PEARLS & AMBER

KOBE DOES WHITE

I know, I know.  I'm a little behind the times here--this fuss over Kobe Bryant's all white fashion portfolio in the LA Times Sunday magazine, a few weeks back.

I wasn't that day, though.  I was right on it.  I saw the layout, and I loved it, okay?  Unusual fashion layouts are a passion of mine.  Even if it does feature Kobe Bryant, who isn't.  This was a strong, confident shoot.  Kobe posed like a pro.   The clothes?  Not even close to being actually wearable.  What was not to love?!

I almost kept the magazine for my favorite astrologer who adores Kobe no matter what.  I was going to show her how accepting I was of her misplaced adoration.

But I didn't.  And then the sniping began to hit my ears.  It seems that some squeamish sportswriters had taken umbrage with this preening, with this unadulterated show of vanity.  With this basketball star doing what he is so built for--

Modeling. 

It's so true about basketball players.  Perfect model material, each and every one. They are excessively tall.  They are lean machines...is it me, or are they getting a trifle huge...like steroid using huge...oops pardon.  Wash my mouth out with soap.  They are veritable clothes hangers, and Kobe baby was just doing what he was built to do second best.

Apparently the complainers also complained that he then tried to claim he had no idea the photos would make him look like such an idiot...although in the magazine piece itself, he said he had fun doing the shoot.  And why not?  The clothes were off beat.  They were beyond cool.  One would never actually appear wearing anything like these clothes.  Perfect. 

Sportswriters are such wimps.  Nobody is more prone to hero worship that sportswriters.  So they set themselves up for a fall.  It's insane to wax rhapsodic over twenty year old jocks who are millionaires with no coping skills.  Don't any of them have sons?  Don't they ever see the poor behavior coming?  

So here they are "upset" over Kobe's posturing? 

I would like to remind sportswriters that it is a time honored tradition in the NBA for the players, especially the super stars, to be peacocks off the court, okay?   My personal favorite was Walt Frazier (the guy in the hat).  Now that man could play AND wear clothes, major clothes, and he loved it all.

Certainly it couldn't be a case of clothes envy here, could it?  Would you guys actually have the nerve to wear those clothes?  Because it takes nerves.  Would you be caught dead wearing those clothes in front of your computer writing your columns? 

No?

So let Kobe baby do his job--shoot baskets, and smile for the camera...in white.

And you guys, lose the pedestals.

THE ALL NEW WAY OF BLOG

Okay, I'll do it.  Go on, twist my arm.  Make me, a stubborn Leo, change to the new Typepad format.

Make me change by way of removing the old format.  By the end of May, you say.  Change or we will change for you.

Because the old style is already two years old. 

Okay.  I'm getting a new car this August because the old one is almost  three.  I can deal with tiny numbers...although I had my car before this for ten years. I admit I was good and sick of it by the time I got a new one.  I'm whispering here, so it can't hear me, but I'm almost sick of my two and a half year old car.  On her bad days I am definitely sick of Molly (my Siamese to you), my twelve year old difficult diva.

So, I know tiring easily, okay?

My web designers are younger than my children, btw.  Which illustrates how cool I am. 

I can roll with the punches.  I can step up to the plate.  I can...can...er...I can...I will...um...ugh...creak and choke and gasp--

CHANGE.

I mean look at my hair in the photo above.  It's straight. 

Well, that straight hair required work on my part.  Like the use of a flat iron.  Which gave up the ghost one day in Paris.  I decided that perhaps the powers on high were suggesting strongly I go without the flat iron treatment.

So the next day I emerged from my apartment, head held high, les cheveux au natural.

So, I know I can handle this new TypePad business.