------------------------------------------
Date: Thu, 1 May 2008 07:51:46
From: [name deleted]
Subject: Thurdsday
To: [name deleted]
------------------------------------------

Dear Shep Collidus,

I can't take this anymore. I am writing to tell you that if there is no packet in my P.O. Box this afternoon, I might do something dramatic. Do you think that people who fart on subways do it on purpose...as something "dramatic"? Because that's kind of along the lines of what I was thinking. How's your day?

Back to the Box for a mo'. I think I'll be checking it sometime around 2ish/3ish or something like that. Sound good? I'll call you on all the fancy numbers you have. We can either scream and/or cry together...

So, anyway, hope your morning is a real peach. I'll be in touch again soon.

Sincerely,

Mamie Bunker

p.s. Going to Pret for lunch today? I highly recommend the Just Made Avocado Grana Padana Parmegiano.

-----------------------------------------
Date: Thu, 1 May 2008 09:23:12
From: [name deleted]
Subject: Re: Thurdsday
To: [name deleted]
-----------------------------------------
Dear Ritzie Pooch,

This email really brightened my morning! Seriously, they have to have sent the letter. Who do they think we are? Waiters? We wait for no one, especially not serial workplace safety violators. Oh, and theatre festivals. We don't wait for them either. Come on, Fringe! I have to know whether I need to diet or not.

Lovingly,

Zeb Hollander

----------------------------------------
Date: Fri, 2 May 2008 08:16:39
From: [name deleted]
Subject: WE DID IT!!!!!
To: [name deleted]
----------------------------------------
Good morning Senor Popeo,

OMG. We're playwrights.

Happy Friday (for real!),

Jules Falana

---------------------------------------
Date: Fri, 2 May 2008 09:34:11
From: [name deleted]
Subject: Re: WE DID IT!!!!!
To: [name deleted]
----------------------------------------

I'm very proud of us.

----------------------------------------
Date: Fri, 2 May 2008 11:32:26
From: [name deleted]
Subject: RE: WE DID IT!!!!!
To: [name deleted]
----------------------------------------

I am, too. Whew, we really, really did it.

What you see above is the very last Percy. I put him in a plastic bag and locked him in a cupboard because I took down the rest of his pig brethren in a swift and total masticating massacre earlier this afternoon (I figured I should chew them instead of my fingernails during the Great David Blaine Breath Stunt on Oprah--see below). Sadly, now Percy's time has come. To honor his great sacrifice, I'm making a pact with myself to steer clear from gelatin-skin-n-bones products from here on out. I'm doing it for the love of Percy.

God speed, li'l fellow. Yum...that's a good pig.

Dear David Blaine,

Gettin' excited about your appearance on "Oprah" today? It's gonna be crazy! Holding your breath for more than 16 minutes?! Wowzers. You're so tough. Really. I used to practice holding my breath in the bathtub all the time. It's totally hard. I saw that movie The Big Blue and decided to be a free diver and a marine biologist when I grew up. The bathtub became my Olympic pool training facility. I'd put my watch on the toilet, shove my Sea Babies and their flower sponge boats aside, and fully submerge myself as soon as the glove of the red Mickey hand hit the big number 12 on my Official Disneyland Timepiece. The key is to let little bubbles of air escape every 10 seconds or so. I'm sure you know this already. Anyway, my best time was 1 minute 58 seconds, and when I couldn't top that time, I knew that I probably didn't have a future in the world of free diving (or as the wife of Jean Marc Barr, mon amour). Luckily, I saw Young Guns II a few months later and decided that being an outlaw was much more suitable for my desert location...as was Balthazar Getty post-Lord of the Flies.

Anyway, good luck! So, um, when are you going to get back to the ol' abracadabra?

Do you remember that time we talked? You came up to me and asked to buy a pack of cigarettes or something, and I said sure and asked if you preferred Lights or Reds but I don't remember which one you chose or if they were even for you or not but anyway you looked RIGHT THROUGH ME. To my core. You bore your tiger slits through my cafe con leches and I felt like you were seeing something inside of me that until that moment had always been invisible. You were really sweet. Soft spoken. I just remember completely believing in you.

So, please, can you blow my mind today with this "stunt" or whatever and then go back to doing the Street Magic that made us all fall in love with you in the first place? Dude, you're awesome. I think you know this. I think you can hear me saying it to you right now from my mind to yours. Remember: let the breath out in little bubbles. And then I think you should fly out of the water with real angel wings sprouting out of your back before doing a few loopty loops around Oprah's audience anointing all of those lucky ladies below with your magic holy water.

White doves and bunnies,

A*

You know who I miss? Pippi Longstocking! She's my style icon of the week. "There's no one like her!"

"Please, please, please can I borrow your ticket? My girlfriend is stuck in STANDING ROOM. Ohmygod, you're a life saver!"

I was "Gabrielle" last night at the Alice Temperley show. I've been keeping it light this Fashion Week so I can swizzle my sticks in other cocktails, but being back in the ol' circus tent made me miss the soul sucking pandemonium of it all. There's something thrilling about ascending those concrete steps, flashing an embellished invitation, getting the nod, then being bombarded by girls in shaky heels brandishing the latest issue of The Daily.

When you get to the doors of the Bryant Park tents, you can already feel the energy pulsating on the other side. There's a two second check you do before going in. A quick sweep of the bangs, a secret tug on the skirt, one delicate smack of the lips. Once the door is opened, that's it. You're sucked into a twittering vortex of flashing bulbs, cacophonous chatter, swirls of colorful advertising, and a multitude of eyes all staring at you.

Once you've "done" Fashion Week, you return the next time around a sophomore, a junior, a senior and so on. You learn the shortcut to the restrooms (aka the hall of port-a-potties), the best spot in the locker room (ahem, bar), and which cafeteria lady is the nicest (the espresso guy who's there during the day). Everything is no big deal and dressing up is for freshmen. The jocks and cheerleaders on the front row (that is, the editors) are always in uniform. The student council (assistant editors/journalists/buyers) keep it professionally tasteful. It's the popular kids--the ones who don't really have any other reason to be there other than to look pretty and bask in the spotlight of envy (actresses/musicians/socialites/other famous types)--that get to do the real gussying up. They can show up on a Tuesday in a prom dress and stilettos and get away with it.

Once you're in, stuff your bag with the requisite free periodicals and notebooks, glide past the lines with a flash of the invitation, and make your way past the best dressed crew in the house--the Standing Room Only crowd. That's where all of the amazing fashion is going on, trust me, so don't act like a snot just because you've got a pass. Once you sail through the rest of the security and into the actual show tent, scan the room. If it's relatively empty (not including the photographers), go back out and grab a cocktail/espresso. You can gauge when the show will start by when the SRO line starts moving. Even then, you've probably got another 15 minutes. Don't have a buddy? Call one. Talk to them on the phone while chasing a beverage. You'll look like you're multitasking.

Once it's time (you'll know when you see The Editors trotting in very late), grab a free Evian on the way, and don't look around too much yet. Go straight to your seat, take out the aforementioned Daily, and read while casually taking "breaks" to scan and see who's who. You'll get your chance to gawk with gumption once the lights go down. I prefer to listen to the conversations around me. Occasionally, they're enlightening. Often, they're frightening. When Lady Joy and I were running around with each other at Fashion Week a few seasons ago, we guffawed at lines like, "Ruffles are, like, so stupid!" By the end of the week, we had a catalog of bon mots we referenced for laughter's sake. Our most used phrases in response to the rampant frivolity in the air ranged from "Who are these people?" and "I don't fit in here!" at the beginning of the week to "What are we doing here?" and "I can't take this anymore!" by the end of the week.

I woke up early every Saturday morning to watch Style with Elsa Klensch when I was a kid. I never thought I'd actually get to be a part of New York Fashion Week. My goal was just to get to New York. I grew up fantasizing about wearing Anna Sui empire dresses or anything from the one-time-only Perry Ellis grunge collection designed by some guy named Marc Jacobs. I tried to look up the history of Coco Chanel in my school's library (didn't find anything) and settled for memorizing the designers on the pages of Seventeen. I stole my mom's Mirabella to find out who Isabella Rossellini was wearing that month, and don't even get me started on when I discovered Yohji. For those of us who feed on this fodder, Fashion Week is our Super Bowl. You get to know all the players and then talk about them in the stands. Attending the actual game is a lucky privilege. It may be frivolous when there's definitely more important stuff going on in the world, but when you see a bodice ripped to shreds in homage to Japanese horror films (hello, lovely Rodarte), nothing beats that kind of touchdown.

So, thanks, Gabrielle, for inadvertently nudging me back into the tents with your sloppy seconds. I still don't fit in, but that doesn't mean I can't scowl in the top row tugging at my plastic accessories while secretly squealing like a schoolgirl when the lights go down, the music starts pumping, and that first girl comes stomping out like a rabid zombie gazelle. I'll probably see you there again next September. Wear your pearls.

see them on their big bright screen
tan and blonde and seventeen
eating nonfood keeps them lean
but they're young forever
if they must grow up
they marry dukes and earls
i hate california girls

i have planned my grand attacks
i will stand behind their backs
with my brand new battle axe
and when they taste my wrath
they will hear me say as the pavement whirls
i hate california girls

And since we're on the subject of California, please AMPTP, for the sake of my friends who are out of work and for the rest of us who are plagued with soul sucking reality television, please give the writers what they deserve. And please start giving young viewers more shows like Ugly Betty and less shows about girls who spend most of their time modeling, talking about nothing, and getting wasted at beach bonfires.

My dear pal Jeff turned me on to the music of Nico Muhly recently, and now I'm obsessed. It sounds like dancing black bears in Sgt. Pepper clothing. Patterns of bumblebees flying at night. Lonely hearts skating on cracked ice. Sometimes you'll envision a Cherokee chief wrapped in a woolen cloak puffing on a wooden pipe. Other times you'll hear a cello and feel like curling into a ball. Or rolling piano keys will will incite solo, living room twirling...which I'm always up for.

Basically, you need to hear it to see it. Check out Nico's album Speaks Volumes on iTunes.

Heard about this strike but don't really understand what it's all about (other than no Daily Show right now)? Then I urge you to read this. Pamie, you are what I like to call a FANTASTIC WOMAN! You know that I feel this way about you already, but seriously dude. What you wrote made me emotional. It also made me want to ride out there on a blazing stallion (by blazing I mean that my horse would have flames on his flanks) and be your 2nd security guard. The one named "Snipa". Keep fightin'.

It's been years since I've seen The Raveonettes (easily one of my favorite bands of all time), and their show last night at Southpaw was sultry, pulsating PERFECTION. My heart trembled. The heels of my weathered oxfords clicked uncontrollably. And golly, by golly, people danced! If you haven't checked out this band before or ridden their molasses waves of 50's tinged melodies in awhile, I urge you to do so today. Their new album will wash ashore very soon, and from what we heard of the new stuff last night it's gonna be snazzy.