Category Archives: Brigitte Bardot

The Village & SoHo Mix.

I admit it: I’m in a New York state of mind. (Thank you, poet laureate Billy Joel.)  Please enjoy this mix. It’s titled The Village & SoHo and it’s songs that remind me of the time I spent there. Some of them may not make any sense to you, but they make sense to me. I do hope you enjoy.

Art by the incredible Emily of Phraseless. Follow her on twitter for tweets like, “Just in case you forgot, #timcurry is a god.”

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What songs remind you of a certain place?


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Apocalypstick: By Bret Easton Ellis.

“We have  to get a better understanding of who we are as people before I ruin my credit rating,” begins Bret Easton Ellis’s debut novel. OK actually it doesn’t, but that sounds like something he would write, doesn’t it? I relish Bret Easton Ellis. I feel like “love” is too common a word and “adore” too dainty; relish has the right amount of passion and zest and it reminds me of delicious, succulent hotdogs.


I think Bret Easton Ellis and I should be best friends. We both enjoy drinking, going to restaurants, and repeating these activities WHILE wearing sunglasses. If that’s not the basis of a lasting friendship then what is? I read an interview with BEE — I’m not going to type Bret Easton Ellis over and over, I don’t know him well enough to call him Bret, and I’m not calling him Mr. Ellis because that’s lame, though I suppose BEE is just as lame but it’s his fault for having a dashing name that looks silly when abbreviated, much like how my brother’s initials are DMV — anyway, I read an interview with BEE in the most recent issue of Los Angeles Magazine that made my passion for the man even greater. This was difficult, actually, probably because I could feel the hard-on of the guy interviewing him from here; I know BEE is great, but my God, keep it together, Buddy. You don’t need to wax poetic on his tie. Just chill, bro. Anyway this entire piece was basically about how much BEE drinks and how he orders his drinks and how perfectly glamourous it all is without trying to be. It was like the 80s were back. Or what I would assume that would be like because I was barely alive and functioning in the 80s. BUT WHO WAS, AM I RIGHT?


I also wonder sometimes if Bret Easton Ellis isn’t actually Kiefer Sutherland in an elaborate method acting gig. I also wonder if Bret Easton Ellis actually exists. I used to follow him on Twitter but it felt strange to read the common updates of someone I revere so highly. I don’t want to know that he’s going to the movies in Union Square. I don’t want to know he’s a real person and yet I also want to be his friend. But since I have a better chance of having tea on the moon with Michael Caine, I suppose I don’t really need to worry about it.


I don’t think I’ll get his new novel the day it comes out. BEE is not the most prolific of authors (which is totally fine, not every writer needs to be Joyce Carol Oates, the showoff) and I’d rather not wait six years for the next one, so I’m going to take my time in picking up and reading Imperial Bedrooms. I’m sure I’ll love it. The only one of his books I haven’t really enjoyed as much as the others was The Rules of Attraction which in my imagination causes him to hang his head in shame and whisper my name disappointedly. To make up for it I’d buy him a drink and then he’d buy me a drink and then we would continue this until we got so smashed we would prank call Andrew McCarthy asking him if he left his career at that weekend at Bernie’s. Then we’d go to a party in the hills, leave after about twelve minutes, and go to another bar where things would suddenly get very serious and he would say to no one in particular, “I believe hell is all around us” and I would offer to drive home but we would stop at Carney’s in Studio City first for delicious, succulent hotdogs and he would insist on smoking inside and no would stop him because he’d look like someone on the threshold of violence. Gosh we would have the best times together.


The Boys Of Summer — Don Henley


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Where Has All The Glamour Gone?


BB is horrified! Or she would be if she saw you ladies sashaying into Teddy’s in a goddamn pair of leggings. Look, leggings are fine if you’re working out or on your peroid, but if you’re going to have a night out, you better leave the leggings at home unless you are Karen O and you are performing. Night clubs in the 1950s and 60s used to be infused with glamour. I know this because I have a time machine, I built it out of empty fiber one boxes and starbucks cups, but that’s not important right now.

It’s the gentlemen who are really coming up short. Lads, cargo pants are great if you’re Indiana Jones. But since the chances of you being Indiana Jones are slim, I would opt for a pair of nice slacks.

Look at Serge Gainsbourg. HE’S LAUGHING AT YOU. HE’S LAUGHING THROUGH THE SMOKE. Gainsbourg is fuglier than those Muppet Old Guys, but he landed some of the most beautiful women ever made, and you know how he did that (aside from having insane talent and money)? He never dressed like a goddamn fish monger.

LOOK AT ANJELICA HOUSTON’S EYE MAKE-UP. FUCKING LOOK AT IT. That is extraordinary detail. Ladies don’t be afraid to falsify your lashood. It’s totally fine! The great thing about false eyelashes is that you don’t really need to wear any other makeup, if you want to be totally simple about it. Just fucking try it! You have nothing to lose! Your life could be completely different! Jumanji!

Faye Dunaway knows that the greater the lash, the greater the power. The power to stand completely still in a black turtleneck with your hands glued to your head.

Now what to wear?

The little black dress is always a classic because you can ever wear it on the beach!! There is nothing weird about this!! Scroll back up and look at BB’s LBD. They never fail. But listen, and please understand something:


If you’re really going to put on the Ritz and valet park your car than you had better not be wearing that spandex dress UNLESS you have elevated it and taken it to a new level, one that only Molly Ringwald in that movie where she cuts up her dress, can take it. You better throw a fox stole and some diamonds on that shit and a bouffant had better be on your head. I’m sorry but that’s just the trade-off for wearing American Apparel on your big glamourous night out.

Don’t get me wrong, I think wearing jeans and AA is fantastic, but we’re talking about our big night here! We’re talking about Betty Draper and sidecars and Rockettes and Dean Martin and shit.

So now we’re ready to hit the town with a goddamn hockey stick! Some things:

Always talk to the hottest guy at the party/lounge/club. Don’t analyze the situation, just go for it. Remember, flat back, abs engaged. Walk right up to him, smile, and tell him your name. Tell him he looks familiar, but only if he maybe kind of sort of does, or he’ll call you on it. In which case you need a name ready. I found that the name “Tyler” works well; everybody seems to know a Tyler.

Decide what you want to drink before you hit the bar. The bartender does not want to play, “Ummm I think I want something, like, not too heavy, but like, fruity, or I don’t know, do you guys have any specials, or like, what beer do you have purple monkey dishwasher?” If you want the most bang for your buck (DON’T YOU JUST LOVE THAT 1950s AD SPEAK?) go with a martini. Most people think vodka martinis are sacrilege but I think that gin martinis taste like a doctor’s office so I stick with vodka. I also enjoy ordering a glass of champagne — it’s never good champagne, but you look amazing drinking it, and everybody wants one once they see you holding it.

And finally, just be amazing. Your parents will be so proud.

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My motto in life is, “Would Brigitte Bardot put up with this bullshit?”
By which I mean, “Would Brigitte put up with this bullshit and if not then why should I?” Say what you will about Brigitte Bardot — that she’s racist, crazy, and probably a terrible mother and all around person — but one thing she is not is a motherfuckin wallflower. NO ONE walks on Brigitte Bardot. This is a woman who has said, “I don’t get left. I leave. I decide.”

And yet, when it comes to relationships (I know, I know, I hear Carrie Bradshaw in my head too) I rarely leave first. My inner BB is screaming, “Stupid femme! This is merde!” or you know whatever else angry French people say. I put up with a lot of merde.

After all, if young women didn’t make such mistakes then songs like, “Under My Thumb” and even “Look At That Stupid Girl” would never have been written. (Or maybe the lesson is just don’t date Mick Jagger. Both “Under My Thumb” and “Look At That Stupid Girl” have the dubious honor of being written about Chrissie Shrimpton. Poor girl.) But I think it’s time we all asked ourselves, “Would Brigitte Bardot put up with this bullshit?”

Brigitte Bardot would never have wasted her time with McSleaze. Yes, my codenames aren’t terribly clever, I will be the first to admit this. But my first codename was actually just his name, which isn’t a codename at all. And he’s so vain he’d probably think this post was about him. What was my point? Right. McSleaze. BB would have slapped McSleaze on the first date.

It took me weeks.

Things started out just fine with McSleaze until he sent me a facebook message saying something to the effect of, “I just got out of a really difficult relationship and so I’m not looking for anything right now One Tree Hill dialogue insert here blah blah” the night after we hooked up. That’s fine, I wasn’t looking for anything solid either. However, most alarming, was that that same day, the day right after we made out, he ALSO sent a facebook message to one of my best friends with the SAME EXACT RELATIONSHIP SPIEL only adding, “I like your moves. Let’s hang out.”

Here’s where I have to admit that despite this…I gave him another chance. I know. BB would have spit in my face and put her gitane out on my arm. The weird thing though was my friend actually decided TO BE FRIENDS WITH HIM. So then I thought, “Well fine, if she’s going to be his friend, then I’m going to be an even BETTER friend. If she’s going to take him to lunch I’m going to take him to Disneyland. With blow jobs.”

Obviously I was an idiot in deciding to see him. But I did. And the truth is, I didn’t even like him. I’m not sure if he even liked me. But we continued to go out to dinner and get drinks which was basically an excuse to wind up making out at his place later. I even worried when I didn’t hear from him or when I couldn’t see him. Once I texted him asking him what his plans were for the evening. “I’m just going to kick back,” he said. I offered to kick back with him. I offered to bring pizza and wine. And he said, “I can’t, I have plans.” So I said, “You just said you were kicking back.” And the next day he said, “Sorry about that, I meant I had plans kicking back.” And yes, I continued to see him.

Even when after dinner he said, “By the way, I might be moving to London.”

Even when once I was at his place and we were making out and being all cuddly and I threw my hand back and grazed an empty condom wrapper. He apologized for his carelessness and I knew it was an accident and that he didn’t mean to leave evidence of whatever sex he had the night before with whatever, even after that, I still continued to see him. (I never slept with him.)

Even when he told me, “You have a perfect mouth. Will you blow me?”

Things all came to a head (pun intended) where one night he couldn’t keep his erection and decided to blame me. Then things got weird and serious. He suddenly stood up and said,

“This isn’t going to work. We’re both scorpios.”

I laughed. I said, “Are you serious?”

“Yes, get dressed.” He was damn serious.

(This still isn’t the part where I slapped him Scarlett O’Hara style.)

Then I actually PLEADED him to tell me what I did wrong (Me!!) and to give me another chance. And he said, “It can’t work, we’re both scorpios. Go home.” And the entire time he said this, he was TEXTING ON HIS PHONE.

Yes, that is when I slapped him. He was stunned and shouted at me to get out of his house. Yeah, way ahead of you there, dude.

Now violence is not a good solution, I know this. But I also know that slapping skeezy dudes across the face is pretty awesome. So I think you can see my point. McSleaze was not a good person to give another chance to and not a good person to date and I was at fault for thinking he was someone different.

It’s like what Oprah says Maya Angelou told her, “When people show you who they really are, believe them. Believe them!” (And the way Oprah says it on her show, sounding like the wise old tree from “Pocahontas”, you expect the set to tremble beneath her and James Horner music to swell and Tom Cruise to cackle into a crystal ball or some shit.)

I should have listened to Oprah. Or Maya Angelou. Or even Gail. But I didnt. And in doing so, I dragged down my self-worth. I turned into The Stupid Girl.

Brigitte Bardot would have NEVER put up with that bullshit.


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