Archive for August 2011
Happy birthday, Sara Ramírez. Congratulations for being the one actress on “Grey’s Anatomy” whom I can stand. That’s quite an accomplishment!
What is happening here? Let me know in the comments section.
Happy birthday, Warren Buffett. Just in case my plan fails to fund Moose Jaw Fashion Week with the winnings from my upcoming trip to Las Vegas, I may be looking for new investors. Have your people get in touch with my people . . .
Happy birthday, Rebecca De Mornay. I see that “Mother’s Day” was filmed in Winnipeg. You know, I always carry a gun when I’m in Winnipeg, too . . .
Why are all the editorials that make me roll my eyes back and cry “Dear Zob in heaven!” in “Vogue Paris” lately. I didn’t care much for Carine Roitfeld’s version of the magazine, and Emmanuelle Alt’s take on the title isn’t impressing me much either.
Take this latest layout, for example. Here’s Anja Rubik looking like she needs someone to buy her a sandwich in a spread called “Hippie Living.” Your old Auntie is old enough to remember that hippies didn’t wear Balmain, Cartier, Chopard and Oscar de la Renta. Some of them did carry their belongings in bindles, though, and it looks like Anja might have one on the end of that stick. Wait a minute! I have hippies and hobos confused again. I’ve never claimed to be an expert on people who stink . . .
Yet I do claim to be someone who senses trends before they happen! As I’ve mentioned in a few recent posts, fashion is about to eat itself alive again. You can’t raise an entire generation to worship luxury the way we have over the last twenty years and then expect the next generation to follow suit. Editorials like this are a sign of the Zobpocalypse, and if you ask me, it can’t come soon enough.
Happy birthday, Jennifer Coolidge. Gawd! It’s like I’m looking into a mirror . . .
Today is Tom Ford’s fiftieth birthday. I’d like to say something encouraging, but I can’t. While the idea of presents and cake does delight me, my actual birthday always provides me with a painful reminder of who actually gives a rat’s ass about me.
I Googled “Tom Ford fifty” and nothing much came up. Well, Tom, I remembered your birthday and that’s all that really matters. On the bright side, it’s nice to know who your friends are . . .