantly reckless and timeless Iggy Pop with putting an end to the “Love” decade with the beginning of that song’s defiant roar.

I’ve found myself using the words TV Eye in a few of my posts this week because I can hear the roar that heralds a wake up call. Here’s what I see when I use those two words in my own words from an article about the end of an era and the beginning of another:

“I wasn’t there but wish I could have been–without cowering under the table of music history.. Have you seen the footage, grey and grainy, on YouTube? Iggy Pop and The Stooges at some hippie dippy festival in–was it 1969? There he is, in all his sinewy shirtless glory, with his garage band scowling at a dumbstruck audience that still clung to the wilted, post-Altamont, trampled hope of peace, flower power and all you need is love, love, love. The hippies looked scared, but above all, their doom was heralded by the unleashed whirring raw power of the first chords in “I Wanna be Your Dog”, then sealed with the deeper, primal roar of “LOOOOOVE” that started the jittery roller coaster ride of “TV Eye.

“Love”—that catch word that they so embraced, was brutally hurled at them as a rhetorical defiant question, or insult. A reminder of their utopian bubble being burst by the merciless new Proto-Punk sounds raging from the amps. Poor hippies were clearly under siege by this nihilistic new reality bulldozing their dream, condemning it to the realm of all short lived and unfulfilled promises that time would not allow a generation to keep. And so came the love decade to its screeching end.”

There’s more, but you get the jest. I adore music and have been–and above all, still am (ridiculously enough) a two-bit music writer while I’m doing stranger things I never could have imagined. Still, I think in music, if you will. Dunno if it’s a crazy and convoluted way to say that Andy Warhol’s 15 minutes are all around us and altering what we know as the sum of our experiences as never before. Are we ready for this next paradigm shift? It’s here with or without us.

I happen to think that Iggy is a genius and although he first scared me (as even Bowie did), I recognized the raw power of genius and someone that is credited– with Bowie–to have steam rolled another era in music–or in Bowie’s case, “to have forced the world into my scheme of things.”

I think the TV Eye is now part of our altered shared experience. I think Warhol’s 15 minutes have changed television. I think reality shows can’t help but pick up what’s already there and shine its blinding mirror glare back at us so we have no choice but to see it. I think no one remains the same while that TV Eye is silently trained on this new Su-Reality. And it coldly mirrors a society that has always devalued us in it. Only now, we have to rubber neck at the train wreck that we’ve been helpless to prevent.

Please read me with a Bill Murray inflection, because that’s how I truly sound in my head and try to picture the defiance and insurmountable perseverance of Joan Rivers so it sounds funny while it screams.

Why are we surprised? About the world we live in and how it really sees us? Not just us as women, but men, too, as human beings with preassigned roles like well tailored straight jackets. Let’s go back to Bowie and how just visually he stuck his finger down his throat at it way back!

Anyway, I always say that my go-to hair fix for a bad hair day is a burqa…but, think about it. So what if it’s PI? I also say there’s no room for PC in comedy. I’ve learned to say what I want and I’ve had to say it louder–sometimes with a roar. Especially in that silly little boy’s club that music was and still is. I did resort to using just my initials for a first name–and while at it, threw in another for my MN–cause I didn’t have one–back in the day. Dunno if it was to gain that foot in the back door of music, or to watch the expressions when I entered for an interview. So Phuket!

Why are we shocked that it’s all darker than we expected? It’s been just as dark without the TV Eye. It’s just that now that thingie is making us uncomfortable by flaunting it. Everybody wants it to stop. But Reality TV is running rampant. And I like it, ’cause it’s making us remember things we want to forget. How strange that we’ve come here for escape or guilty pleasure–but bigger still, how wide awake now!