PEARLS & AMBER

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE

'Slumdog Millionaire' is now being ripped apart.

It's a time honored tradition.  Success breeds malcontents who can't stand it...success, that it.

The fuss now, SUDDENLY, is that this movie glamorizes slum life in Mumbai.  That it used its child actors taken from the actual slums.

'Oliver Twist' is pretty appalling story, right?

But we love it.  We allow it to be what it is.

Story telling.  Fantasy.  A fairytale. 

The slums in Mumbai are as real as are those in Rio de Janero and New York City and Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.  And there are many real life areas in which these dire sort of circumstances are addressed.

Movies are not real life.

A movie can be many things.  It can be a serious social comment, and often is.  For instance 'Revolutionary Road', a bleak and so DONE statement about the life sucking elements of Life in the Suburbs.

I certainly don't care if you choose to go to that kind of entertainment.  I do take umbrage at your ensuing smugness that what you are doing is somehow intellectual and socially responsible--

When in fact, all you are actually doing is sitting on your rear in a darkened movie theater like I am.

It's just that I'd so much rather see the guy win the millions, than the unhappy woman die from a self-induced abortion--

I myself am trying very hard not to judge all you guys...but, oh my gosh, it's just not working.

MR. WINKLE

 Okay.  So yet once again, am I the last to know?

This is what happens when one's kids grow up.  Fad awareness disappears.

Cuteness, nuttiness, lovableness, omigod happenings just move on.

But so, enter MR. WINKLE.  You already knew?

Is he an adorable phenomena or what?

He's real.  He is a rescue dog.  His rescuer is a well-known photographer, Lara Jo Regan, who began noticing that all persons in the world fell in love with Mr. Winkle when they met him.  So, to spread the love, she began photographing him in adorable guises--and guess what?

His adorableness is now available to the world.

My son introduced me to him.  A friend of my son's introduced him to Mr. Winkle in a mall in San Diego.  A friend of a friend introduced my son's friend to Mr. Winkle--

And so it goes.

Mr. Winkle is as cute as Shirley Temple.  He's as happy as Santa Claus, but with that touch of innocent wistfulness of Christopher Robbins.

He's obviously not as grounded as Winnie-the-Pooh, but then Winnie did get stuck in the jar of honey, and I doubt Mr. Winkle would.

He doesn't need to work as hard as The Little Engine That Could, but obviously he'd be willing to if it were necessary.  He's a trouper of a model, reports his owner.

And since he was found and loved up good by Ms. Regan, he has been spared the pathos of asking one and all Are You My Mother?

Hurray for Mr. Winkle.  He is one adorable dog, one adorable bit of birthday parties everyday. 

I love you, Mr. Winkle!

CAROLINE KENNEDY

This is how I think of her.

C'mon now, isn't this picture in your mind too?  At the mention of Caroline Kennedy?

Like Shirley Temple.

It's hard to let go of the pretty little picture.

Maybe Ms. Kennedy could become an ambassador, like Shirley, if this sudden desire to...er...leap into politics is based on a desperate need for change in her life.  There's something inherently elegant about ambassadors.  Something in being an ambassador that might be more suited to Ms. Kennedy's natural gifts and accomplishments.

I'm relieved she backed out.  Given her imperious/shy bird withdrawal from the press after her unfortunate maiden flight trying to win over the gritty state of New York, it would seem she doesn't have the stomach for the hardcore life of a hardened politician.

And now there's talk of the United States finally appointing a Minister of Culture.

Now this would be a good role for Caroline Kennedy.  Her fund raising power is unparalleled.  And I'm sure she cares deeply about culture.  Especially the huge role the Arts play in the quest for world peace.

This would be a good place for Shirley Temple too. 
She sings and dances, and knows all about these things!

MULTITUDES OF SUNGLASSES

She has over two hundred pairs of sunglasses, this New York City designer whom I won't name because I don't want to be the cause of harassment veering in her direction.

TWO HUNDRED.  That is one hell of a lot of sunglasses.

I should know.  I have four pairs of sunglasses.

Believe me, the care and feeding involved is excessive.  The fretting and worrying, the near misses leaving them behind, the storage, the weight of their cases in my tote bag, all  MAJOR.
The expense.  The name brand value--

I live in Southern California, and although we might prefer to think we are our cars, we are actually our sunglasses.  Vuitton.  Prada.  Versace.  Calvin Klein.  Dior.

We look hip in our sunglasses.  A fabulously designed pair of sunglasses can transform Mouse into Rock Star, or, Soccer Mom into Jackie O.  And of course sunglasses are good for putting people off the scent of drunkenness or excessive use of drugs. 

By why oh why does anyone on the world think they need two hundred pairs of sunglasses?  Or more to the point, admit they own two hundred pairs of sunglasses.  They are all designed by the same sunglasses designer (again nameless...you wouldn't recognize it anyway).  Because?  "Because she knows my face better than anyone."  So I wonder, are they lovers, perchance?

One time my house was robbed.  It was in broad daylight.  My children were at Montessori and I was at ballet class.  To show the state of innocent bliss and good will towards man in which I lived, I did not believe in locking my back door.

After having packed up VCR, television, computer, and the good jewelry (leaving behind my rhinestone treasure trove, thank you thank you thank you), on their way out, they nabbed my sunglasses.

I had a pile of them sitting in a large wooden bowl by the back door.  All kinds.  Cheap, funky, cool, scratched, broken, pink, white and yellow, round, square.  They were lively and fun.  Whenever I left the house I'd yank a pair out of the bowl, and throw them on.  Changed my mood every time.   Having babies around brought out the whimsy in me.  There were maybe twenty pairs of mangled sunglasses in that bowl.  Half were used as teething rings.

The robbers swept them off my kitchen counter into their bag of the real stuff, and left without shutting the door.

I still miss that little collection of goodies.

But so, maybe this woman had her sunglasses stolen once?  And is seeking to fill the void?

I always think my robbers grabbed mine as an afterthought, on their way out. 

But maybe it was love at first sight.  They saw them immediately upon entering, swept them into their arms, and almost forgot to rob the rest of the house--

Those sunglasses were that special.

BEST SEAT IN THE HOUSE, INAUGURATION 2009

 

 

'TROT' OR 'LOPE' IN CROSSWORD PUZZLELAND

So, the clue in the Wall Street Journal Friday crossword puzzle was 'home run pace'.

Four letters.

So, I pictured all the times I'd seen a baseball player set off from home base after the perfect hit.

After they get done making sure it is really a home run, they LOPE around the bases.

RIGHT?

They don't careen.  They don't dash.

Nor do they stroll, walk or crawl.

It's an easy gait.  Their ball is outta the park.  It's a fabulous moment.  Why be in a big hurry?

And they are playing it cool, too.  No need to do cartwheels.  It's obviously a good moment for them.  A superlative moment.

Yes, he is going to lope around those windswept little bases.  Like the very cool baseball player he is, who just happens to have hit a home run.  We know he's happy.  No need to belabor the point.

He lopes.

The answer the Wall Street Journal puzzle, in all their clueless, skyscraper bound existence there in Manhattan wanted was--

TROT.

Trot?  Like a happy horse?    Like an escaped puppy?

Like a bustling nursery school kid being called away from the sandbox for his snack of milk and cookies?  We all know what that kid does.  He trots briskly towards the milk and cookies.  It's a bubbly moment.  A chipper moment.  It is not a laconically cool moment.

It's not a home run moment. 

LOPE is the correct answer.

VOLKSWAGEN VS O.C. LAMBORGHINI

So, too cool for words.  Volkswagen is suing Lamborghini--

Right here in River City...I mean Orange County, CA.

Dorky little Volkswagen.  Big cool expensive Lamborghini.

Except it's the opposite.

It's giant Volkswagen going after an innocent little Lamborghini dealership who gave away a couple of their cars last November, and didn't pay Volkswagen, who owns Lamborghini.

Do I understand what I just wrote?

All I know is one afternoon, last November, I saw five Lamborghinis driving south on Pacific Coast Highway, all in a row.  Four were driving sedately.  One suddenly roared on out ahead, making a big fat show of himself, and as a result, the whole strange parade.  So, one of the other Lamborghinis hauled out after it.  To reel the obnoxious attention getting car back in line?

By Laguna Beach they were all back in their line, still going due south, once again quietly sticking to the right lane.

There could be a moral here--

THE MAHARAJAH'S CHANDELIER

( In the thirties a Maharajah ordered an incredible Baccarat chandelier from Paris.

This chandelier was a chandelier to end all chandeliers.  It was huge.  It was gorgeous.  It was amazingly heavy.

This King of chandeliers was installed in the Maharajah's favorite palace.

In fact it was hung from the Maharajah's favorite ceiling--

(Let us pause here so we may go deep within and claim our very own Favorite Ceiling).

This glorious Baccarat chandelier hung from the favorite ceiling...for fourteen and a half minutes.

The chandelier, a hefty chandelier if there ever was one, was too much for the beautiful, but apparently fragile, ceiling.

With a shudder heard throughout the land, the ceiling caved in, the chandelier crashed to the ground. The result was what one might imagine.  Where there had been momentous but short-lived beauty, there was now a colossal mess on the floor--

The floor apparently was tough enough to survive.

The Maharajah was not a man worried about money.  He had the roof rebuilt.  This was a tedious endeavor, very boring, long winded, taking many months, but had to be done. 

(Meanwhile another huge Baccarat chandelier was on order back in Paris). 

When the roof was finally done, the Maharajah, having learned his lesson, tested the new roof.

He summoned his heaviest elephant and had him trample upon the new roof.  The roof held.

So, the new chandelier was hung. 

Life was good.

PONDERING THE MUSTACHE

Mustaches are very important to men. 

I know this because I remember my first husband's tight-lipped chagrin the day he shaved off the first one he ever tried to grow. His mother, who hung over him like a hawk, DIDN'T notice it was gone.

When my older brother shaved off his beard--it was black and very THERE--Mom didn't notice either.

Maybe women...rather, mothers, hate facial hair on their sons?

One of my sisters actually prefers her men with full facial hair--beard and mustache.  Both of her husbands have been similarly covered.

My first husband went on to grow a very respectable mustache.  But I missed being able to see his beautiful upper lip.

My second husband grew a big ole black beard one time, but he was going though a depressed phase, and when that beard came in with gray attached to it, it nearly killed him. 

Mustaches catch food in them.  A constant source of bother.  Much napkin use while eating and so on.  Much noting, or trying not to note, if there's food in his mustache...and whether or not to tell him if he's failed to wipe thoroughly...especially if he's trying to woo you.

They require constant fussing with--the little trim here, the little touch up there, the constant perusal in the mirror as to the state of the mustache.

Having a beard takes away the need for the daily shave.  That was a reason my second husband tried out the beard for awhile--

Now I hear they are once again coming into popularity...mustaches, that is.  Apparently the movie 'Milk' has spawned look-alike mustaches such as the one worn by James Franco--

Hmmm.  A cautious little pastiche, I say.

Kissing a man with hair around his lips can be an issue.  When the hairs are new they hurt to kiss.  Our delicate skin gets roughed up.  Of course this is sign that we have been the object of desire, but, even so--

Later of course the hair softens, which is a good thing.

I don't like the idea of mustaches coming back.  Maybe this fad will stick to the er...younger generation?  Which, after all, has made the bald head a fashion statement.

I love the bald head look, especially if it's accompanied by a man who is totally into his clothes.

Now this James Franco mustache--wishy-washy. 

But maybe this isn't the kind of mustache that is slowly reviving?

Surely the facial hairs of today, in this great new century, will show more verve and daring. 

If you're going to do it, well then be daring.  Do something different, creative--

Frank Zappa had the right idea.

ORANGE COUNTY, CA, ALWAYS THE OPTIMIST

I thought butlers were out of date.  Hopelessly pointless, or barring that, rather less around than they were, like in Hollywood in the thirties, in England during the twenties.

But here in The OC, one of our sappy local magazines 'COAST' featured an earnest but ever mindful of the times, light-hearted, article about the head butler at either the Montage or the Ritz Carlton...or was it that other hotel, across Pacific Coast Hwy from the beach...which is why I can't ever remember its name.

Of course, this article was about a butler in a hotel, but even so, why an article about a butler in the first place?  Is Coast Magazine ringing in the new year with allusions to the opulent life so recently clobbered, to keep our spirits up.

Last week in the Register, OC's newspaper, there was a small blurb about a local Rolls Royce dealership.  Yes.  Rolls Royce.  I have several.  How about you?

Anyway, this dealership has announced plans to expand.  Like, now.

Now?  There's to be a run on Rolls Royces?  Maybe to drive in front of that train, making billionaire suicides by train even more poignant?

I think this Rolls Royce dealership has been drinking too much cheap coffee, that's what I think.  I think this dealership is breathing heavy and lying through its teeth.  Trying to keep the wives in the dark as to the state of their spending power. 

Unless the Rolls Royce dealership owner is that guy who drove his big ole Hummer every day during the gasoline prices last summer.  He's sure having the last laugh now, isn't he?

Isn't he?