So I suppose it’s way past time I blogged again, but I have been working like a fiend on the website, which was in dire need of an update. Make sure to bookmark it at the new, easier to use URL, BazBiz.org. Bazaarbizarre.org is still the actual domain, but the BazBiz redirect is much shorter and easier to spell to Oprah and Ellen on the phone.
So where were we? O yeah; Martha: The Aftermath. So I get whisked up to the mini-line for us “special” folks at the signing table. Martha emerges to a blitzkrieg of paparazzi. I have to say that I had never truly witnessed anything like that. I mean you see it on TV, but in person it’s a lot more dazzling, like my smile. So Martha does the pose-pose with her oversized home keeping bible and takes a seat. To her left is the cross-eyed Cruella who dictated “the rules” while we were first in line, dressed in a crisp turquoise cotton shirt, like a watered-down Ina Garten. On Martha’s right was a suited career gal with a bad perm and a worse brooch who actually managed to make the color pink unappealing to me. – amazing.
Just as the procession is about to begin, some crazy dude (literally) who I saw earlier in the café and thought was cute despite his “client” (aka crazy-person) fashion, busts through Martha’s handlers with some homemade cardboard sign. Something apocalyptic or some such. I couldn’t make it out but I did see the word “Martha” in a schizoid scrawl. He was quickly done away with by the handsome woman in pink, with lots of “thank you sir” and “alright now.” I felt bad for the guy, cuz obviously he had waited as long as me to meet ms. Martha, and she didn’t even comment on his handcrafted sign. I mean honestly, if there’s one thing she should know, it’s that a gift you make yourself means the most.
My big moment arrives and I approach the queen. This is where is all goes south. I open my mouth to say hello to Martha, but surprise, I don’t hear what I’m saying cuz the chatty Barefoot Cuntessa is buzzing in her ear. Still babbling, she grabs my book and shoves it under Martha’s nose. Martha proceeds to “sign” my book, only she printed her name half-heartedly. Meanwhile, I attempt to give her the BazBiz book bundle that I brought, but an iron claw grabs my wrist. The claw’s owner is none other than our pink lady. She scolds me, barking that Martha will only be signing her new book. Before I can explain that my book is actually a gift for the guest of honor, my book is tossed to who knows where, and I am shoved out of the whole scene.
“Nonplussed” is prolly the only word that describes my feelings about the whole scene. Either that or “fucking pissed.” I heard the same complaint regarding the talkative turquoise flunky echoed ad nauseum by exiting signees. I managed to find my one Borders ally, Dee, who was really friendly and assured me she’d find my book and make sure it found its way to Martha.
Now I am not naïve. I understand that these affairs are in-and-out setups. Martha is not really there to actually meet her fans, but to sell her book. I mean shit, she’s gotta eat right? At first I was merely annoyed with the whole proceeding, but consoled myself with the fact that I was here not to meet an idol, but to accomplish a mission, and no matter how imperfectly, mission accomplished. However, I have to say that there were a lot of Martha fans that had been waiting since the ass-crack of dawn to meet their hero. So for some borders store manager hanger-on to effectively steal all of those moments by not shutting up and allowing paying customers to have five seconds to say hello is just fucked up. The more I think about it the angrier I get. Part of me thinks Martha or one of her handlers really should have known better than to allow that sort of jack-assery. Where did things get so twisted that the consumer is there for the artiste and not the other way around? Never mind the radical concept of customer service…
So yeah I am feeling less Marthusiastic than usual these days. In an odd coincidence, the producer from her TV show had pledged to let me know no later than the day before if they would be sending a camera crew to BazBiz. I have called her every day since the signing and have yet to get a call back. Shit, I hope they don’t read this blog.
Ok, onto happier topics… shall I rant about TV as usual? Okay!
Now I’m quite fond of Mo’nique (The Parkers, Soul Plane, Phat Girlz). I think she is, in her own words, FAT (fabulous and thick), and I believe she would be the first to embrace her ghetto-fabulosity. I caught her on BET’s “BLACKbuster Theater” (I love it) in a flick entitled Hair Show. The movie was pretty good, actually, but I do have to point out two alcoholic moments. One: in a club scene, Mo’nique orders a “passion fruit Alizé martini.” I am by no means martini connoisseur – I don’t even like em unless they are girlified like a Lemon Drop or Cosmo. However, I am fairly certain that a cocktail composed mainly of a beverage I saw used as a tranny trophy during a Voguing ball at a San Fernando Road warehouse in Glendale should not be considered a Martini, even by its loosest definition. Two: in a later scene, this uppity lady macks on a pimpin’ salon stylist by obnoxiously correcting his grammar in an effort to impress upon him the importance of “class.” In the same breath, she orders Hypnotiq at the bar. Klassy!
Code brown! I am watching The Nanny on my TiVo as I write this, and I had to pause on an ad for a Lifetime movie called A Father for Christmas. Some dude kidnaps his baby who is sposed to be up for adoption or something. The thing is, that in one shot, the mom gets up from her hospital bed and there is a big brown stain on the ass of her robe. Ewww!
So Bazaar Bizarre LA 2006 is rapidly approaching. We’re at defcon 1, terror alert: yarn! I am excited, but could definitely use an extra month. There is one tasty morsel on the horizon before BazBiz: our bake sale this Saturday, December 2. We’re gonna be set up outside Pull My Daisy (3908 W Sunset) between 11am and 3pm. Make sure to come check us out!
Shit! I gotta scoot… more soon ☺
So where were we? O yeah; Martha: The Aftermath. So I get whisked up to the mini-line for us “special” folks at the signing table. Martha emerges to a blitzkrieg of paparazzi. I have to say that I had never truly witnessed anything like that. I mean you see it on TV, but in person it’s a lot more dazzling, like my smile. So Martha does the pose-pose with her oversized home keeping bible and takes a seat. To her left is the cross-eyed Cruella who dictated “the rules” while we were first in line, dressed in a crisp turquoise cotton shirt, like a watered-down Ina Garten. On Martha’s right was a suited career gal with a bad perm and a worse brooch who actually managed to make the color pink unappealing to me. – amazing.
Just as the procession is about to begin, some crazy dude (literally) who I saw earlier in the café and thought was cute despite his “client” (aka crazy-person) fashion, busts through Martha’s handlers with some homemade cardboard sign. Something apocalyptic or some such. I couldn’t make it out but I did see the word “Martha” in a schizoid scrawl. He was quickly done away with by the handsome woman in pink, with lots of “thank you sir” and “alright now.” I felt bad for the guy, cuz obviously he had waited as long as me to meet ms. Martha, and she didn’t even comment on his handcrafted sign. I mean honestly, if there’s one thing she should know, it’s that a gift you make yourself means the most.
My big moment arrives and I approach the queen. This is where is all goes south. I open my mouth to say hello to Martha, but surprise, I don’t hear what I’m saying cuz the chatty Barefoot Cuntessa is buzzing in her ear. Still babbling, she grabs my book and shoves it under Martha’s nose. Martha proceeds to “sign” my book, only she printed her name half-heartedly. Meanwhile, I attempt to give her the BazBiz book bundle that I brought, but an iron claw grabs my wrist. The claw’s owner is none other than our pink lady. She scolds me, barking that Martha will only be signing her new book. Before I can explain that my book is actually a gift for the guest of honor, my book is tossed to who knows where, and I am shoved out of the whole scene.
“Nonplussed” is prolly the only word that describes my feelings about the whole scene. Either that or “fucking pissed.” I heard the same complaint regarding the talkative turquoise flunky echoed ad nauseum by exiting signees. I managed to find my one Borders ally, Dee, who was really friendly and assured me she’d find my book and make sure it found its way to Martha.
Now I am not naïve. I understand that these affairs are in-and-out setups. Martha is not really there to actually meet her fans, but to sell her book. I mean shit, she’s gotta eat right? At first I was merely annoyed with the whole proceeding, but consoled myself with the fact that I was here not to meet an idol, but to accomplish a mission, and no matter how imperfectly, mission accomplished. However, I have to say that there were a lot of Martha fans that had been waiting since the ass-crack of dawn to meet their hero. So for some borders store manager hanger-on to effectively steal all of those moments by not shutting up and allowing paying customers to have five seconds to say hello is just fucked up. The more I think about it the angrier I get. Part of me thinks Martha or one of her handlers really should have known better than to allow that sort of jack-assery. Where did things get so twisted that the consumer is there for the artiste and not the other way around? Never mind the radical concept of customer service…
So yeah I am feeling less Marthusiastic than usual these days. In an odd coincidence, the producer from her TV show had pledged to let me know no later than the day before if they would be sending a camera crew to BazBiz. I have called her every day since the signing and have yet to get a call back. Shit, I hope they don’t read this blog.
Ok, onto happier topics… shall I rant about TV as usual? Okay!
Now I’m quite fond of Mo’nique (The Parkers, Soul Plane, Phat Girlz). I think she is, in her own words, FAT (fabulous and thick), and I believe she would be the first to embrace her ghetto-fabulosity. I caught her on BET’s “BLACKbuster Theater” (I love it) in a flick entitled Hair Show. The movie was pretty good, actually, but I do have to point out two alcoholic moments. One: in a club scene, Mo’nique orders a “passion fruit Alizé martini.” I am by no means martini connoisseur – I don’t even like em unless they are girlified like a Lemon Drop or Cosmo. However, I am fairly certain that a cocktail composed mainly of a beverage I saw used as a tranny trophy during a Voguing ball at a San Fernando Road warehouse in Glendale should not be considered a Martini, even by its loosest definition. Two: in a later scene, this uppity lady macks on a pimpin’ salon stylist by obnoxiously correcting his grammar in an effort to impress upon him the importance of “class.” In the same breath, she orders Hypnotiq at the bar. Klassy!
Code brown! I am watching The Nanny on my TiVo as I write this, and I had to pause on an ad for a Lifetime movie called A Father for Christmas. Some dude kidnaps his baby who is sposed to be up for adoption or something. The thing is, that in one shot, the mom gets up from her hospital bed and there is a big brown stain on the ass of her robe. Ewww!
So Bazaar Bizarre LA 2006 is rapidly approaching. We’re at defcon 1, terror alert: yarn! I am excited, but could definitely use an extra month. There is one tasty morsel on the horizon before BazBiz: our bake sale this Saturday, December 2. We’re gonna be set up outside Pull My Daisy (3908 W Sunset) between 11am and 3pm. Make sure to come check us out!
Shit! I gotta scoot… more soon ☺
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