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, whatelse 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 Mygoddamned House, 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.