Manolo for the Big Girl

To remind you it’s Liza Minnelli’s birthday!

RING THEM BELLS!

So I feel I would be remiss if I failed to mention that big sporting event that happened the other day, but I’ll be honest: I didn’t watch.

I just don’t care that much about American pro football.

At least with soccer and rugby I can root for teams based on guys I’ve dated. For example, in the SI am OUTRAGED that Scotland lost to France, FRANCE for Pete’s sake, because the Scottish firefighter with whom I had a very enjoyable Horizontal Association in the summer of 2008 could totally have taken Andre who, while quite a bit taller and probably stronger, is a great big Parisian puss.

What I DO care about is The Who, who apparently played the halftime show.

I know they played the halftime show because several of my Facebook friends posted variations of the following status update:

“Ooh, CSI Medley!”

Friends, I think it’s time Miss Plumcake teach you a valuable lesson about life.

In this crazy, mixed-up cuckoo world there are two sorts of people:

There are people who hear the strains of The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” and think “CSI: Stripper Toddler Death” (I don’t know what the show’s really called, but they’re all about dead strippers and toddlers, except for the one that’s about raped strippers and toddlers. Because, you know, that’s a normal and healthy thing to want to watch.)

These people are not your friends.

Do not let them water your plants, babysit your children, pick out your bridesmaid dresses or order your drink when you’ve run to the bathroom. They will undoubtedly mess it up and you’ll end up with blue novelty cocktails and children who will NEVER get into Vanderbilt, even if you are a legacy. These are People Who Don’t Know and are to be treated with a combination of suspicion, loathing and pity.

On the other hand, there are people –decent, right-thinking people– who hear those famous strains and automatically think:

EPIC. FREAKING. POWERSLIDE.

These people are your friends. You should buy these people cocktails, expensive shoes and, upon request, ponies.

Friends, what you just witnessed is one of the most iconic moments in rock n’ roll.

Pete Townshend setting the gold standard in power slides during the Shepperton Gig for the 1979 documentary “The Kids Are Alright” (which technically makes me the SECOND coolest thing to be released in 1979).

Townshend is better known for his windmills–to which I’ve referred before– and destroying his guitar on stage. I cannot say I approve of guitar smashing, but let’s face it. He’s Pete Townshend. He can do pretty much whatever he wants.

For further reference of the power of the windmill (and the import of a well-cut pair of trousers) please refer to the following:

Baba O’Riley (which some people will call Teenage Wasteland, but will be wrong)

and for advanced study, google the full Shepperton recording of Won’t Get Fooled Again where –in addition to the previously mentioned powerslide and windmills– you will find examples of Advanced Mic Tossing courtesy of Professor Roger Daltrey, Drumming for the Clinically Insane by our dearly departed Keith Moon, and Just Standing There Being the Bass Player by John Entwistle.

Hello young lovers! How’s every little thing? Me? Oh I’m just peachy. Except I decided to do a Heavy Eye on Saturday night and I’m still excavating that stuff off my face. The downside of having eyelash extension is you really want to be careful using anything oil-based, so now when I want to do a super smoky evening-look eye it turns into a three day removal process wherein I’m full on the first day, and the next day I’m sort of Saraghina from 8 1/2 and on the third day I’m totally channeling Anna Magnani in the Rose Tattoo (how fabulous was she? SO fabulous. More importantly how hot was Burt Lancaster?)

Anyhoodle, it’s Tuesday so it’s time to find out What Miss Plumcake is…

You’ll notice I’m a little Scot-centric this week as we are coming up on the celebration of Robert Burns’ birthday, January 25th. If you’ve never been to a Burns Night, you simply MUST. No Scottish blood required –although be prepared to be asked if you’ve got any Scottish in you and when you answer no, be asked “would you like to?”– There’s singing and poetry (usually) and bagpipes and haggis (always, although they usually have vegetarian haggis which is revolting and contrary to the ways of the Lord) and everyone has a big time with the Address to a Haggis,  The Immortal Memory, The Toast to the Lassies and –my personal favorite– The Response to the Laddies.

Dress code varies, but please don’t just wear random plaid. Ladies: if you have a clan, wear a sash in your clan’s dress tartan. Gents: Bonnie Prince Charlies are ideal. But even if you don’t have a drop of the Northern blood, don’t worry just show up and have a ball.

Reading: Robert Burns, the Complete Works No house should be without.

Watching: Black Books. Surprisingly, since I’m the United Nations of failed relationships, I’ve never dated a misanthropic drunken Irish bookseller but if I did, I’d like to date this one. Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey and that girl who played Dr Todd from Green Wing (Tamisin Grieg) had me laughing harder than that time my neighbor’s jack russell pulled out a “chew toy” labeled “Swedish Erotica”

Hearing: Lyrics of Gold: Songs of Robert Burns by Ed Miller. Ed Miller is a pink-faced fount of Scottish folk tunes and apparently a Really Big Deal as far as these things go, traveling all over the world to spread the Scottish word.  I’ve known Ed socially for a few years now and while the man can’t iron a shirt to save his  life (pull it together Ed!)  his albums are still very much worth having.

Smelling: Serge Lutens Bois et Musc. An exceedingly lovely light cedar with just a hint of musk, Bois et Musc isn’t the big honking juice Christopher Sheldrake usually releases for Serge Lutens. It wears very close to the skin. Bois et Musc is one of the non-exports so as with all Lutens bell jars you’ll have to pick it up at Les Salons du Palais Royal Shisheido in Paris, although you can occasionally find one on the secondary market. Decants are available at The Perfumed Court and while I don’t love it as much as the coniferous incense bomb that is Filles en Aiguilles, I couldn’t say no when a bell jar graciously found its way into my personal collection.

Loving:Early Greek Philosophy ed. Jonathan Barnes. Drop a cherry in me and call me old fashioned, but I think to be a Cultured Woman of The World you’ve got to be up on your philosophers (pictured here: my Pre-Socratic Greek Boyfriend, Pythagoras) and Barnes’ edition of selected writings of the Early Greeks is totally accessible.  I know I’m an old stick in the mud, but so much of what’s being written these days is just junk. There’s nothing wrong with an improving book, and getting back into the habit of thinking critically and logically. Now you kids put down those Pink Books and get offa my lawn!

Hating: The OTK Boot trend. Has anyone seen this employed in real life where it actually works and the woman doesn’t look like a hooker or a serious fashion victim? Because I haven’t.  I want to, but I haven’t. Also, the women who can afford to drop $2000 on a pair of over the knee boots, at least in Austin, tend to be Women of a Certain Age and I am afraid OTK boots are a young woman’s game.  As I said, I want to be wrong, but I’m not sure I am. If you’ve seen a tastefully executed OTK boot IN REAL LIFE on a non-model or celebrity personage, please submit photographic evidence. I’m dying to see it.

Wanting: Robert Burns stamps. Wah! Stupid American stamps with their stupid CROPS OF NORTH AMERICA which don’t even feature TOBACCO because it’s not like THAT crop was important to  America or anything.  Sir Walter Raleigh should slap the post office across the face for that. Why can’t we have awesome stamps like this? I’m not a philatelist (well, I tried it once in college, but I was drunk) but I shall not rest until I browbeat someone into sending me one of these wee beasties.

Buying: Tartan sash in your clan’s dress. If you know your clan’s tartan, why not buy a sash? They’re usually lightweight wool 10″ wide by 90″ long and serve beautifully as a long muffler-type scarf. Of course on Burns Nights or other times where you want your ancestral pride to show you can wear it in the traditional way but they’re awfully handy to have. Don’t know your tartan? Look it up here
I’m a MacDuff of the Fife line myself and sleep soundly at night knowing no matter how bad my press is, it’ll never be as bad as the clan matriarch, Queen Gruach or “Lady Macbeth” as the kids call her these days.

One more note  about operas and fat ladies (see what I did there? With the note? Because it’s like music, get it?)
Soprano Daniela Dessi walked out of the role of Violetta in Verdi’s La Traviata when director Franco Zeffirelli--you’ll remember him from the Romeo and Juliet we all saw in junior high with Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting– said she was too fat to sing one of opera’s most famous consumptives.

THIS is La Dessi (with friends):

What
a
COW.

By the way, that is EXACTLY what I wear each morning as my favorite houseboy attends to my toilette (in my head).

Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with La Traviata or La Dame aux Camélias the Alexandre Dumas fils novel (his daddy wrote The Three Musketeers which incidentally has 30% less fat than other classic French adventure novels) on which the opera was based, it’s your tried-and-true Consumptive Parisian Hooker with a Heart of Gold story à la Moulin Rouge except for, you know, not awful in every conceivable way (I’m sorry it just IS and not even Ewan McGregor’s hotness is going to change the fact that Baz Luhrmann directs like a coked-up housefly with electrodes on his balls.)

Marguerite, renamed Violetta in the opera, was based on courtesan Marie Duplessis with whom Dumas fils had a torrid affair before she died at 23.

She’s seen here wearing a white camellia. Apparently Duplessis wore a white camellia when she was available to entertain guests  and a red one when she was having her Special Lady Time, which I suppose is a lot more elegant than MY tell which involves taking the safety off my .38.

So if Zeffirelli –who has always been for realism in casting– wanted to cast a sickly-thin 23 year old in the role, then why didn’t he? Is his Google finger broken? Because a quick image search showed me exactly what La Dessi looks like.  MAYBE it’s because it’s nearly impossible to find someone that young who can carry a principal with meaning and artistic flair and even LESS likely to find someone capable of singing that role who doesn’t weigh at least a buck fifty.

In fact, the only one I know to have done a credible job –and I’m not saying there aren’t others– is Beverly Sills when she sang Violetta in 1951.  The “youngest prima donna in captivity” was 22 and although she was a good bit slimmer than Dessi, no one was going to confuse Bubbles with a consumptive waif.

Ms Dessi says:

‘I can accept criticism before I put pen to paper but not afterwards. I was working well with the conductor of the orchestra but the problem these days is that theatrical directors have too much say.’

Ms Desi [sic] added: ‘I’m stunned. I still can’t believe what I heard him say. I am 1.60 metres tall, weigh 65 kg and take a size 44. There – that’s the first time I have given my vital statistics in public.’

So basically this woman  is 5′3″ and wears about a size 14, she had the role and had been rehearsing. Then Zeffirelli calls her “too portly to perform” and Dessi walks out, as does her husband who was playing the male principal and the show went on with two lesser voices.

Perfect!

I mean, I’m not super bright, but isn’t a big part of opera the singing? Because I kind of think it is.  Like,  if  it was just a bossy woman with a great rack and interesting taste in headgear  yelling at people for three hours  then I feel like I’d be offered more roles than I am, instead of the current number which is –let me rummage through my datebook– exactly zero.

Shout out to Sarahbyrdd for being the first reader to bring this to my attention!

Oh Miuccia. Oh no. Please no. I expect this from Karl, but from you? I just…I expected better.

This really hurts.

I know you tend to use REALLY thin, REALLY young girls for your shows, but it never really bothered me. You’ve always been more about the cerebral side of fashion which apparently has no room for breasts and hips. Fine, whatever. It didn’t bother me because most of the stuff that actually goes into production, is pretty wearable for most body shapes (I said wearable, not available) so –as I’ve said before– whatever.

But now this?

Well, Prada signed on to do the costumes for the New York Metropolitan Opera’s upcoming production of Verdi’s Attila but I guess she’s never been to an opera in her life because she took one look at the extras  and said “I cannot clothe them! I need models!”

Really Miu? Really? Did you REALLY think an OPERA COMPANY would not have FAT PEOPLE?

Now to be fair, from the stories I’ve read she was talking about supernumeraries –or “supers” as they’re known in the biz– who are non-speaking, non-singing performers. Their job is to fill stage space and lend visual believability to the opera by filling crowd scenes when the chorus just won’t do. They’re the extras of the opera and ballet world and the Met supers are legendary. Unfortunately, they don’t look like models, so they were fired.

The Met had to recast because “casting is at the discretion of the creative team. Due to a change in concept, the Met is in the process of recasting.”

Nice.

So now my question is semantics in the sentence “I cannot clothe them” (emphasis mine).

Either Miuccia Prada is incapable of designing for normal body shapes which means she never should’ve graduated design school much less been lauded as a post-couture genius and we’ve all been seeing the Empress’ New Clothes for the past two decades  OR she just refused to clothe people who weren’t her ideal sample size and let people lose their jobs because of it.

Now,  I’ve seen and loved collection after collection of beautifully inspired and executed pieces that manage to be new and classic, post-post-modern and timeless at all once so I can’t help but think Prada possesses the skill and capability to design for any shape she damn well pleases, which just means one thing:

she refused to design clothes for people who weren’t models. She put people WHOSE JOB IS TO LOOK NORMAL out of a job because…wait for it…THEY LOOKED NORMAL.

It pains me to say it –really it truly, truly does– but Miuccia not only will you never get another penny from me but you can sit right next to Karl and Calvin on the naughty step. It hurts me more than it hurts you, but suck it, Miuccia Prada, and your goofy mitre too.

It’s the final Tuesday of the year, time to see what Miss Plumcake is…

Reading: A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. A re-read for me, since it first came out in 2005. You’d think a novel about a quartet of people trying to commit suicide on New Year’s Eve wouldn’t be very sweet or touching (or funny) but it is, with a good slathering of misanthropic mustard to keep it darkly funny. You can pick it up pretty much for the price of postage at Amazon. Just click the link.

Watching: It Happened One Night starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, directed by Frank Capra. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t love It’s a Wonderful Life, preferring instead this, the ne plus ultra of all screwball comedies. As a fashion side-note, you’re probably already aware that Clark Gable did irreparable damage to the undershirt industry when he unbuttoned in this film and revealed nothing more than a hairy chest under his dress shirt.
Hearing: Handel’s Messiah. I sing a lot of Handel, rare is the week I don’t have two Handel arias in the works and another one on deck. You’d think I’d get bored of GFH’s greatest hit.  I don’t. Yes, I still prefer it at Easter, but Christmas is no time to be pedantic. The Rutter/Royal Phil is my favorite widely-available recording.

Smelling: Filles en Aiguilles by Christopher Sheldrake for Serge Lutens. I am an old and jaded frag hag. I roll my delicate nostrils at 99% of mall fragrances. I don’t jump at the newest niche release and I’ve almost given up hope on Jean-Claude Ellena ever releasing anything truly brilliant again –he’s the house nose for Hermes now, which means he’s got marketablity to think about– I am, according to Angela’s brilliant list at Now Smell This, a stage four perfumista. Which is why getting a fragrance that really excites me is a rare experience. Filles en Aiguilles (literally “Girls on Needles” though it’s a play on words, since the French slang for stilettos is talons aiguilles) excites me. A lot. A LOT a lot. Aiguilles opens as a pine bomb like I’ve never experienced, with just a bit of camphor,then it develops into something more resiny. It evolves into a high mass on Christmas eve, where the incense and the wreaths and the smell of old polished wood melt together into something transcendent and just slightly wild around the edges. As it dries down you’re left with a bit of warm pine and buttery skin incense. Equally good for men and women, it’s only available in the states at Barney’s.

Loving: Jon Richardson’s BBC 6 podcast. Generally speaking, comedians and humorists are –as a species– little more than seething balls of neediness, sexual deviance and empty takeout containers. It’s true. I mean, I’m not. It’s a well-documented fact that cartoon bluebirds dress me every day and when I smile you can literally hear the silvery ting! of sunbeams and happiness. But the rest of them? Useless, impotent and in need of a bath. Which is why it’s rare for me to bestow my highest honor –the Order of The Good Egg– to comedian Jon Richardson. I admire his work professionally but more importantly, he is responsible for propagating good deeds hither and yon via his Deed-ication feature. Basically he invites his listeners to write in with their good deeds for a chance to have the show dedicated to them, which is brilliant. Co-presenter/sidekick Matt Forde receives entrance into the Order of The Speckled Puppy for being adorable, endearing and definitely not allowed on the couch.

Hating: Bad Chocolate. I don’t know much, but I do know this: life is too short for small jewelry, faked orgasms and bad chocolate. I’ve managed to eradicate the first two, now if ONLY I could get people to stop giving me the third.

Wanting: Laphroaig Whisky. Islay malts aren’t to everyone’s taste, but they’re certainly to mine. Laphroaig, easily the most famous and accessible is It’s a big peaty smoke bomb of deliciousness. In my head, this is what Mister Badger’s sweater smells like. Drink it neat, with a drop of spring water or for an interesting take on a martini, mixed 1:4 with Hendrick’s gin.

Buying: Kiva Gift Certificates. By now everyone knows about Kiva, the microlending project that’s revolutionized charitable giving. I’ve been into microlending for years, ever since I met a group of women from southern Malawi. If you’re new to microlending, check it out.

Because what does Christmas need? ENORMOUS &*^% PETE TOWNSHEND WINDMILLS. From the rock opera/Ann Margaret frank’n'beans fest/self-indulgent extravaganza Tommy here’s “Christmas” by The Who.

Also, can we just talk about how filthyhot Oliver Reed is? Because he is. A lot. And I don’t even like villains. In FACT I feel like there should be some “stocking stuffing” double entendres going on, but since this is a family blog (and those are WAY played out) I won’t make them.

Click here to download the song, Or here to buy the movie (which you really, REALLY need).

Billy May –not to be confused with Billy Mays– was the king of the big band sound we know now as  “ultra lounge”. When I throw my legendary annual-when-I-can-afford-it Cocoa-a-GoGo holiday party, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Mambo is  always on the mix list.

Click Rudolph to see an adorable Rankin-Bass video to the song.

Love it? Buy it.

Full disclosure: someday I will marry Robert Earl Keen.

I’m not saying I’ll marry him long, but you know, just enough for us both to get some good material out of it before I leave him for his best friend, Lyle Lovett.

When I first moved to Austin ten years ago last November, everything was new and wonderful and it was SEVENTY-TWO DEGREES ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

Back then, I used to get lost on purpose, just to learn the town. Of course, Austin was a lot smaller and cooler back in those days so you could drive for miles without seeing anything other than low rambling mesquite and the occasional palm or prickly pear, wrapped up in white lights.

I was toodling around town in my trusty old chartreuse Volvo station wagon marvelling how I’d never seen so much NOTHING in my life and feeling a little maudlin for Virginia which was snowy and beautiful and didn’t have ANY cactuseseses, light-wrapped or not.

Then this song came on:

and I just burst into tears, which is ridiculous because it’s a funny, funny song. I guess it reminded me of why I moved to Austin. It was the antithesis of the perfectly repressed East Coast Christmases of my youth.

Now the mesquite has been replaced by condos with silly names and my volvo station wagon is one of those sporty numbers. I’ve been to parties with Robert Earl Keen and have enough friends in common that it’s not entirely inconceivable that he might know my name, but I’ll never forget Christmas of 1999 when the world was new –or at least not covered in condos and dog bakeries. Hallelujah, everybody say cheese.

Click to buy the song. You know you want to.

Reading

Land’s End: a walk in Provincetown by Michael Cunningham. Evocative, lyrical little book about the town that, during the summer, is family tourist attraction by day and happening gay scene by night.

The Street Lawyer by John Grisham. The lawyer-cum-fugitive plot is standard Grisham fare (only flimsier), but the book offers a deep and thought-provoking look inside the world of Washington D.C.’s homeless population. In other words, the book is  cotton-candy-coated way to digest some bitter pills.

Watching

House, MD, season 5. It took Francesca months to find a way to download this show legally in the country in which she resides. Francesca respects copyrights! But now she finally has access to the fifth season.

Listening to

Electric Light Orchestra’s Time. The song “Ticket to the Moon” breaks Francesca’s heart every time (because she thinks it is a metaphor for death). And yet “Your’s Truly, 2095″ makes Francesca smile with its fun premise and innuendos.

Happy weekend! xoxo