One-liners and A Funeral

Ted Kennedy's funeral has inspired me. Get thoughts of selfless service to the community out of your head; that's not my thing. No, good ol' Teddy has made me think about my own funeral and how it's going to happen. This is as close to a last will and testament as I'm going to get, because when I shuffle off this mortal coil I want all my shit burned and the ashes placed in my coffin. It's mine, I'm taking it with me.

The funeral procession will need to start in Brighton; since they'll probably find my body in my apartment after no one has seen me for a few days (drinking binge, head wound, the details bore me), I figure this makes the most sense. From Brighton I want to be taken down Boylston Street followed by Newbury Street. Make a few passes, I want one last look at the stores and restaurants where I spent my youth and parents' money.

Now while the "Lion of the Senate" laid in repose in Dorchester (Kennedys love to slum it), I will lie in pose at the Atrium in Copley Place. Make it something classy but fun; I'm picturing me sitting on a bench with a 40 in one hand, cigarette in the other. If you can light it, even better. After that just place me in my solid gold casket with Louis Vitton lining and the burnt remains of my earthly possessions and call it a day.

Also, please make sure Hillary Clinton and Obama are present? I don't want them to speak, and if you can put them in the back even better, but I just want Obama to kiss Hillary on the cheek and have her whisper to him again. We all know what you said Hillary when he pulled that move on you at Teddy's send off - "I will still take you down bitch." He looked scared too, he knows you mean it.

Before these words materialized here, I voiced them to my mother, who stood up slowly and left the room. When I asked her where she was going, she responded "I'm going to watch this in the other room, you're being too disrespectful." Funny, I thought Ted would've approved.

About a Queen (and I don't mean Latifah)

While attending the Boston premier of "The September Issue," a documentary detailing the work of fashion magazine legend Anna Wintour, I found myself horrified, repulsed and completely disgusted. Was it because of the enormous pregnant woman downing Champagne at a rate that would ensure her child is born retarded? No. Was it the fact that every girl there was decked out in some Boho chic dress with Chanel necklaces (I mean, really?)? No.

No, while vile in their own right, what truly set me off were the old queens and their ridiculous costumes. Faux-hawks? Cobalt blazers? Leggings? Motorcycle boots?! And can someone please tell me who in the hell wears a blazer with suede elbow patches and still makes it on the list of "Boston's Best Dressed"? If Welcome Back, Kotter! was still on the air, then fine, but it ain't. It's August and it's 85 degrees and you can't start wearing transition clothes until after Labor Day. You can't even wear full fall clothing until after Columbus Day! I know that, you know that, and that full on fairy queen at the premiere should sure as hell know that.

As a side note, the movie is fantastic - but how could a film that starts with the line "Well just because people buy clothes at K-Mart does not mean they're necessarily stupid..." not be?

An Open Letter to Lindsay Lohan

Dear Lindsay Hot Ass Mess,

HAM, consider this your intervention. Please concentrate more on putting on a bra than eating tuna, or maybe put some of Sam's money towards an ATD system because the folks at "Bag, Borrow or Steal" are getting suspicious since the last time someone stole everything. They're going to cancel your account sweetie, trust me.

Stop smoking your shitty Marlboros in Kitson, I want my clothes to smell like my smoke, not yours. Speaking of which, when you're shopping there, stop acting like Cuntasaurus Rex to the paparrazzi. No one is saying they aren't annoying, but I've seen and heard them laughing at you, and honestly - it is funny.

You should be aware that it says something when people look at me, the man who just last night offered to buy a cop a Coors Light because he was too drunk to tell who he was talking to, and say "You could probably help Lindsay Lohan, the poor thing." So here's my offer: if you need some guidance I can show you how to behave with class and dignity if you come visit me in Boston. The catch is of course I will drag you to every bar and say "This is my friend Lindsay Lohan."

But don't you dare bring Sam, there are enough dykes in this city. Not that she'll be around much longer anyway as we're going to get you back to men ASAP - though by looking at her I'd say a pack of cigs and a Vicodin and you'll be back on track.