Persiflage

Not Just For Granny Anymore

I'd always assumed I was wholly immune to the Plague of Knitting that has spread throughout the land. (By my calculations, the entire cumulative impact of the Plague is that the scarf-per-capita ratio has skyrocketed beyond all meaningful proportions.  To the extent where I imagine I could wrap myself solely in homemade, gifted scarves and wander the streets without violating any important societal norms.)   But, if I could find patterns for projects like these, I'd reconsider my stance.  This looks like my kind of hobby.

Via Drawn

Tempest in a Teacup

During my first year of law school, I went through an unfortunate stage now referenced as the "Angel of Death period."  Over the course of about nine months, I was nailed by a line drive at a baseball game, had surgery to remove my gallbladder, fell in the law school cafeteria (lacerating my hand on a shard of glass and requiring medical attention so I could be glued back together a la Humpty Dumpty, albeit more successfully and without the involvement of either the king's horses OR his men), and was hit by a car while running.

And yet, even during my darkest days, I saw the inside of the ER less frequently than Lindsay Lohan.  This time, the story is that La Lohan sliced her leg open on a shattered teacup after a shower at Brian Adams' mansion.  Someone seems to have advised Dina Lohan that detailed fabrications explanations are the most credible.  And while we might have bought the allegation that a "shower" was involved and that there was "lotion" present, I don't think any of us are ready to make the enormous mental leaps required to envision Lindsay sipping tea, at any time of day.

All The Choice Men Are Belonging To Me

Last week, apparently in the throes of delirium, I made the unfortunate move of flirting with customer who, I am nearly certain, is a Russian gangster.  Despite the aggressively pinstriped suit, the clinical dependence on salon-caliber hair products, and the car salesman-esque habit of repeating my name back to me in casual conversation, I found that Russian gangsters are significantly more suave than the average Suitor of Laris.

(...and, fifteen minutes later, I've emerged from the nebula of depression provoked by that epiphany to the extent that I'm able to continue the post.  Wine bottle in hand.)

The Russian gangster left me his number, and for several days I debated calling him.  On the one hand, he was a Russian gangster.  On the other, going out with him would be a good story, and I am nothing if not a sucker for a good story, without regard to the potential for personal hazard or the likelihood of ending the night at the bottom of the Detroit River.

During my period of indecision, the Russian gangster crept back to the store under stealth of night (actually, under stealth of my days off) and sweet-talked my co-workers into giving him my home phone number.  (These are simple people, people unfamiliar with the responsibilities of being satisfactory wingmen.  I'll be hosting a lecture series next week.)

Yesterday, I received a surprise phone call from the Russian gangster.  He was very courteous, while simultaneously managing to convey an aura of intense persistence and peppering the conversation with crass humor.  While appreciative of his conversational dexterity in what was clearly a second language, it rapidly became evident that this would not be a love match.

I did what any self-respecting girl would do in the face of aggressive and unrequited pursuit by a man who probably carries concealed, legality be damned.  I told him I was moving to New York.  This is not entirely untrue.  I am moving, at some juncture, to New York.  Or DC or San Francisco or London, but let's not get caught up in petty matters like details or timing.

Turns out, those Rules girls had something there with that "playing hard to get" theory.  Last night, the Russian gangster called back at midnight, drunk and tearful, to profess his undying love.

In light of the fact that the only booty call I've gotten in the past two months has been from an aging brigand who's lost hold of his vodka two hours before last call, I may have to reassess the nature of that ol' Laris charm I've been exuding from my every pore.

Or move to Moscow.

The Rain in Spain

Possibly hindering my understanding and appreciation of current events is the circumstance wherein every time I hear the President speak, I drift off into a reverie that involves dragging Henry Higgins out of the past (er, out of fiction, which is probably even more drastic) to conduct an intensive seminar in speech therapy.  Hey, maybe Camp David is available!  President Bush, you are the leader of the free world.  You need to stop sounding like Foghorn Leghorn on 'ludes, at least when you are on national television.

(If you are one of those people who underestimates the importance of elocution, you probably do not appreciate the vitality of proper grammar, either, and I have no time for you.  I assume that such people impale bunny rabbits in their spare time.  Save your hate mail for someone who cares.)

Higgins might have to adapt his methods slightly, since, based on the pretzel incident, some difficulty might arise in the implementation of the speaking-with-marbles-in-the-mouth drill.  It would almost certainly still be easier than working with Clinton, though, who undoubtedly would be feeling up Eliza Doolittle in the parlor.

Me Fritigern, You Jane

Lately, I've been working from the theory that a nearby tribe of plundering Visigoths has developed an acute loyalty to the bookstore.  Who knew ravaging hordes were literate and so hungry for knowledge?  My primary evidence supporting this conjecture is that every night, at closing, the place is soundly trashed.  Books are stashed and stowed in the most illogical locations imaginable.  Stacks of books decorate every nook and cranny of the store, stacks which show no evidence of thought or design in their selection.  (Not-made-up stack: a treatise on bookbinding, two chess books, three manuals on ninja training, a copy of Bertrand Russell's "Why I Am Not A Christian," a book on fancy hors d'oeuvres, and Bobbi Brown's makeup book.  On top of ESPN's college football encyclopedia.)  Books are crammed on the tops of cases, behind other books, and even stuffed into the CD racks.  This is the work of professionals.

My suspicions in this vein were reinforced by a recent interaction with a customer who took a shine to me:

Customer: You're unbelievably gorgeous.  What do you say we have a drink sometime?

Me [glancing at his hand]: Let's first consider the most apparent and least offensive obstacle to our happiness.  Because you are quite large and imposing.  Aren't you married?

Customer: Yeah.  But it's not like it's serious.

[Pause]

Customer: Besides, what's really so bad about bigotry?

Me: Pardon?

Customer: You know, when a guy's got more than one bitch.

Beat Persiflage!

Since I'm a big nerd with too much time on my hands, I love tests like this.  Particularly when they confirm my deeply-held belief that I'm a misunderstood genius.

I currently have 22 correct, and I'm not giving up.  Even if it means calling in sick to work.  Can anyone do better?

[Via digg]

He Only Hits Out Of Love

This morning, the Boston Red Sox announced their long-anticipated reunion with Theo Epstein.

The statement issued by the team is remarkable for its parallels to the spin campaigns launched by certain of my girlfriends when they abashedly confess, in tearful coffeeshop bullshit and gossip sessions, that they're going to give it another try with with the cretin boyfriend who'd at long last been kicked to the curb the previous month.  The type of boyfriend who finally breaks the camel's back only when he has a threesome in the bathroom at her little sister's birthday party with her best friend and the hired clown while she's upstairs recovering from a nasty case of the gout.  And now that they're reconciling, she wants to talk about how much he's "grown as a person" and how being apart "has really made him come to value our relationship," while I'm frantically corralling every available neuron to prevent myself from tipping her head back and pouring her skim latte down her nostrils.

Here's what the Sox had to say:

   "As you know, we have spoken frequently during the last 10 weeks," the statement said. "We have engaged in healthy, spirited debates about what it will take over the long term for the Red Sox to remain a great organization and, in fact, become a more effective organization in philosophy, approaches and ideals."

   "Ironically, Theo's departure has brought us closer together in many respects, and, thanks to these conversations, we now enjoy the bonds of a shared vision for the organization's future that did not exist on Oct. 31."

Ultimately, the Red Sox should feel even more ashamed and bamboozled than my poor deluded girlfriends, since they're the only ones getting back together with someone who escaped the scene of the breakup in a gorilla suit.

Runner-Up Gets To Be Tennille

Why was I not told that Monday's national holiday had been recast into a festival of inappropriateness?  The actions and statements of several diverse public figures have led me to believe that this gala event must have been construed to those in the know as an ultra-competitive championship of indecorous behavior.  Advance knowledge of the celebratory extravaganza might have helped me respond to the elderly customer (apparently participating in the day's festivities) who, in response to my winning smile and cheerful greeting, shouted that he was, "damn tired of people asking how I'm doing!"

Based solely on their statements and actions on the day in question, my list of finalists for the coveted title of Captain Inappropriate would include:

Roy Nagin, the embattled mayor of New Orleans, who aired his opinion that Hurricane Katrina was a scourge brought down from heaven to punish America.  Since issuing comments in that vein worked out so well for Pat Robertson  Nagin also made multiple references to his desire to rebuild a "chocolate" New Orleans.  Unless he meant something akin building to a gingerbread house,- in which case, I am ALL for building a chocolate New Orleans, yum!- Nagin's remarks can only be taken seriously to the extent that they conclusively prove the presence of ingestible toxic substances released by the deluge.

Hillary Clinton, who lacks the luxury of readily available toxicity as an excuse for her recent actions.  On Monday, Clinton compared the Republican-led Congress to a plantation.  Because, when you're on a concerted three-year buildup to a presidential campaign, it's a fabulous idea to come across as though you take vile social evils lightly.  Her statement makes it sound as though she conceptualizes the antebellum south as cheerful place where the slaves routinely broke into well-choreographed musical numbers while working in the fields, and Brer Rabbit would occasionally hop on by, and the predominant problem was the persistent lurking of a bumbling and inept overseer.  Probably wearing a bad fake mustache.  Apparently, spending so much time pretending to be a Republican has begun to warp Hillary's brain.  As Larry "Quote Monster" Sabato of UVA opined, "at least she didn't mention Hitler." 

Isaac Mizrahi, who spent a significant amount of his time on the Golden Globes' red carpet touching lady parts.  And asking invasive questions about underwear and the grooming of private areas.  Is some sort of reverse coming-out?  Like, Isaac's always assumed that, since he was a fashion designer, he had to be gay, but lately he's been having these feelings towards women that he couldn't explain, but also couldn't deny?  And maybe, deep inside, he's always known?  And he isn't quite sure how to deal with these newfound urges?

You make the call.

Even You're Too Sexy For THAT Shirt

As the esteemed Manolo has requested that his internet friends discuss the fashion "don'ts" that drive them batty, I have chosen today to address an oft-ignored hive of fashion villainy: the sartorial sins of the mens.  For men, the fashion bar is not set terribly high.  If a man manages to leave the house on a semi-regular basis wearing clothing that was (a) manufactured in the current decade for (b) a person more or less within his size range and is (c) not splattered with an array of tidbits from his last six or seven meals, he's considered a reasonably stylin' dude.  In other words, men have the luxury of garnishing high praise for mere competence.  And yet, so many of them fall so short.  Here are some of the male fashion felonies I spot all too frequently, resulting in much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.

>> Cheap leather jackets: Are you a dealer in Naugahyde pelts?  No?  Then it is unnecessary to wear the passenger seat of my mother's circa-1985 station wagon on your back.

>> Sagged pants: Every man who sags his pants appears as though he suffers from an incurable medical condition involving an unfortunate partial failure on the part of his pituitary gland, resulting in a state of affairs where his upper body and torso have achieved puberty, while he's left with withered little hairless child legs.

>> Big, doofy white sneakers: Nothing says, "I ride the short bus" quite so eloquently as the sporting of shoes the loss of which the Marshmallow Man has been mourning for these many weeks.  This misstep is particularly egregious when one considers the abundance of stylish alternatives.

>> Brown shoes, black pants: Some of you have degrees.  Several of them.  Advanced ones.  Why is this so confusing for you?

>>High-water pants: A few of you have just recently mastered the aforementioned "socks" concept and want to show the world how well you did.  While we applaud your coordination skills, please limit the demonstration to your home environment.  If you have no plans to embark upon a cheerful wading expedition, dress pants should hang to the top of the heel, while jeans may fall to the heel's bottom.  No exceptions.

>> Enormous shapeless t-shirts: Another roadmap for the perplexed: size labels?  Are placed in garments for a reason.  If you are entirely lacking of social consciousness to the extent that you suffer from genuine confusion regarding the nature of your proportions, feel free to take all four flavors of cotton goodness into the fitting room for a test run.  Professional assistance may also be available; consult your local retailer for details.  It is a researched and proven scientific fact that the donning of an oversized and ill-fitting garment will not cause you to magically gain four inches of height and thirty pounds of solid muscle.  If that doesn't convince you, perhaps this will: a garment pulled over the head, covering the torso, and dangling to the knees is known, my friend, as a "dress."

>> Manpris:  These make unicorns cry. 

Squeal, Sob, Sniff, Shriek

After learning that my baby Persiflage is a finalist for the title of Snarkiest Blog over at The Best of Blogs, I made great strides towards understanding those parents who will stop short of nothing, not even accosting strangers on the street, so ecstatic are they to share the news that little Susie has the lead in her class play.  And it's even harder for me to resist crowing, since Persiflage suffers from none of the unfortunate flaws which tend to abrade and dislodge the rose colored glasses worn by the proud parents of human offspring.  Persiflage never picks her nose in public, has been toilet-trained since birth, and always plays nicely with others. 

You'll hear none of this, "it's an honor just to be nominated!" crap from me (even though it is.)  No, I'll settle for nothing less than victory, and as such am willing to shamelessly cadge for your votes.  Please, take a moment to drop by and vote for Persiflage.  (Confusion over the voting situation has at last been resolved.)  Think of it as a socially acceptable means of telling the world what a bitch I am.