Sunday, May 08, 2005

Sunday Stylin': brunch is for losers

In today's desperately pathetic attempt to fill space and gain advertising revenue, we meet one disgusting jokewriter, learn that brunch is for hicks, and are introduced to the new crop of socialites. This week's edition is uniquely boring and pointless, but skipping brunch is the only activity celebrated as "cool."

Even in Gay Circles, the Women Want the Ring: Big surprise that lesbians are into marriage way more than their gay-male counterparts. Always seemed to me that gay folk have it lucky in the sense that they never have to get married, which is why I tend to view the gay marriage controversy with bemusement. Sure, let them get married if they want, but it's as attractive a right as cutting off your thumb. Thumb-severing should be allowed for everyone, and so should marriage. But I digress.

The article discusses this in economic terms, but those who have read books like Matt Ridley's The Red Queen know better. Lesbians, like straight women, want stability and companionship; gay dudes, like straight ones, want lovin' from a lot of different people. The Times is way, way, way too P.C. to get into this, even though there's a scholarly consensus to explain it. So instead there's a mushy, inconclusive article that tiptoes away from controversy, and doesn't give any insight on the matter.

My Fake Retirement: This is the third and final revision of CSB's decreasingly bilious summary of Warrent St. John's portrayal of Rodney Rothman.

A bit of explanation: I initially posted a profanity-laden tirade about Mr. Rothman, a 28-year-old former head writer at The Late Show who quit his job and moved to a Florida retirement community. It was quite over the top, based on the premise that Mr. Rothman was portrayed as a tad spoiled and whiny. And that's putting it mildly.

But then the google hits started. Apparently, many people google Mr. Rothman, and came across our little site. Though no one ever wrote us or left a comment, I began to imagine Grandma Rothman or Auntie Rothman coming to this site and seeing a de facto fatwa declared on poor Rodney. While the article did not portray its subject in a favorable light, Cole Slaw Blog aspires to informed silliness, not deranged hatchet jobs. No need for us to become the internet epicenter of anti-Rodney jeremiads. As of May 31, it's time to rewrite history and leave Rodney alone. Maybe he is as condescending as he seemed, but for now I'll blame Warren St. John and leave it to karma to sort this out. St. John, because you're a college football guru you've been getting a free pass from us.

But if we catch you in a slip, you're going down.

Social Conscience, Junior Division: A bunch of prep-school white girls are putting on a fashion show to raise funds for charity. The Times confuses social conscience with noblesse oblige but I guess their fashion show is a better use of time than snorting blow in between trig and Spanish. (Not that the two are mutually exclusive.) Assuming these ladies' intentions are good, the Times doesn't give a shit, because their article is about "a new crop of socialites in training," and not their charity. Even within the Times's ultra-elite readership, 0.1% give a shit about socialites, old crop or new crop. To which Cole Slaw Blog says, good luck in life, ladies: your intentions in this may be pure, but the Times is going to ruin your lives.

Deep Inside Japan's Psyche: A Japanese guy goes all Dr. Moreau on a bunch of cactuses. Also, Hello Kitty has no mouth because she is voiceless.

Xan Cassavettes: Treasure of the Indies: The Times celebrates another person living off of their parents fame and/or wealth, this time the daughter of John Cassavettes and Gena Rowlands. I like Gena Rowlands. I want to like her daughter. But when she says stuff like this, it's hard:
Ms. Cassavetes grew up in Los Angeles and fronted a hardcore punk band called Shrine for seven years before she starting [sic] directing. "I went to this Episcopalian school, and one day I came home and asked my mom, 'What religion are we?' She looked at me and said, 'We're artists.' "
It's the kind of twee dialogue that would make me change channels. I never knew people talked like this in real life. Goddammit Xan, you've got me annoyed, and I wanted to like you, I really did. Now go french Rodney Rothman and get the hell out of my newspaper.

Hangovers and Leftovers: Brunch is not hip, as Bob Morris reminds those of us who like eggs benedict. "I'm sorry," Mr. Niccolini said, "but who wants to eat brunch anymore?"

"I'm sorry," Cole Slaw Blog replied, "but who wants to take dining advice from a condescending cocksucker? Also, does that come with a side of coleslaw?"

<>Bob Morris also wonders: "Maybe brunch went out of style with conspicuous indolence." Oh, really? Didn't know that conspicuous indolence is out of style. Isn't it celebrated in this newspaper section every week? What about those weirdos who spend all afternoon lunching at Cipriani Downtown? And Rodney Rothman? Dear Sunday Styles: do you pay attention to yourself?

Losing Custody of My Hope: Sunday Styles gets all Oprah with a first-person account of somebody's custody fight. It's a sad story, but man, can the Times give it a rest, and leave this to other outlets? Thanks.

Wedding Bells? That's the Bride's Getaway Car: Some people change their minds about getting married. The article bothered to recap the whole Jennifer Wilbanks non-story, including a snarky quote from a silly wedding planner in Wilbanks's hometown of Duluth, Ga, who said people there "are still upset at Ms. Wilbanks."
Yeah, you know what, Riz Hequibal, she wasn't getting married for the benefit of you or anyone else in town. Apparently, if she were a lesbian, she'd be chomping at the bit to get married (see above) but that shit don't fly in Georgia, either. Maybe everybody should chill out and worry about their own lives for awhile.

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