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Thel’ About Town

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Thelma Haney

You probably all know that our boys are about to go to war, God Bless ’em. Licketysplit and Lambchop want to know, “what is America thinking?!” And darned if they didn’t ask me, Thelma Haney! Now I don’t know much about politicking, but I can tell you all about life here in Epsom. Even with Mr. Haney gone (God rest his soul) life here is pretty exciting. Just last week my niece wanted to take me to dinner, and I had just seen an advertisement for a shrimp platter at the Ground Round on the TV! I don’t normally go in for a fuss, but I like to spoil myself now and again, so off we went. As I was driving home in my Buick Skylark, I passed the neighborhood arcade, where all the youths go to play the pinball, and it looked like the whole P.T.A. was out there protesting. Apparently, the young people of this town use the arcade as a meeting place to go out into the woods and drink alcohol! I am not really clear on what became of the matter, but my good neighbor Flora said it had something to do with Heavy Metal music.

This afternoon I was down the beauty shop to give Rosie all my soda can pull tabs for all those poor kids with leukemia, and I decided to have my usual wash and set. And she told me that George Clooney would not be present at the Oscars this year because he is a terrorist. I was shocked! Handsome Dr. Doug Ross, I told her it can’t be true. He’s a Kentucky boy! So I was out in the yard reading my papers (Flora gives me her Enquirers when she is finished with them), and that was no baloney. Rosie is known to exaggerate, but it said right there, George Clooney to be barred from the Oscars. It’s a shame when a handsome boy goes bad. I better call up my son and make sure he is keeping up with his studies.

Good day from Epsom,

Thelma Haney

Gentlemen take polaroids

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from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I sure am all a twitter because of this talk of terrorism. I know, that’s sooo 2001. But the government is going on and on, and there’s those terrible orange flashing lights to remind me I should be scared shitless. We’re at Condition Tangerine Dream, Condition Creamsicle, or whatever, if you hadn’t heard. Do you remember those Flintstones Orange Sherbet push-up pops? I loved those. I also have an orange push-up bra. Now here’s the problem: I would like to go buy a cardigan and a rude t-shirt at French Connection or something, but I am too afraid to leave the house. Which means I have to watch Dr. Phil or TLC all day. And while I love Trading Spaces, I’ll never get to be on it if I can’t walk out my front door! And my neighbors have a butt-ugly couch! This is a matter of the greatest import.

climbing the walls when I should be painting them,

-Betsy Wetsy

Dear Betsy,

Trading Spaces? Why I suppose I do trade spaces, in my own way…the ranch for the chalet, the penthouse for the yacht. So it goes. But really dear, why do the decorating yourself? *whispers, behind hand* There are PEOPLE to do that sort of thing for you! The only valid sprucing up activities should be related to personal grooming or costuming.

So, to that end, Kitty urges you to throw caution to the winds and venture out! Ob la di, life goes on. You will perambulate the shopping lanes with vigor, head held high, tresses conditioned and bouncing. The secret to inner composure is knowing you have a sparky victim tribute photo ready and waiting in case of emergency!

Kitty suggest a 3/4 view for your shot, as it is most flattering. You should also tip your chin down, while tightening the muscles beneath it, and look upward just a bit — never directly at the camera. Kitty learned this from Princess Di, and it never fails. Neutral make up is preferable, with a smidge of extra eye definition. A good brow is key; consult a professional if you are in doubt. You want to look like the very best version of yourself, not a painted whore. Unless you are a painted a whore, and then different strokes, right? Still, Never. Ever. Contour.

Now Kitty also insists that you order from a reputable photographer. You don’t want to see “Olan Mills” or “Lifetouch Portraits” stamped in the corner. Why not just let your mom use that horrid senior portrait then? Your big hair will be your lasting contribution. Maybe she’ll also helpfully give an interview about how much you loved whatever unfashionable band you liked in high school. You know she wants to! So, having a prepared statement is also key. You’ll want to detail exotic hobbies, luxurious interests, etc. What sounds better: “Betsy died as she lived, sunning on the prow of the yacht Serendipity,” or “Betsy was a paralegal, and she enjoyed bowling and was a real big Dokken fan.”

So my pet, image is everything, and it will most certainly outlive you. Feel better? Super! Bellicose? You mean bella cosa.

graceful under pressure,

-Kitty

He’s got the whole world in his hands

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It hasn’t been all cocktails and soda crackers for yours truly. The fate of the world has been laying heavily on my mind. Just yesterday I was in a French restaurant having medallions of monkfish and a salmon carpaccio drizzled in this wonderful creamy mustard, and i was thinking “damn those french, pass me another slice of that lovely lovely bread”.

I am afraid that I side with Michael Moore, on being a great fan of the french, if not Chirac. And “freedom fries” is a concept that makes me shudder. Our president is the only person buffoon enough to think that changing the name of that particular snack is a slight against the french. Freedom fries must have something to do with every american’s right to get fat while our government dupes us out of our own rights and brings down its imperialist fist wherever it chooses.

The pope has branded this war a Sin. I am no Catholic, but I agree. And so Steele and I went to Rome to ask the Pope personally if maybe it would be possible to dust off the Rack for Mr. Bush. Or perhaps at least some thumb screws.

pleading our case with the pope

smooch

Case in pointless

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from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

The leader of my nation is poised to start some WWIII-type shit. I am scared and embarassed. I signed all the petitions, and I half-heartedly stood around with some protesters. I thought about emailing my senator, whoever that is. Now I’m sort of informed, having watched the president talk on tv and looked at some scary infographics on the ABC network. The technical explanation I heard was “we’re gonna pound em.” Kitty, what can I do to take control of this situation? I’m frazzled and perplexed!

-scaredy cat

Dear Scaredy,

You’ve got nothing to fret over. Remember, nuk-yoo-lar weapons can’t hurt you, only the nuclear ones. Sit back, apply some soothing cucumbers to your eyes, and wait for the next Golden Girls rerun. Oh wait, or did you vote for Ralph Nader? In that case, a special detail will be by in fifteen minutes to impress you into the Navy. You’ll be taking control of the situation, all right. But don’t worry, chicks (and lots of fellas) dig uniforms!

At any rate, it’s horrid and scary. Kitty would advise against stress eating, as no one likes a chunky monkey, and nail biting is out as well. Think of your manicure! You could devote yourself to tooth whitening or promiscuity. Those are really the only acceptable options. Oh, and hoarding. Stop driving your confounded SUV and walk to loot the grocery store. But French wine and bon bons are out, as are French cheeses. And stop saying “zut alors” and “c’est la vie.” It’s annoying anyway.

Kitty will be hiding under the bed if you need her. But she’ll be wearing a fabulous negligee!

bunkering,

-Kitty

Oh Baby, just you shut your mouth…

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lambchop

Starboy (me!) was asked to come out and DJ at the Subversiv, a punk dive bar, on saturday. Last time this meant an assault upon my person, but this time it went swimmingly. The party was lovely as an umbrella drink! That dress came with a fortune cookie, which i have just cracked open now, and it reads.

“Rely on your Intuition.”

My intuition. Right. Well, I am concentrating very hard, getting in touch with myself. I will let you all know when my intuition divines something other than- “My, what a tasty cookie!” and “wouldn’t it be great to wash that down with another drink?”

Cunning linguist, eh? Shove some of that over this way, pronto!

smooch

A cunning linguist goes into a bar…

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I like to be most precise when insulting my co-workers, and I was wondering what is the salient difference between “incompetent” and “inept?”

thanks a mill,

-Wordy Winnifred

Dear Winnifred,

what kind of name is that? Are you a Cabbage Patch Kid? And what does Kitty look like, the g.d. OED?

Kitty will humor your presumptious request simply because Kitty shares your fondness for insults. So here we go, whoop whoop whee…

Incompetent:

1. Not qualified in legal terms

2. Inadequate for or unsuited to a particular purpose or application.

3. Devoid of those qualities requisite for effective conduct or action.

Inept:

1. Not apt or fitting; inappropriate.

2. a. Displaying a lack of judgment, sense, or reason; foolish: an inept remark.

b. Bungling or clumsy; incompetent: inept handling of the account.

Thanks, Dictionary.com!

Some would argue that they are but synonyms, but Kitty feels that incompetence is a fundamental problem for which there is likely not to be a cure. Ineptitude strikes Kitty as just plain not trying hard enough. Perhaps you should associate a character from popular culture with the object of your derision and see what occurs? George W. Bush? Clearly in the incompetence camp. Bill Clinton? Merely inept.

At any rate, why split hairs? Why not go for such tried and true take-downs as oaf, dolt, or boob? Then there’s pinhead, dumbbell, ding dong, simpleton, lummox, clod, or even stumblebum. Be creative! Do they also have a personal hygiene problem you could single out? Perhaps an unfortunate facial feature? Think outside the box, as if it were 1999! You could go from “dummy head” to “bungling filthy slattern!” if you just dig a little deeper.

correctly yours,

-Kitty

These are a few of my favorite things

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lambchop

Steele’s favorite hobby might be bouncing the pectoral muscles of his well-oiled torso, but he is a man of culture, too. The other day we went to see the Malevich show at the Guggenheim. Which day? Wednesday, the free day!

Steele

I was trying on dresses at the Chinese shop down the street. He does not have a changing room, but he set a wooden screen in the middle of the shop for me. I happened to be wearing stockings and garters as I slung my dress over the top like a james bond villainess. People were swanning in and out, to buy tea or ask for change for the tram. I have a feeling I should have gotten paid for this.

I am feeling underrated, underappreciated. Except by the panhandling punks in front of my door. They trail their sticky pink-eye up and down my body as they holler for change and snigger for me to take them with me. I tell ’em to fuck off and sing the happiness song to myself:

“Whenever I start to mope and pout

And there’s nothing left in my soul,

I check the toilet paper and if we’re out

I buy another roll!”

oh! Here is something else that really makes my day. Flopsy mopsy and some hardcore midgets! Rockin’!

smooch

Happiness Song

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lambchop

Am I the only person that imagines, when i walk past a hair salon, that the stylists are turning their heads and wondering who my hair designer could be and are gagging to have a crack at my locks? I hoist my pixie nose in the air and march on by, as if to say “No! Never!”

Vanity is truly a consuming hobby.

My darling Stu sang me the Happiness Song because he hates to see me all mopey trousers.

“Whenever I’m feeling down and blue

And sorry for myself

I get some staples and some glue

And I’m happy as an elf!”

smooch

Cruisin’ in my hoopty

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

A bit of a sticky situation is plaguing me. I was in the locker room at the gym the other day and feeling a bit fresh and spring-like. As I reclined in the sauna, I allowed my towel to peek open a bit. When I opened my eyes again, I noticed that a co-worker had entered the sauna. He seemed to be employing the same MO as me. I fled hastily without saying anything. He hasn’t mentioned it either. Then, whaddya know, I run into him at the video store! So I guess my generic question is if I’m sort of half-heartedly cruising in a local adult video store or sauna, and I run into a co-worker, what’s the appropriate way to behave? Especially if I’m not sure if he’s actually cruising as well?

-Simple in the Sauna

Dear Simple,

Kitty is so glad she does not have this problem. The men come swarming to Kitty! Also, you have left out a lot of pertinent details. 1) Is the co-worker hot? 2) Would you roger him roundly? 3) Are you a bit slow? Wake up and smell the coffee! 4) Kitty has always wanted to say that.

If the co-worker is hot and you would be open to cavorting, you could approach him casually the next time you meet in a non-work setting. Here we must tread carefully, because we must recall the magic phrase “don’t dip your pen in company ink.” Dating co-workers, while not uncommon, should be approached with caution. You never know when someone will go psycho and bring personal issues into a public forum. Are you prepared to be the next office drama? If you out-rank him at work, you may be legally obligated by the policies of your company to look but not touch.

You also didn’t say if you are out at the office or not. Is this a factor in your skittishness? Chances are good that if you keep running into this fellow at the places you mention (the gay section at the local porn shop), he’s playing for your team. If you weren’t sure he was cruising or not, he must be a discreet individual.

Finally, we have the possibility that the co-worker is not attractive, and there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that you’d ever hook up. In that case, proceed as if nothing had ever happened. No need to get his poor short, spotty hopes up! Also, if you are unattractive, you should stop fretting right now, as this guy will no doubt leave a wide berth. Saved by the ugly stick!

good luck,

-Kitty

Chim Chim Cheree!

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I cheered myself up last night swizzling champagne leftover from some party and listening to joy division. Depression, sales like doing your hair, viagra is easier when you are a kid. When I was little, all it took during that bleak half hour on a sunday visit to my father while he still slept, to send me careening into hysterical giggling, was playing the Beatles “Honey Pie” on his stereo. (go run-on sentence! go!) One is easier lifted from doldrums in grade school, too. After failing for the Nth time to tackle and smooch jason simonetti in the school yard, I could pocket my bus money and walk home, so i could get a greasy slice of pizza and a frozen coke when I got to Journal Square. You got these long straws with a scoop at the end. Fine, fine! Even with all that high school Weltschmerz, shoplifting would pick a girl right up!

Perhaps I ought to test against disappointment and spleen the power of chewing on a Fun-Dip stick and some Duran Duran.

smooch