I’m totally haggard. What I’m really trying to say is, I’m totally Ted Haggard—or rather, I’m totally jealous of Ted Haggard. Last week, the former crystal-meth-snorting, hustler-hiring evangelist declared that he is now, after three weeks of counseling, “completely heterosexual.” What a huge relief this must be for the poor bloke. How much simpler and less shrill must his life have now become! I’m really quite envious. After spending a week in the screeching nelly maelstrom that is New York Fashion Week, a life of low-key heterosexuality—ahh! The Dockers, the golf shirts, the cell-phone pager strapped to one’s belt!—sounds appealingly serene.
But let’s not waste time talking about old Ted. There are so many other crackpots to opine about this week, I’m afraid I’m going to have to jump around wildly, a bit like Ted Haggard after a batch of nasty crystal.
Speaking of nastiness: People continue to recoil from the odiousness of the characters in Notes on a Scandal, my favorite movie in decades. A Hollywood-insider friend told me that Dame Judi herself was quite reluctant to take on the role and that the general consensus is that if she doesn’t win the Oscar, it will be because her character, Barbara Covett, is simply too vile. Am shocked by the low nasty-threshold of all concerned. Having grown up in the U.K., I can tell you that there is nothing excessive about this depiction. The female British schoolteachers of my youth were irate, nihilistic, fag-snorting closeted lesbians, almost to a man. If an ordinary pink-cheeked lass were to have shown up at my school looking for employment, the headmistress would have said, “Go away, and come back when you have become an irate, nihilistic, fag-snorting closeted lesbian—then we can talk.” Trust me, this movie is little more than a documentary.
The same lily-livered prissiness is being directed at American Idol. The judges continue to be criticized for their blunt mockery of the contestants. As a loyal viewer and person with functioning eyes and ears, I can honestly say that the contestants are not at risk, my new favorite phrase. Far from it: They are all suffering from extremely high self-esteem and will definitely survive the verbal lashings that they occasion upon themselves. Besides, aren’t there enough pleasant smarmy people on the telly? We could use more abusive, foul-mouthed and unremittingly surly people, non?
Which brings us to Anna Nicole Smith: As you are no doubt aware, I am frequently to be heard inveighing against porno-chic and slutty dressing in general. That ubiquitous 80’s Playboy Bunny look—fake boobs, fake hair, fake lips—is the opposite of the glamorous eccentricity which I feel is the primary component of good style. My main issues with the new bleach ’n’ Botox whore-look are (a) it makes everyone look the same and (b) it is confusing. Dressing like a sex worker while working for Avis or selling real estate is silly and misleading. You may as well dress like Simone de Beauvoir or Carrot Top.
And so to Anna Nicole: As I write these words, I feel the grief groupies gathering with their armfuls of teddy bears and cellophane-wrapped flowers. The late Vicki Lynn Hogan is about to have a Princess Diana moment. And why not? Give that broad a good send-off. We loved her for her unpretentious honesty: Unlike all the fake hoochies referred to above, Anna Nicole’s bodacious porno-chic was not disingenuous—far from it. She dressed like a former stripper because she was a former stripper. A big blonde busty bad-girl, she was—and is—the People’s Pole Dancer. May she rest in peace.
Anna Nicole Smith’s career choices may have been a bit dodgy, but at least she wasn’t an astronaut. What an unacceptably goofy profession, especially for a woman. And yet the whole world has gone into shock because Lisa Marie Nowak—the homicidal member of the NASA love triangle—turned out to be a nutcase. The whole concept of space travel is so insane—oooh! Let’s all leave suburban New Jersey and go live on Mars!—that it would only appeal to straight men in Dockers with God complexes and women with mental-health problems.
Here’s another one from my everyone-is-surprised-except-me file: “Why would a rich Hollywood society gal like Kim Kardashian feel the need to make a porno tape with her one-time boyfriend, rapper Kay-J?” asked a bewildered populace last week. To which I answer, “Why not?” She’s merely doing a Nancy Cunard. Nancy was the shipping heiress and Negrophiliac—this is not my word: The 1920’s craze for all things African was dubbed Negrophilia—who scandalized crusty London society in the 20’s with her black lover and her armfuls of ivory bracelets. If you grew up rich in boring 80’s-90’s Brentwood, wouldn’t you want to Nancy it up a bit?
Now a random fashion gripe: As a midget, I am utterly furious that the trend for bizarrely high shoes—Louboutin, Marc Jacobs, Balenciaga, etc., etc.—hasn’t impacted the men’s footwear industry at all! Not a platform! Nor a wedge! Zippo! In fact, men’s shoes are getting flatter and wispier! While my female colleagues at Barneys staggered through Fashion Week on these monstrous constructions, I was doomed to lurk at the level of their kneecaps in my Prada Beatle boots with a half-inch heel. Grrr!
Another general annoyance: If one more person grabs me by the grosgrain-trimmed lapel of my madly au courant velvet Thom Browne jacket and says, “Oh, you should have a blog!”, I will start snorting crystal. My standard answer has always been, “I don’t need a blog—I already have a column.” But now that Cathy Horyn (NYT) and Teri Agins (WSJ) both have blogs and columns, this no longer gets me off the hook. Given that Cathy and Terri’s newspaper scribblings are also available on-line—as are mine—one is tempted to ask, “Just how many delivery systems does a gal need for her rants and observations?”
Finally, to affairs of the heart. I normally try to avoid getting in the middle of celebrity break-ups, but I am dumbfounded as to why Olivier Martinez would leave Kylie Minogue (non-stop Aussie good times) for Penélope Cruz (gorgeous, but, like many actresses, takes herself a bit too seriously.) Any insights would be gratefully received.
PS: Regarding Anna Nicole—if Nicole Kidman doesn’t snatch up the rights to play the busty bad girl in the biopic, she is making a big mistake. She could pack on the pounds. This could be her Raging Bull.
