You Know My Steez

It’s fashion week here in New York City. (Keep reading, there’s more to this than clothing).

The fall collections are still during winter, so there are a lot of chilly people in Bryant Park. I went to a show the other day when there was no slush on the ground, but I still worried about falling. Like many a lady, I enjoy watching an array of pretty clothes paraded just out of a sensible price range. I enjoy an excuse to get gussied up. I do not enjoy, despite my chosen profession, the slight tinge of dread that goes with being photographed. It feels like a lot of worry over something inane; it feels like a waste of energy; it feels self-absorbed, and just not, well, cool.

I’ve had a few female friends ask about fashion week, with looks of girlish excitement in their eyes. I catch myself dismissing it self-righteously, and think what a fool I am to deny this fun perk of my job. Many a chick can’t imagine owning a pair of designer shoes, let alone a rotation of borrowed and returnable items so one never gets bored. And it’s easy to feel guilty for this kind of experience. How many water purification tablets could fit into one Christian Louboutin shoe? (That’s figurative, but the answer is a lot if you count the four-inch heels).

My real reason for minimizing the hoopla around Fashion Week is maybe less noble;  its just plain old defensiveness. If I value this amorphous entity known as The Fashion World, then I value its valuation of me. And thus the needless, silly anxiety.

Cue the silliness…

A journalist at the show had time for one question. He looked at me with a straight face and asked, “Spanx or Thongs?” No joke.

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While I find something worth writing about…

check out www.francessultan.com.

I’m most impressed with how unique her stories are, since it’s hard not to be derivative. Fran’s writing is playful, wacky, insightful, and keeps you guessing.

This band is amazing. It was called Doggie Hi! Yippie, (2001 Massacre= great song)

Now it’s called Last Good Tooth.

I think it was Ray Charles (no, it was Kurt Vonnegut) who said music is proof of the existence of God.

This Monday, November 9th, I’ll be performing in the 24 Hour Plays on Broadway.

Slightly different fare from OLEANNA. Check it Out.

I didn’t think I would be writing about baseball again this season, because it’s too painful too watch. But it just got more painful… literally.

The Mets have an outrageous number of injuries, and are generally playing like chickens with their heads cut off. The trade deadline passed tradelessly, and Omar Minaya confirmed their decision to throw in the towel  by essentially saying the team isn’t even close to making the playoffs.  I won’t even get into problems higher up in the organization.

Then Giants’ pitcher Matt Cain has to go and pick on the face of our franchise. He lobs a 94mph fastball inside with the count 0-2 at David Wright, who immediately collapses on the ground. I understand protecting the plate, but that effing guy has some balls. I don’t care what anyone says, you don’t throw at someone’s head. And if he lost control of his mechanics, he should fall on his sword and apologize. I never heard the words “I’m sorry” in interviews after the game. When asked if he would call Wright at the Hospital for Special Surgery, Cain said he might, or he might “just see him at the ballpark.”

Then the M-effing guy describes his immediate reaction was to wonder how bad David Wright was hit. Really? I mean, really? In a split second Wright dropped to ground. This was so fast, it was obviously not a conscious decision- his body gave out because he caught a 94mph fastball in the temple. That kind of collapse is pretty telling.

As if that’s not enough, esse chingadero (Matt Cain) explained in interviews why he tipped his cap to booing NY fans as he walked off the mound by simply shrugging, “New York.”

I’m not a believer in tit-for-tat, except when it comes to baseball. And I applaud Johan Santana; not for hitting Pablo Sandoval and Benjie Molina later in the game, but for answering reporters with aggressive aloofness. Did he hit Molina by accident? In Santana’s words, “I feel like I have to protect my teammates, you can call that whatever you want.” But did he retaliate on purpose? Maybe his first answer wasn’t clear enough: “I don’t have to explain anything.”

Damn Straight, Johan.

Check out the Wall Street Journal, I wrote about The New York Mets for their weekend section.

If I have to read one more story about Michelle Obama’s toned arms, or what outfit she decided to wear, I’m going to vomit all over this computer. Really, CNN? (And every other media outlet, it seems). In 2009? This historic first lady, with all that she’s accomplished, is reduced to whether she went sleeveless? Is she a movie starlet or someone the leader of the free world respects and admires?

Her cover of Vogue was beautiful and inspiring, and I totally root for women who embody wisdom and grace. The article was a good read, respectful and informative, but largely about style. That’s certainly what I want to read about in Vogue, but why can’t she be on the cover of Vanity Fair or Time?

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