Cute: The Unfuckable Word.

Bosom friends!

Mandatory for you all:

Head to Comedy Central (click on the link) and watch this gem by Amy Schumer from her hit TV show Inside Amy Schumer.

Amy stumbles upon a group of her show-business heroes celebrating a special occasion.

It's Tina Fey, Patricia Arquette, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus.

The gathered together to help Julia Louis-Dreyfus celebrate her last fuckable day.

The whole thing is as surreal as it is truthful and perfectly current.

Those women have the attitude that if possessed by all female in the world could turn this planet around in magnificent ways. I am fucking sure of that.

Thank God for that video.

I was not in a pleasant mood yesterday evening. So I did what I usually do to fix a mood: white wine spritzer the size of a fish bowl. When that didn't work I did what others suggest to do: sleep on it.

I did sleep on it.

I woke up as miserable as the previous evening. Same amount of bile in my system, same feeling of discouragement.

Then I bumped into Amy's video and realized that laughter truly is the best medicine.

Don't sleep on it, LAUGH ABOUT IT!

In my case laugh and write about it. I have been saving so much money since I have opted to avoid a therapist to help me reorganize the clutter in my brain. Mental DIY redecoration. Home Depot would be very proud.

Speaking of clutter I bumped into a post from the Dallas Moms Blog. 

This mom wrote about getting rid of her entire wardrobe and start fresh so that she wouldn't end up perpetually wearing her yoga outfit. 

The last drop that made her pioneer such enterprise was a picture of one of her frenemies (friend+enemy) whom was bragging about her newly organized and decorated wardrobe. 

Then the Dallas mom starts describing a wardrobe capsule, a mini-wardrobe made up of really versatile pieces that you totally LOVE to wear...

Kill me now.

Once she was done with this revolutionary undertake she said:
not only do I look better, but I feel better. The clutter I cut out of my life has lifted a huge weight off my shoulders.

I can say that changing my wardrobe has changed my outlook on life. It has helped my confidence and attitude about how less really is more.

If you know me even a little you must only imagine how I must feel about such statements.

For me the concept of huge weight lifted off ones shoulders should entitle more than a new acquired sense of style or the mastering of fashion styling.

A paid off debt or mortgage could be a huge weight off ones frigging shoulder. 

Knowing that your kids may not have to deal with the consequences of global warming could give you a new outlook on life.

Dressing nicely should makes you feel more confident perhaps but I wouldn't give it so much relevance.

I mean come on!

If a cluttered closet is what is holding you down then you may need to re-evaluate your whole life pronto . Those problems are called first world problems. Go and ask an African mother with no running water or even a toilet in her home what she thinks of a stuffed wardrobe that is holding Dallas mothers down. A very humble yet liberating go fuck yourself perhaps.

But there is more.

This article was very well received and positive comments kept pouring.

Many other ladies were very thankful towards this Dallas mom and her pearls of de-cluttering wisdom.
Words like brave, inspiring, such guts, clutter is holding me back were not spared.

Brave? Inspiring? Guts? Clutter is holding me back?
 
"Cute" article but we need to get some perspective ladies… 
An army of women that only need to eventually look CUTE to put their lives together.  
Can we get rid of the word “cute”?
Cute homogenizes individuality.
"Cute" and "fine" are two words I only use when I try to be polite.
However "cute" is the worst.
As I said before cute is temporary, beautiful is forever.

We should ALL aspire to be beautiful, sensational, unique, amazing, one of a kind.

Those qualities transpire even from a messy, stuffed, unorganized closet. 

I wonder what Amy Schumer, Tina Fey, Patricia Arquette, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus would have say about that...but they do have more pressing issues such as their own unfuckable day approaching...

Ciao for now.

You are a beautiful ass.

Bosom friends!

Yesterday I said that I was going to limit the bitchiness to Tuesdays only.

I have to admit that checking what is trending daily does not help restricting the pouring of bitch to a single day per week.

I wake up in the morning with hopes for a less moronic day and I get promptly disappointed while surfing the frigging net.

The fact is that all kinds of news are at our disposal on the ever so up-to-date Internet. We can choose to watch (together with other 45 million viewers) a little kitten chewing its own tale or we can direct our attention towards issues that are effecting fellow humans and society in a much more profound way.

This is where the tricky part comes in: we can choose.

For instance on April the 2nd Islamist gunmen burst into a Kenya university before dawn shooting students and taking hostages during early morning prayer services.

The massacre that killed 147 people and wounded many others, lasted for hours before the terror was over.

Middle-eastern delight.

Innocent students killed on the spot in the name of Islam.

Ugly right?

Let's go back to the kitty chewing its tale.
Gnaw-gnaw.

How cute.

How charming, delightful, engaging, lovable, sweet.

Kitty got 45 million views.
147 murdered students got very little attention from the media and the news all together. 

I am not gonna get into a political dissertation about the Islamic issue. I do not have the intellectual tools to do so. I am well aware of the fact that my brain processes show-tunes and decorating epiphanies more organically than international political conundrums. However I do try to pay attention to more substantial matters and leave the bloody kitty alone with his damn tale.

Since this blog is about keeping you all entertained I will limit my complaint to this:

We are free to follow whatever strikes our fancy.
But we also have the responsibility to get informed about what the hell is happening world wide when it comes to very urgent and important topics.
Knowledge is power bosom friends.

That being said...
Speaking of Middle East Lindsay Lohan instagrammed a “Beautiful” Arabic saying that actually means “You’re An Ass”. (did you notice the hook I created there?)

The actual Instagram post.

Indeed this is trending right now.

Lindsay meant to be nice to all her fans instead she ended up slipping on a language-barrier banana-peel.

Basically she insulted the Arabic reading/speaking crowd and actually looked like an ass herself.

Lohan seems not be able to catch a break with social media.

The thing that is at the very core of her popularity longevity is actually turning on her time after time.

The former "mean girl" also has been posting grossly photoshopped selfies where you can clearly see where she has fixed her curves (check the warping of the background...blatant...)

Oddly shaped door...

Very bad tile job on top of the tub...

Strange case of melting stairs...

Now we all misuse social media one way or the other.

We all have written something that didn't make any sense or lacking proper grammar and spelling.
I am very much guilty as charged.

We all like our pictures to be properly filtered just like expensive Vodka: to perfection.

However I find quite amusing that somebody with such resources as Lindsay Lohan cannot manage to get her social media act together once and for all.

Doesn't she has a pal that just calls her up and tell her "hey girl take that pic off your Instagram, you look like a fool"???

Or a kind soul that screens her linguistic interpretations of whatever idiom?

Looks like even when followed by millions you can end up on your own.

On your own just like the 147 students from Kenya.

Ciao for now.

Sisters are doin' it for themselves, or not?

Bosom friends!

Today I have no good news for ya'll.

For that reason I've decided to ride this wave of frustration and start a new weekly segment called Bitchy Tuesday.
From today on Tuesdays will be dedicated to let the bitchyness run free.
Like wild horses.
Like a candle in the frigging wind.

The weather is crappy, I have a ton of laundry to get done, Giorgio Armani is now telling us not to dress as homosexuals, the "Kylie Jenner Challenge" for Bigger Lips is infesting social medias and to add insult to injury I was VERY disappointed by the musical Sister Act. 

Perhaps I need to explain what the "Kylie Jenner Challenge" for Bigger Lips entitles.

It's a sad state of affairs.

The youngest of the Kardashian franchise is very committed to prove she never went under the knives to enhance her appearance.

First of all who the fuck cares.
Who gives a monumental fuck about how shallow a human being can be.

Second, Kylie my pet, you are not fooling anybody. You keep saying you grew up and that is why your looks changed. Fair enough. 
The uncanny thing is that the girl does not even reminisce of a grown up version of herself. She actually looks like her breadwinner big sister Kim minus the "music genius" as a husband.

Before and after "growing up".

Allegedly the plumpness of her lips are due to a home remedy which consist in putting a plastic cylinder on top of your lips and suck to create a vacuum effect that is supposed to make your lips protrude for an aesthetically pleasing configuration of your face (if you know from which movie
aesthetically pleasing configuration is from comment below!).

Basically it is the same process used by penis enlargers. 
Sisters Are Doin' It for Themselves.

I hope the picture above is explanatory enough. Only instead of a penis you shove your lips in a contraption that uses the same principle: suction. Shot glass, Gatorade bottle, whatever takes you further away from sanity will work...

I won't post the result pictures of the morons who tried this challenge. They are a bit graphic and just plain stupid. However you can head to the video clicking on this link : Kylie Jenner challenge.
You can also just type Kylie Jenner challenge on Google search and you'll have plenty of stupid at your disposal.

I wish her challenge could have been reading a book or doing some volunteering. Even the tidy-up-your-own-damn-room challenge would have been more constructive.

We are in bad shape people. Bad, bad, really really bad.

But let's keep digging in in my bag of dissatisfaction.

Giorgio Armani (80) is now letting know his male consumers that they must not dress as gay men but only as men. Enough with outfits that reflects our preferences and express our personality.
Give this statement the weigh you will.
Giorgio is the king of fashion. Let him talk and design and enjoy his very lucrative empire.
Giorgio is not anti-gay, he is just anti-bad taste.
Keep putting on your back whatever the hell you want.
We will all be judged one way or another regardless the good or bad taste of our get ups.

Finally I will bitch about the musical Sister Act that was here in Miami at the Arsht Center last week.
I was VERY excited to go and sing along with a bunch of nuns at the abbey.

I won't get into too many details but here is what really bugged me:

1- Music by Alan Menken. He is the Deus ex Machina behind hist such as The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, Pocahontas, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Hercules, Enchanted and many more. I was not taken away by any of this musical original compositions.
The songs used in the movie were far cleverer and more compelling.
Sister Act the musical was a bland blend of Motown, 70's disco and the usual Broadway inspiring power ballads that didn't really go in any direction. The main song kept saying "take me to heaven" but I felt like I was taken to Limbo.

2- Casting. Dolores Van Cartier is supposed to be a busted out wanna be singer with not much of a voice but with great show business know-how. Also she is not supposed to be spring chicken either. What I saw on stage was a lovely young performer with a hell of a voice who looked more like she was at an American Idols audition more than anything. Also the directorial decision to make her act every single line she uttered as a sassy-finger snapping- head waving-hoochie mama kind of gal was fun for the first 5 minutes. Then it got only annoying. We got it: she is supposed to be a proud African American guuurl. Two hours of not so good lines all delivered with the same cadence was frankly an hour and 55 minutes to much.
Sister Mary Robert, the quiet and shy one was also played by a little girl with a great vocal range. However for some reasons she ended up sounding and looking like one of those choir boys with very high voices who hasn't hormonally developed yet. Too bad.
The rest of the cast sort of all blended together in the sense that they were good but the material they were given to play with was not sparkly at all.

3- Production. They had a limited budget and you could definitely tell. The school-production like sets were just not aesthetically pleasing (again). The final scene starring a huge disco ball Virgin Mary statue merely looked like the final desperate attempt to make up for the rest of the measly scenography.

4- The script. So the abbey was in trouble because a couple of "bachelors" with interior decorating skills wanted to buy it. Why not perpetrate gay stereotypes? Dolores Van Cartier only talked in ghetto lingo. Again why not perpetrate that kind of black girl stereotype? Most of the funny lines were not fresh and you could see from a mile where the joke was gonna head to.
Nothing un-funnier than wanting to be funny at any cost.

5- Choreography. How many pinwheels can a group of nuns perform??? Apparently an endless array.

It was impossible for me not to miss the 1992 smash hit with Whoopie Goldberg.
Everything about that movie worked.
Everything about the musical didn't really.

And that's all folks for this week Bitchy Tuesday, 

Ciao for now!

Prohibition, waipsters and a controlled party atmosphere.

Bosom friends!

how about we start the week with a lovely history lesson about the origin of the word Prohibition?

You'll love it. Trust me on this one.

First things first let's open our vocabulary:

pro·hi·bi·tion

ˌprō(h)əˈbiSH(ə)n/

1. the action of forbidding something, especially by law.

   
   

   "they argue that prohibition of drugs will always fail"

   
   

   synonyms:

   banning, forbidding, prohibiting, barring, debarment, vetoing, proscription, interdiction, outlawing

   • a law or regulation forbidding something.

     plural noun: prohibitions

 2.2. the prevention by law of the manufacture and sale of alcohol, especially in the US between 1920 and 1933.

I do love what this word has done to the many pleasures we are not suppose to enjoy.
When it comes to prohibited stuff we all go back to our teenager years way of thinking very fast. When something is forbidden it instantaneously gains an allure of desirability that makes us think we have to get a piece of it otherwise our lives are not worth living. Just like very hormonal beings we tend to not give a shit about the big sign that says "prohibited" and we go ahead and give in as if that sign said "go ahead, it's only prohibited because it is worth the hassle".

Here in Miami this word (and more generally its concept) has been made popular in a few ways that are as compatible as Liza Minnelli and sobriety.

That is why when I found out that here in Miami there is an actual establishment called "Prohibition" my fancy got more than tickled. My fancy was properly aroused.

Walking by this building in Midtown during closing hours was like walking by one of those Pandora Boxes kind of premises where the exterior sort of gives its content away but more than anything only instigate you to make the necessary arrangements to get in it.

Eventually in I got.

Mind you, a restaurant, is a restaurant, is a restaurant.

Pretty decor, lovely food and nice vibe. I would hope so, since no restaurant in Miami comes cheap.
They even have a flat screen over the bar playing 20's and 30's themed movies on a loop. You know, gangster flicks a-la Great Gatsby. To be perfectly honest I do not need to have a view of people getting shot dead with my lobster croquettes, but I do see where they were going with that.

What really caught my attention was their staff.
Their male staff.
Now I do really care about good service. I take for granted that if you are paying for a meal your food should be amazing. What makes a difference is the experience that is provided with your chow.

Please take a look at the Prohibition's experience below:

Say whaaaat???

They look like they are all from the Blair Hipster Project.
Mind you, they look way better in person as well.

You want to grab onto one of their suspenders and never let go.

They also have that attitude that is typical of men when they are aware of their handsome looks with a dash of coolness about it because you know,  they are hipsters after all. Cool to the bitter end.
The waipsters (waiters+hipsters that is how I will refer to them from now on) are attentive but not servile, they are swift but they never loose their composure. Waipsters listen to your needs but don't take any shit. In other words they are the restaurant staff counterpart of the best lovers you could possibly bump into.
Their very precise hair and beard cuts make you only wonder even more if their carpets match the tidiness of their drapes. Waipsters are all in tip top shape and the white fitted shirts they sport, together with those black slim fit pants make you appreciate their toned frames but also notice that they are not gym bunnies because you know, they are hipsters after all.
Waipsters pearly whites are renowned and every time they smile at you their final tip increases by 5%. Trust me, you will feel very inclined to reward the fairness of their assets.
They do look like they went through a casting process to be chosen as waipsters, and I am grateful to whomever hired them. Thank you from the bottom of my bosom.

Go check them out at Prohibition 3404 N Miami Ave, Miami, FL 33127 and if any modeling scout should read this, you are welcome. I won't even charge you my finding fees.

Here is one more waipsters portrait for the road.

After all this deliciousness I will serve you a bite of bitter.

As I was saying before I got caught reminiscing about pretty waiting staff, there is a different way to interpreter prohibition here in Miami.

At a recent Miami Beach city commission meeting, mayor Philip Levine proposed banning outdoor alcohol sales throughout the city after 2 AM — meaning no more late night $40 margarita bowls and $19 mixed drinks at bustling sidewalk restaurants or outdoor bars on the tourist strip.

Levine wasn't shy about why he's pushing the change: He thinks Ocean Drive is a drunken, disgusting mess. In his own words Ocean Drive "It's turning into a terrible place that's become a blight, a cancer that spreads to our entire city."
"We want to have a great party atmosphere," he said. "But a controlled party atmosphere. A safe party atmosphere." 

After yesterday's discussion Miami Beach's city attorney is set to draft an ordinance, which the commission will then consider in May.

Are we now trying to tame Miami Beach al fresco?

It is true that Ocean Drive is not a pretty sight when the party animals tourists take over but prohibiting the outdoor sale of booze after 2 AM I don't think is going to transform South Beach into Disney World.
Controlled party atmosphere???
It's like saying let's have an organized zombie apocalypse.
A progressive Republican Party.
The talented Kardashians.
Oxymorons I tell you. Only oxymorons (combines two opposite qualities or ideas and therefore seems impossible, I saved you a trip to Google).

Perhaps they should prohibit tacky sun burns tan lines displayed by the occasional light skinned North European tourist.
Also Crocks and Birkenstock sandals of any shape or form should be prohibited on the Miami party strip together with loud bombastic flashy leased sport cars and the morons who feel like somebody while driving them at pedestrian peace down "Ocean".

I personally would love to prohibit human stupidity and lack of better judgement.

A recent string of embarrassing crimes on Ocean Drive surely hasn't helped the iconic strip's image but alcohol only magnifies the idiotic behavior of some buffoons.
You cannot prevent imbecility from happening.
It's a trade mark of many and it's not going anywhere.

An idiot, is an idiot, is an idiot.

I will now glance at the waipsters picture in a dream like daze for a few minutes to restore my faith in humanity.

Ciao for now. 

From pale and scrawny to different and edgy.

Bosom Friends!

This is the story of how I got scouted by a talent agency while I was minding my own business.

I was scavenging around TJMaxx in South Beach. I was knee deep into marked down designer shoes and clearance value packs of CK underwear when a lovely lady approached me.

I was holding a pair of Diane von Furstenberg heels in one hand (don't ask) and a couple of Missoni socks for the hubby in the other when I heard somebody trying to attract my attention. To be mentioned that the effort of taking my mind off a shopping session is as easy as trying to take Sarah Palin's head out of her ass. Very tasking.
Nevertheless this lovely lady took advantage of the full frontal attack technique and basically had to crush into my cart for me to snap out of my browsing trance and acknowledge her existence.

I must have looked like a crack whore wondering around in search of her next fix, scattered but focused.

The girl who manged to get me out of my retail rapture was called Priscilla (first thing that came to mind was "queen of the desert"...I am a big homo, what can I say).
Priscilla introduced herself as a talent scout for this north Miami agency and told me she was taken by my different look and edgy style. Did you hear that you bitches?
From pale and scrawny to different and edgy.
It's amazing what a stranger compliment can do.
I still firmly believe that I am indeed pale and scrawny (and I wish I had a proper Hollywood smile...even a Bollywood one will do...) but hearing somebody actually uttering nice adjectives directly to my face was a high I have never experienced. Yes, I have been complimented about something I was good at by strangers, but I have never been told such things about my sole appearance. Not even in gay clubs. In gay hangouts usually a compliment is payed with the sight of a possible ejaculation down the line. Gays don't tell you you are pretty or hot to boost your self esteem. We have not developed that kind of empathy. Judgment is our trade mark, take it or leave it.

However Priscilla gave me her business card and advised me to call to make an appointment with one of their casting managers.

So today I went to speak with Jane (Tarzan was not available...) and I got briefed about what their agency can do for me. Basically they look for different faces to introduce to other bigger modelling and casting agencies.
Now I am well aware that Elite Models and Wilhelmina are completely our of my league but it was nice to be picked out of the multitude of pretty faces who grace South Beach on a daily basis.

My first attempt at modelling.

I am also well aware that this may lead to plenty of nothing but I am not investing in photo shoots or expensive portfolios either. For once I am not flying off the handle.

No expectations my pets.

Just like the majority of pleasant things in life, I will let it come to me but I won't beg for it.

In the meantime I will keep living and writing about my new experiences here in Miami where another Priscilla queen of the desert girl might be just around the next TJMaxx clearance aisle.

Ciao for now.

You Gotta Fight For Your Right To Parade.

Bosom friends!

Have you all recovered from Miami Gay Pride week?

This year I didn't attend the parade but I did keep myself informed by stalking the FaceBook walls of people involved or just attending the colorful display of pride.

After all I saw I couldn't help but wonder if any of this LGBT parade showcased  any substance at all.

There I said it.

First of all this year's Gran Marshal was Mario Lopez. Last year we had Gloria Estefan and Kenny Ortega. Gloria and Kenny's bathrooms are more iconic than Mario Lopez. He is a lovely boy with a lovely body but I feel like we went from two true stars serving as Marshals to a starlet with not much more substance than the parade itself. It's a matter of fact Estefan trumps Lopez. Despite his good looks Mario looked a bit uncomfortable and out of his comfort zone all together. A pretty fit fish out of water. What is his connection with the gay community? More so, what does make him relevant enough to be chosen to carry such honor? He is not even a gay icon. It would have been more credible if we had Charo as Grand Marshal dressed in all her sequined glory.

There is said it again.

Let's carry on, shall we?

During my brief encounters with the Miami and South Beach gay community I heard very often sentences like "it's about the legacy", "finally we have marriage equality", "we are a welcoming and open community", the community, community, community.

Community: a social, religious, occupational, or other group sharing common characteristics or interests and perceived or perceiving itself as distinct in some respect from the larger society within which it exists. 

Got it.

Now the gay community allegedly supports diversity and accepts and embraces all individuals sharing the fundamental requirement to be part of the club: being lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender.

Fair enough.

While reflecting over this very progressive picture I begun to notice a few cracks in this whole pride conundrum.

It's wonderful to celebrate what ever your subculture may be. Go ahead and wear as little as possible, shake your toned ass for the world to see and party, party, parteeeee.
What shouldn't happen is mistaking a parade for a social movement.

The LGBT community has achieved marriage equality in many states not thanks to any gay pride parade, but thanks to hard working advocates who undertook the responsibility to make human rights for the gay community a reality.
People are becoming more open minded towards the LGBT community not because a bunch of us is wearing their new jock strap while parading down South Beach on a open roof car.
We are becoming less of a cliche because some of us are not defined by their sexual orientation but are recognized and valued for their talent, competence, intelligence, (even humor) and are committed in making a difference statement with their lives.

I am well aware you can be both (for instance a human rights lawyer and a go-go boy on a parade float) but what I saw during this last and past prides has been quite monotone.
Physical appearance first and foremost and nothing beyond that.
I understand that a parade can only be seen, it's very unlikely that the gays would be interested in a equal rights lecture during the Gay Pride celebrations.
What annoys me is the fact that the colorful display of pride associates itself with anything that has to do with the improvement of the perception that our community has achieved during the past years.

These gay parades seam like they celebrate only the very superficial part of the LGBT peeps. It's a feast for the eye but that's about it.
Especially when it comes to such a male gay community as the one in Miami South Beach. It's not about acceptance and equal rights. If you don't meet the good-looks requirements most of the time you are treated like your presence is not necessary. Actually you are not treated at all. 
After all is said and done it's pretty much all about a muscular body, preferably tanned, wearing (and thinking) as little as possible. 

I have lived in my own gay pride parade for 33 years now and managed to make a difference in a way that I wouldn't define as more effective but at least way more heart felt and substantial.

We all love a nice display of attractive half naked people. That's a given.

However the real fight has nothing to do with a parade.

Ciao for now.

Cape-ocalypse.

Bosom friends!

Guess who has new music video out?

I am sure you already know.

She has a new short movie to go together with her new song.

I am talking about the imperishable Madonna.

Let's all start a fight between who loves her unconditionally and who (like me) is still feeling lukewarm over her latest recording effort.


Her new single and music video is titled Ghosttown.
Please take a minute and get to the end of it.

The plot:

Nuclear devices have been detonated in the following cities: New York, Paris, London and Los Angeles. The authorities are broadcasting on a 1950's TV set a warning to avoid the blast by staying inside.
Madonna hears this announcement but being the rebel heart that she is, she decides to get out and take a stroll in a post apocalyptic town AKA Ghosttown.
No matter how bad the nuclear radiation Madge wakes up looking the freshest she has looked since Ray of Light. She is painted and coiffed to perfection and her outfit is clearly not put together with donations from the Salvation Army.

After putting on her back something dangerously similar to the infamous cape she sported at the Brits Awards, the Material girl is off for a walk about in a very bad "hood".

She smashes a couple of things, gets some bad news over a payphone, gets very mad at some abandoned chairs and of course grinds on a flaming car.

Madonna then bumps into Terrence Howard right after he was done filming Empire and he is well ready to shoot any bitch that steps in his way. He had it with Cookie and all that women-in-control crap. He is a man on the edge and he is perspiring profusely while carrying a big rifle. Not a good combination.
However Madge's charms are hard to resist so the improbable pair both breaks down into a passionate Argentinian tango and Terrence even manages to take the cape off Miss Ciccone without breaking her collar bone.

Once they are done with the apocalyptic dance-break they take by hand a little Asian boy (who has been watching the whole shenanigan unravel before his almond shaped eyes) and the trio walks into a landscape of destruction and desolation while Madonna looks drop dead gorgeous and in perfect control of her long ass coat/cape get up.
Madonna has eventually mastered the art of working a long cape and she shows off her new found cape confidence by twirling and yanking that thing like nobodies business.

The end.

This is the caption on Vevo web site about this music video:

It's the end of the world. Terrence Howard enters Madge's Dickensian empire to sexify the apocalypse.

Say no more.

Ciao for now.

Gorgeous Bore.

Once upon a time... in a faraway land,
there was a tiny kingdom...
peaceful, prosperous,
and rich in romance and tradition.
Here, in a stately chateau,
there lived a widowed gentleman...
and his little daughter, Cinderella.

Every time I listen to the opening  of the 1950 Disney's Cinderella I get the proverbial warm feeling inside.
In very few words we get the complete picture of what the premises are for this lovely fairy tale and after that we are free to dive in with memorable characters such as the evil stepmother, ugly stepsisters, a devilish cat and a plethora of singing and helpful mice and birds.
The way Cinderella fulfills her duties as a singing-sensation/housekeeper is almost poetic and the fact that she can dance in glass slippers makes her even more of a hero, a beacon for all of those hopeful singles souls awaiting to get their frigging happily ever after.

The late trend at Disney has been transposing to live action some of their most beloved animated characters.
The slightly sapphic Maleficent sort of proved them right with a box office triumph so they decided to go ahead and infuse fantasy with a whole lot of flesh and bone.

The live action version of Cinderella is first and foremost baroque in its relentless display of opulent costumes and sets. For that I am deeply grateful to Disney, less is simply less and the visually "more" we were allowed to gorge on in Cinderella 2.0 was very well welcomed in my house.
The cinched waists were science-fictionally tiny, the costumes were so obscenely decadent they made me go into sensory overdrive a couple of times and the phenomenal Cate Blanchett made me wish Disney would actually consider making a whole movie on how the stepmother ended up being so fabulous and cunty.

That being said I didn't leave the movie theater humming away "a dream is a wish your heart makes".
What really bugged me was the fact that the writers applied the same rule as the costume designer: the "morer" the better.
First of all we had to sit through Cinderella's mom dying and giving a speech right before she bit the dust. I much prefer the cartoon version of it: Cinderella's father was a widower from the beginning and we just had to deal with that notion.
Then Prince Charming's father, the King, has to go home in a box too. Unfortunately Charming Senior has a lot to say while agonizing in his gilded death chamber. Again more chatter. At that point I completely tuned out and started wishing for more Blanchett delicious high cheekbones and perfectly painted red lips.

We all know how the story is going to end, right?
There is no surprise on that front.
I don't think that trying to add entertainment value with very long and sappy dialogues was the right move. I was captured by what I was seeing but I definitely got bored to tears by what I was hearing.
Kindness and courage blah, blah, blah...

Also can anybody explain to me why are they putting those fake ass huge dentures on witches and fairy godmothers lately?
It happened to the glorious Meryl Streep in Into the Woods and this time around Helan Bonham Carter ended up using her magic wand while sporting what looked like a shiny toilet bowl instead of teeth. Please stop the madness.

On top of that it really pissed me off that all the wonderful music from the original movie was gone to be replaced with plenty of jibber jabber. What always propels a Disney movie are the wonderful musical numbers that have kept us singing along for decades. With this Cinderella we will have to learn how to jibber jabb.

What really made me LOL (and I am pretty sure that was not the reaction the writers wanted to achieve) was what Cinderella and Charming told each other at the end of the film.
They plead to one another "take me as I am".
Huge effort to take one another as they are.
She is a beautiful blond whit amazing housekeeping skills and a 16 inches waist.
He is a soon to be king blessed with charming looks and (by what we could guess from the promontory cleverly hidden under his tights) an adequate accessory to keep Cinderella properly entertained in the boudoir.
I am sheer perfection but please take me as I am...

...and they lived happily ever laughter.

Ciao for now.

State of Grace.

Bosom friends!

I was looking for some sort of inspiration (and motivation) to write today's post and let me tell you that the trending topics are just as dull as the bowl of cereal I had for breakfast.

Then I looked to my right and my eyes wondered on some pictures I printed and framed the other week and that got me thinking.
I don't need to look for stories, I can write about my own.

Those black and white shots were not taken by me.
They are mix of shots of my late dad, my mom, my hubby at age one, my parents in law and of course my crazy self.

Here are the real stories behind those black and white moments in time captured in a what I like to call a state of grace.

Gone with the Wind.

This is me at age 6 or 7 back in Italy where I grew up.
It was taken under the porch of my dad's family 1900 house in the little town of Campagnola (Italian for country girl).
My father's family used to be considered the Kennedys of our little provincial town and in their A days they actually were. They had old money, land as far as the eye could see and there was as much shit going on under their roof as at Downton Abbey. They fit the profile.
I felt I had to live up to our former social status and my way of fulfilling my duties was to dress the part.
This picture was taken after I watched for the first time the iconic movie Gone With the Wind. As a little gay boy I fell in love with the opulence of it all from the very first shot where Vivian Leigh is chatting away with the Tarleton twins dressed in that glorious red belted white gown.
I think I consolidated my queerness when I saw Scarlet wearing the white and green dress that she insisted on sporting at the barbecue at the Twelve Oaks Plantation.

That dress inspired my get up: the ample skirt and the hat held on my head with a scarf.
The skirt I made with an Easter Egg wrapping (in Italy we have big chocolate eggs wrapped in colorful plastic paper with a surprise in them to be gifted for that holiday).
The hat was an old straw number with a fake flower on it that I probably got from my granny's trunk of horrors. The scarf was indeed a handkerchief and it usually doubled as a herbal wrap holder for my frequent teeth abscesses.
There you have it: a simple girl from the country side.
My dad took that picture with his trusty Pentax. He had that camera for his whole life. We still have it and since after he died we treasure it like it was the Holy Grail.
My father loved taking pictures and he had a great eye for it. Luckily he passed that gift onto me.
He never had a problem with my dressing up schenanigans and this picture is one of the many others he took of me as a child with either a frock, a wig or a pair of my aunt heels on. He always supported our imagination and artsy inclinations.
I was lucky to have such a progressive dad.
I miss him.

The Rhodesian Prince. 

 
This is my hubby at age one. It was 1975 and he was getting his groove on with his little overall and the house dog Sally.
The hubby was born in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, during the time when that country was the land of milk and honey (quote from his granny Pinky).
As my dad's family, the hubby's mom's family was very wealthy and well connected. The hubby was the first male grandchild and for that reason he was considered the best invention since sliced bread.
In this shot this lovely Rhodesian prince is wearing a custom made jumpsuit of course.
This picture was taken under the porch of hubby's grandparents villa and it is from an era gone with the wind.

Glenda.

Hubby's mom in the 60's.
I just love this picture.
It captures my mother in law true essence and it will remind us that she will always be the same girl no matter how much her mind will let her memories fade away.

Violetta.

My mom.
She was named after the lead character in La Traviata by the Italian opera composer Verdi.
It looks like a picture from one of the stunning Italian movies from the Neorealism days.
Mom was a late bloomer and she was probably a teenager there. This picture was taken right after she was convinced to cut her hair short. She said she cried for days because she thought she looked like a boy. That is why she started wearing earrings at all times, even when going fishing, so that she wouldn't be mistaken for a chap. Also she wishes she was still as skinny as she was in this shot.

Paolo.

My dad.
This picture describes him perfectly.
The funniest sense of humor I know.
A humble yet amazingly intelligent and knowledgeable man.
A true kind soul.
My mom snapped this shot at the wealthy parents in law compound shortly after they started dating.
The end tale of the 70's but the beginning of 30 years as a couple.

Poor But Beautiful.

Mom just after she came back from Munich where she worked for a summer season as an ice cream vendor. She meet my dad (who took this picture) once she returned to Italy.
Mom was sitting on her brother's brand new Vespa motorbike. It was the family trophy.
The perm is a souvenir from Germany.

Meet the Parents.

Hubby's mom and dad.
They were celebrating Glenda 21st birthday. The hubby was already in the picture since his mom got married because she was pregnant with him.
Allegedly my father in law didn't meet the posh family standards but the pair was in love so they got pregnant to gain the blessing from the family.
In this shot they were dancing up a storm and as you can see they were up to speed with the latest trends of the 70's.

State of Grace.

My mom's feet. She took her shoes off because they were new and they pinched her toes. I cannot remember a single pair of shoes that did not hurt my mom's feet. It is her curse since her long life obsession is and will always be shoes.
My dad took this picture of her feet up in the air when they were both care free, with very little money but plenty of life ahead of them. They were young, they saw each other beauty and the sun was shining on their faces and sore toes.
When I look at this picture I can actually smell the fragrance of one of those country side pre-winter days when the sunlight and the sky are crystal clear.
The air is crisp and the scent of my home back in Italy is stunningly perceptible.
It's like I was there, I can touch that feeling as well as I am touching this keyboard.

It's palpable.

It's a state of grace.

Ciao for now.

The Chronicles of Pageant.

Bosom friends!

After a few days of ever so needed silence and retreat I am ready to put down in writing the recollection of my first ever pageant as Prima Donna.  (Click on the link and like my page, thank you very much.)

It was an experience that I can summarize as frighteningly delightful or delightfully frightening.

I thought I knew what I was getting myself into but I was as green as the grass on the other side of the fence. I was indeed greener than anybody else involved the 2015 Miss Miami Beach Gay Pride pageant.

The competition took place last Wednesday at Score in South Beach. It was the first of April and this year around I was the designated April's fool.

I have been a professional dancer my whole life but all those years on numerous stages did not come to my aid when it was time to strut my stuff and show my personality to the ever so eminent panel of judges.

I was the proverbial train rack. I tell you pageant standards are are high as Queen Elizabeth's.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa. 

Through my fault, through my fault,
through my most grievous fault, Amen.

Anybody who enters a competition must believe they have what it takes to win first prize. Otherwise why bother?!

You can believe it, hope for it or in my case, be delusional about it.

Wrong and strong.

I do think I look rather ravishing in make up and a frock and that is the main reason why I naively entered this pageant. Also because I always have fun when I am in drag.

Fresh of the boat I grabbed a 100 dollar bill (the entry fee) and handed it to Tiffany Fantasia (the host) together with the hope to get some visibility in the ever so saturated Miami Drag Queen scene. This sentence alone makes you think that you are about to read some sort of twisted yet whimsical fairy tale. Please clap at the end otherwise Tinkerbell drops dead.

I got three new garments made appositely for this competition since my Diane Von Fustenberg wrap dresses were not up to part to dazzle any illustrious panel of evaluators.

I even went as far as driving 40 minutes to Kendall to Kennedi Kouture (with an "i" and a "k") to have some OTT outfits made to order. That alone is an anecdote worth mentioning. 
While looking online for someone willing to custom make two get-ups for the pageant I bumped into this lovely business who cater primarily (if not exclusively) to African American proudly-voluptuous-gorgeous ladies. So the pale skinny boy from the Italian countryside drove all the way to the "hood" to have something fabulous sewed to his desire. The minute I parked in front of the house from where Kennedi operates a very toned young brother approached me to enquire about my presence in the Kouture premises. I did stick out like a sore thumb, I agree. 
Once I explained him that I had an appointment with Kennedi, the chap personally escorted me to the front door and I was introduced to the dynamic duo that is Kennedi Kouture. Those girls usually deal with way more juiciness than my body has to offer, so for them I was more or less a skip and hop in the park. I got two amazing garments made and a first hand look into the life of two self made kouturier (still with a K). Lovely, friendly, curvy and messy in a very endearing way.

On top of those two creations I had another custom frock made for the evening gown section of the pageant. For that I summed my Eastern European friend from Orlando who is a bona fides designer. He was kind enough to share his skills to make me look like a Hollywood star from the 50's. He made me a glorious red lace, tulle and satin gown so pretty I may have to display it permanently in our condo as they'd do at Hard Rock Cafes around the USA.

Now that I was equipped with some new fabulosity I felt a bit more ready for the competition.
However there is much more to gather in order to transform into our female alter egos, from tights and fish-nets, to padding and waist cinchers, passing through wigs, air-pieces, gallons of make up, fake lashes big enough to be seen from space together with the Great Wall of China, heels in which squeeze our poor toes and of course personality, personality, personality.

So I put all that shit in a carry-on sized trolley, grabbed my Kennedi Kouture and Eastern European creations and got dropped at 1437 Washington Avenue Miami Beach where my destiny awaited.

Once all of the other queens arrived I soon felt like the girl in the movie "Little Miss Sunshine".
All of the other contestants had a whole team in charge of putting them together. You know when they say "it takes a village"? Well those queens had a whole town of helpers at their disposal to paint them, dress them and make sure that their wigs were appropriately jacked up to Jesus.
My hubby dropped me at Score in a very timely fashion but I didn't even have singing mice and birds to help me. Even Cinderella had it better...
Some of the girls did too arrive in a timely fashion together with their entourage and some others trotted back stage rather frantically while still gluing pieces of their first outfit on their bodies.
I, on the other hand hurried up the whole night so that I could wait. 
In our changing room the amount of glitter and "fierce this" and "realness that" soon reached worrying levels. The hair people were using copious amounts of hair-spray and I swear I got high for a minute right there and I believe that is why I put my first outfit on backwards. I was doomed from the very beginning.
So even if I was basically ready to go 30 minutes before we were supposed to start the show, I ended up having to take off my sequined catsuit (to wear it the right way around) the very last minute before being rushed in front of the renowned panel of critics. Also let's not forget that the rookie that I am got randomly selected to be the first one to come out for each category. Seriously? I picked up from a bag a little piece of paper with the number one on it and there I was the designated opening queen for the pageant. I almost shat myself but the compression garments I was wearing mercifully kept it all compacted and vacuumed in.

Ladies and homos here we go!
(The judges comments are taken from the voting forms that we were each given after the pageant so that we could have our scores for the records.)

Presentation: show your pride.
Or as I like to call it "show your language barrier".
I totally misunderstood the assignment.
I thought that wearing my pride meant going all out with an outfit that was both OTT and true to my personality. Instead I was expected to wear something that tied in not with my own pride but with the Gay Pride. Fair enough. All of the other girls had some sort of rainbow themed ensemble going on, I instead looked like the Italian flag: red hair, white face and green catsuit. Red, white and green.
I left out too many colors from the spectrum.
Also since I had to take off and re-put on my green number at the last minute I didn't have anytime to fix up my wig so I ended up doing my presentation with (and I quote one of the judges) "a red ratty mess" on my head.
I completely forgot to showcase my personality, but by that time (between the nerves as the opening queen and the race to get re-dressed) I even forgot where I was, let alone my personality.

Swim Suit.
For this look I wore a lovely sparkly one piece I got from Swimsuits for All. It was the copy of a Givenchy model and despite the fact that I had all my bits and pieces precariously hidden by three layer of spanx I felt confident and decently slutty. The judges were not in agreement. Apparently my back fat was rolling out of my swimsuit and the undergarment was making his debut for the world to see. Also the bitchy-est judge of them all even said that my wig looked like I just took it out of a box. If he only knew I actually hand sewed so many extensions on that wig and had it professionally styled by Andino at Concept 5 Studio. Apparently it didn't show. The final word was that I needed more padding on my flat ass (again, I am quoting). On top of that the matching necklace I was wearing decided to break free and I was literally unraveling like a soccer mom who has run out of Adderall.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Evening Gown and Q/A
I was so proud of my red gown and still am!
As a child I would have killed to have something like that made for me. I did feel like I awarded my child-self after 20 plus years of cravings.
I thought I looked like a vision in red.
The judges thought I looked like a vision in poo.
Undergarment showing and the back fat rolling were their main concerns. Again the bitchy-est of them ventured an actual critique to the construction of the gown "I hate the rose on top, too heavy. It doesn't look practical as an evening gown, the belt is strange and the top is not pressed."
Hmmm...I wasn't aware of the fact that a drag queen evening gown needed to be practical. I suppose the other girls double their frocks as gardening uniforms as well as gala ensembles. Also the top was a ruffled motive, how could have it been ironed? I am not finding excuses I am just trying to understand the madness here. My Eastern European designer friend would have given that judge-fashion-authority a piece of his mind. Luckily nobody got hurt. Only my ego.
The host Tiffany Fantasia asked me the obligatory question "If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be? and why?". Pageant 1-0-1 some may say.
What do I wanna change about my self??? I am a dude in a frock...come on!
My answer was : "I am done with changing things, I am great as I am".
An awkward silence followed.
Rolling thumbs kind of silence.
Then Tiffany asked me if I would like to elaborate.
So I said "We can't really change, we can only improve ourselves. We are who we are".
That my dear was my only moment of clarity throughout the whole shebang.
The other girls went on and on about gay rights, equal marriage laws, legacy, LGBT community-sacred-alliance and world peace (of course).
I was mainly annoyed at such dull question.
I should have turned the beat around but I was not blessed with beginners luck or the gift of mastering the art of bullshitting.
Tiffany was indeed very gracious anyway, and this whole event happened because of her hard working ass! BRAVA!

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Talent.
I did think I had this one in the bag.
I sang live the winning song from the 2014 Eurovision competition by Conchita Wurst "Rise Like A Phoenix", the Austrian bearded drag queen sensation.
I had a great time singing live. Perhaps I was the only one having a great time. Comments like "good effort, pitchy, too loud, not sure about the wig choice, can see undergarment and back fat, needs more rehearsal" were not spared by the judges.
I thought I did good, obviously I couldn't hear myself...and to be honest the mic was a piece of shit...
I thought I had a moment right there but me-no-nothing.
Also while walking from a side to the other of the stage to "work" the distinguished panel of connoisseurs I tripped on my dress and instead of rising like a Phoenix I almost plunged like a turkey.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

The winner of the title of the 2015 Miss Miami Beach Gay Pride was clearly NOT me.

Picture courtesy of Juan Saco Mironoff.

Athena Dion won and she deserved it! (the queen in the blue, black and gold dress...or is it white and gold...)
She was well put together, had lots of experience, she was precisely rehearsed, her padding was all in the right places, her speeches were basically what the gay pride manifesto was waiting for and she showed personality, personality, personality.

The whole experience for me was a lot of fun despite my shortcomings.
I got it out of my system and if something else will come out of it fine, otherwise it's all good.
I am not sure I will be running to enter another pageant though.
As I said I dress up because I enjoy it. 
Being judged and critiqued is not pleasant bosom friends. I did feel like I was going through the scrutiny I had to endure as a gay boy all over again. 
I am not blaming the judges though. Judges judge. Period. I do however have to share this funny detail: the bitchy judge on my score sheet spelled my drag name as "Prima Madonna"(and not as Prima Donna). Forgive them because they know what they are doing but they don't know how to spell it.

I didn't win it, I barely wing it...but I did it and still managed to retain plenty sense of humor about it!

Long live this year Miss Miami Beach Gay Pride Drag Queen Athena Dion!

Happy Gay Pride this coming week end Miami peeps!

Ciao for now.