"And Just Like That"

Oy. As if the movies weren’t enough punishment …

“And Just Like That” … I tried to keep an open mind! Really. But I’m left dumbfounded. And pissed. Note: I adored the first seasons of SATC. Until it got desperate.

Let me rant with a few queries.
(And SPOILER ALERT):

1. Why does Carrie hate her friends and their endless — and now sad — brunches? Her one-liners were funny first time around — now they just seem mean. Who the fuck would want a friend like Carrie? Not I sistuh.

2. Why the idiotic line from Miranda to Carrie that participating in a podcast and Instagram — she is “passing as young” — why is a podcast a foreign thing to these “media” and lawyer types working in the world? Where oh where have they been? And what kind of support is that to get from your bff (that again

3. Why did these women NOT know about the complete and perfect gender REINCARNATION that is happening in the world now? Why did they not know that making comments on black women’s hair is simply NOT OK … and the obvious racial tokenism DOUBLE NOT OK

4. Why did “they” make each and every one of them into DODDERING FOOLS????

I will tell you why.

Because, once again, getting older is portrayed as grim. As settling. As fucking sad. Nobody over 17 is having sex in this thing. And definitely not having ANY fun. No clue about navigating the world. Dinosaurs.

And yes, getting older does mean loss. But getting older also means learning to care MORE about the stuff that matters — not just accumulate more and more SHOES BITCHES.

The one advantage of all of this is Carrie's hothothot boss Che @therealsaramirez — hopefully soon to be lovers with Miranda. But there I go. Thinking they’ll be fun and MODERN. And, so far, this is none of that ….

So. I’m not finished yet. Only saw two. But while the stock of Peloton tumbles, I suspect my stock in this show will continue to take a DIVE…

This reboot makes me worship Broad City more than EVER. And the only Broad in the bunch — Samantha.

HOW ABOUT YOU??? Am I alone here?

Tick Tock Tick Tock

How we change …

I am fully aware of how obnoxious this photo is. It’s an editorial decision.

And how amusing it is to catch the moments and realize — wow — I am a totally different Broad.

Or am I? I ask that question to a lot of Glorious Broads. Has your core changed from your 20s 30s etc? They usually say no. Me? It’s a no. But my being in TOUCH with my core has…now.

Back from a 7-day retreat. In a mountain town that’s minutes away from being the next hipster spot. It has the derigueur cool coffee shop, a damn good martini a few doors from my lair. And an occasional hipster sighting. 

I got into this (kind of) “off-the-grid” life — and took care of my bod, myself. Wrote. Thought. Can’t decide if I am a genius with a new project — or is it shit. But that’s art. Not my GB story …

Back to that. First: I would never take this kind of trip younger. Oh. I’d travel alone. But agendas: Partying. Fucking. Business. I never took the time to DIG. I’d just DO.

And travel with a separate bag for accessories…and lipstick.

This trip? No lipstick. Sweats, sneaks, baseball hat.

Leaving … sigh … in Hudson catching the train. Needed a shot of GLAM. Dropped by The Mark Hotel doing its best to recreate the West Village, my home, in the Catskills. Oy …

I flopped down at the best seat available. And gave the poor young horrified hostess a near heart attack as she catapulted towards me toute suite.

Seeing her panic — I’d completely forgotten what I “projected” – ‘cause I don’t do funk like the always coooooool Patti Smith. I just looked like I needed a shave and a bed. Which I did…

Got booted. Though I took my time sauntering out — my “dress code” all wrong. Hahahaha.

This experience would have RATTLED me younger — Oh I wish I was French (this truly was my mantra in my 20s — pooryoungme) – the whole “am I good enough/cool enough” number…

Not now. I chuckled — felt for the poor hostess and her shit job — ousting folk not lookin the part — giving her a mini heart attack — knowing perfectly well that I am as Glorious in my sweats as I am in this GLAM photo shot in the REAL village bitches. 

Isn’t it great that we know we are Glorious – inside and out? That’s our core. And now we know it.

Has your core changed?

"Fuckable" Is Overfuckingrated

Enough Paulina …

Young. Lovely. Clueless.

I just found these photos. I utterly forgot that we ever made them. “We” was me and a photographer who I guess back then I called a “friend.”

I am so coy here. And very, very young. You know the drill — it was the '70s, I was new in New York, met him at a Soho party. He was dressed in a disco white flaired suit. The suit I remember. The face? Naaa. He did me lots of “favors.” Shooting pics of me, pals, family. The favor I paid back was — no — I didn’t f*** him — but when I see the look on my face here — faking the you are AMAZING with a side of completely unfaked PLEASE don’t touch me — deeply uncomfortable then and now. In fact, that mutherfucker was a pig throughout the shoot. And every shoot. The price I paid for mediocre pictures.

You just put up with it. THEN. It was invisible, something we didn't even realize we could speak up about. Good riddance to that bullshit.

And speaking of invisible, Paulina Porizkova is talking a lot about this on Insta these days — no expiration on sexy and the whatnots. I LIKE a lot of what she does, what she says. But — I mean — you win — you're a bloody model. You're posting jaw-dropping gorge photos TOTALLY looking for “am I f***able” outside validation at 50. Don’t put that shit on us. Fitness, sure, but fuckable is overfuckingrated.

“You just put up with it. Then. It was invisible, something we didn’t even realize we could speak up about.
Good riddance to that bullshit.”

In my family of 5 sisters, the eldest one was, without a doubt, the GODDESS. THE sex bomb. Too much emphasis on this in our clan, but she was worshiped — the Liz Taylor type. She came up in the '50s. Mad Men territory. And that was the business she was in. She WAS Joan.

I remember fishing with her, decades later, solidly in her 60s, a bad-ass broad, with her body — well — she looked like a bumblebee and she loved it. I asked her if she missed being the babe — the sexy young thang — her response: "Hell no. I was absolutely tortured for it …."

I'm NOT saying here accept being “invisible.” HELL NO. But being young and being attacked on the streets or creeped on at photoshoots makes who you are invisible. In her bumblebee stage, my sister was more visible than ever. We all get to be visible for who we absolutely are. If we own it. And today? I would have clocked that asshole right in the crotch for messin' with me.

So let's do it — be VISIBLE as the older, powerful Glorious Broads that we are. Nobody else’s idea of “f***able” — OUR OWN idea. Get botox if you want to. Do whatever the hell you want. But recognize. Decades change you. And that's OK. In fact, it's better.

A Day in the Life of a "Transformed" New Yorker

But will it stay ….

The same Broad as pre-COVID? Fuggetaboutit

Photo: Russ Rowland

I’ve definitely changed a bit since The Plague. Little things like — taking a whole day to just ... walk — so not me — meeting a friend for a middle-of-the-day coffee — whoa — taking the time to feel the city as it eeks (more like rages) open. Does it feel different? Do I?

Here's my yesterday, ranked by Covid Change factor:

1. Hair Cut: Desperately needed. Went to a friend of my present beau. Damn good job for ¼ of the price. She and I clicked — a real Glorious Broad. She was the best friend of his wife, who passed away two years ago. Talking to her made me feel like I knew this woman a little more — instead of being the (sometimes) jealous asshole I can slip into. I felt happy he found such a great partner and for so long before — me. We played Sinead O'Connor. I felt moved, lifted and grounded at the same time. Covid Change? I think yes.

2. On the streets: An occasional eye lock with a stranger. Sometimes, for fun, I admire a young stud. I can’t tell if he is responsive or weirded out. I don’t give a fuck. Definitely Covid Change.

3. Dumpy "spa" appt: How one forgets the INTIMACY of a wax — literally crawling inside your butt and pussy. This joint (I can't type spa again with a straight face) is run by Russians — but not MEAN — they blared Donna Summer’s disco version of MacArthur park throughout the torture. What the fuck did that song mean? But I loved Tania — and left the torture chamber humming, contented. Covid inspired? Not feeling pissy after a wax? Big time Covid Change.

4. Walking down 16th street: Finding the store, “Kidding Around” — which I’ve been trying to remember the name of for weeks as there is a new special baby in my life. BLING! But its fucking huge. “You were small and intimate — what happened?” Retail kid says (a bit condescendingly): Umm that was 28 years ago. But I did the math. Time flies. Nothing to do with Covid — except that bejesus this cute shop LASTED. And I was not a bitch to the kid!!! In fact, I was charming and explained when I was there last. Covid Change — a definite maybe.

5. The Murrays Bagel Miracle: I indulged in a glorious huge bagel with everything. Had the discipline to leave the other half on a 14th street ragged corner. Hope they like lox. I remember Andy Warhol did this after a luxury dinner — left little boxes of leftovers around town. So, I did it for Andy. Covid Change — yep.

NY deliciousness. Shared.

6. I hate to shop: But forced myself into Banana Republic. Not my style BUT figured I could funk up the basic boring prep look when home. After all, I was off to the Hamptons and when in Rome … The young sales kid and I had fun screwing the system finding every “deal” there was. Walked out of there with 2 pairs of shoes and many a basic bit under 200 bucks — under 30 minutes. The hilarious “screw the system” chats with this young GB were Covid Change fer sher, full retail price is a Never Again. For moi.

7. After this me me me day, I met up with Glorious Broad #18, ASIA and watched some stupendous flamenco. Toward the end of our margarita fueled catchup, a homeless guy approached.— My immediate reaction was — oh shit — how do I blow out of here? Not ASIA. She listened. She talked. She gave him respect. I saw this man transform from a homeless “tragedy” — to a person relieved to have another person to hear him. And I learned more about her — more about him — more about what COVID has done to all of us, with and without homes. Covid Change: off the charts.

Thank you, ASIA — you’re a pisser, I love you and appreciate you for being so damn glorious.

What about ya'll? Are you seeing, feeling some Covid changes in YOU? Tell me.

Too Old for NYC?

Always thought I'd leave feet first, but this last leg
of Covid’s got me ponderin' …

Phone. Remember these? Then you’re old …

All Photos: Christopher Scalzi / Distilled Studio

Am I a curmudgeon? (A bit.) Am I a bitch? (Yes.) Can I blame the pandemic? (Oh fuck yes.) — but now, in the year 2021, approaching my 71st birthday — I wonder — am I just too fucking old for this town?

I always vowed to leave Manhattan when I’d bump into my nephew at clubs. Or media events. Or high roller restaurants. ‘Cause I owned this town, goddammit. Well, that same “kid” became a super star. And scrammed for the Hamptons when THIS happened — months ago. To procreate. And now considers New York City OVUH.

O New York, how thy tryest my last nerve. Have I hung around too long? The evidence ...

1. I still loathe going to Brooklyn. Or Jackson Heights. Or Astoria. Or any of the “groovy” new boroughs (did I just say groovy?) I’m Pete Hamill, age 11, born in Brooklyn, longing to cross the Bridge that would take me to the golden land of Manhattan. So. Not goin’…

(And if you're askin' who's Pete Hamill? Groan …)

2. I can no longer get it up to pay $280 plus tip for a haircut. Yes — I am a fusspot about my tresses. But Covid’s left its mark: Dough — and lack of same. My look is no longer a DO, it's a solid DON'T. At this point I'm considering the corner barber. Taking a load off in one of those old chairs. Hoping the barber’s name is “Tony.” Is this longing for “old” NY pathetic? Maybe. But I still want that damn chair.

3. Speaking of ‘old New York. Candy stores. Newsstands. Penny stores (ok ok Dollar stores.) New York is constantly changing. I get that. But with that constant change — it is constantly leaving people behind. Finding a Jacks Dollar Store now makes me weepy.

4. My deli guy has moved back to Pakistan. The block is deflated. And I am crushed. Now, it is run by his prick-esh nephew. The last real deli in the hood. Where he charged $7.00 for a shitty coffee. But I merrily paid to be with … HIM.

5. Scaring the bejesus saying hello to zombies on phones — in the streets — on lines and especially in elevators — they glare at their screens as I torture them with my polite in-your-face “GOOD MORNING”. This has become a beloved morning ritual. It replaces the deli 'cause now — I make my own (shitty) coffee.

6. I miss kids. Whodathought? Minus the return-to-school-travel-time, the children have all been suddenly whooshed off … pooof! I'm all for adult content, but this is a little much.

7. Searching for restaurants in my West Village hood — what we are calling restaurants these days, mostly sheds outside — with glittery lights — so (old) Paris — but — where is the age diversity already? Only people in their 20s and 30s? Just a year ago it was — normal. Me and my 50-esh neighbor commiserate on the stairs — has the neighborhood changed? Or is it … us?

8. Speaking of dining: Totally done with $55 entrées. I DO want these over-priced haunts to survive (oh poor Keith McNally) — and I’ll splurge on an $18 wine (!!??) I can no longer afford for the cause. But a meal? It's a no. I can actually cook now — WOAH — and who needs a sneering waiter when I ask for ketchup. Fuck you.

9. Get outta he-ah: You're gonna use the bike lane like a high-speed freeway? Riding in the wrong direction touting an attitude? Brings up some rage.

10.  I said get the fuck outta he-ah already: Oh and the motorized bikers using the SIDEWALK now. People: The one reason bike lanes were constructed was to get them off the sidewalk ‘cause they were killing people riding on the sidewalk!!! More rage.  

Getdafuckouttaheah

11. But another thing: The Mail service! Several times a year a handwritten envelope — perfectly legible — is returned to sender as un-deliverable.

Name is correct. Address is correct — just returned.
Thank you notes for wedding gifts — returned.  
Christmas cards — returned. Once a year I like to hear from some members of my family!
Oh! Wedding invitations — returned.
Meanwhile, all my suburban friends and family receive their mail even when the names and addresses are way wrong!

Am I an official curmudgeon or is the mail service in this god forsaken town just plain old bad?  It ain’t COVID! It has sucked for a long long time. And it’s “nearly” over (we hope.)
But today I’m marching over to the post office to raise hell about it.

12. My neighbors DARE to party till 11pm: I mean. Really. A pal was over when I was ranting about overhearing them at 10:45 — my bed time now — when she patiently reminded me of MY old debaucheries — and how they would start at midnight. Oops.

13. The homeless: And oh there are so so many of them. Unlike the '70s when I lived through this before, I no longer am (or tried to be) that hardened New Yorker. Now, they break my heart now. Each and every one of them.

14.  Remember bookstores?
I do. Hang in there, Strand …

15. I even miss drop-in waxing by the often masochist “aestheticians” in the seedy street salons I’d frequent. Never thought I'd be wistful for a curt "Lift yo' leg," but both me and my bush are woolly and desperate these days.

16. My old “cool” neighborhood dissed by the young: When my beloved nephew complained that Tribeca was filled with old entitled white folks — "The Tribeca Tribe" — I stopped him in mid rant: Wait — two of my coolest artist friends still live there (I cannot mention them as they are still top drawer.) He gave me some serious side eye.

17. I live down the street from Carrie's stoop from Sex and the City. I usta hate the 20-year olds torturing the owners. Now I crave them. Bad sign…

18. Construction. No words. Here before Covid. With Covid. The tail end of Covid. An extra layer of shit: Noise, steel, and other debris for easy decapitation.

Stay strong — oh yes, gotta be. Fuck you.

19. Pedestrian Plaza: Bloomberg’s “success” of Disney-fying (i.e. ruining) all things cool about ole pimp’d out Times Square. It’s a 2-block square of my personal nightmare where tourists ‘hang’ and manage not to get rammed by cars and creepy groping Mickey Mice. But, now there is no Broadway — so — there’s that.

20. People leaving NYC saying how "it's changed/it's so different/ I need to live simpler: Bitch, you are leaving because you CAN. Some of us are here because we love it, or love to hate it, or hate to love it, BUT ALSO because we all don't have the means to buy a fucking country house in Catskill to "start over.” Privilege: Check it.

21. Cancel high-end retail: The ones that still exist. Some life bubbling in the not too distant future but — it ain’t the ole New York — where it was fun to GET DONE — so many places to see and be seen. That impulse and opportunity has died. (Sorry Bergdorf’s)

22.  Where are the old Jazz dudes at the old Jazz joints?? The other night, hearing great music, freezing my arse off as one does — with about 40 people around, I realized that only 3 or 4 of them were anywhere — anywhere — near my age. Do these youngies know Sonny Rollins, Elvin Jones or Sarah Vaughan?? Do I care? Jazz joints usta always be mixed ages ... I could swear …

23. Boyfriends Recyled: I always swore that I would never “revisit” a boyfriend type once done with them. There are so many in New York City! Musicians, painters, actors, designers, writers, Brazilians (yes, countries count) — and thankyouverymuch not a businessman in site — or between my legs.

However, It’s been a bitch not to repeat “types.”  So I have had to (four cyclists and counting). I have been cruising here for nearly 46 years. And Manhattan is an island, after all ….

24. THE Recycling Boyfriend bit me in the ass — 46 years later. I told my present boyfriend that I had never gone out with a musician — he's a drummer and my very first. He questioned that, as we are equally long-toothed ...

I racked my brain and — wait — I had been with this jazz pianist when I was new and fresh in NYC four decades ago — met him at a cool Soho party (remember cool Soho parties?) I remember what he played. I remember who he played with (impressive.) But name? Blank. Once it came to me zillions of hours later, the drummer said: WHA? I know him. My ex played with him. She not only played with him but gave me crabs from him.

The reclycling bit me in the ass.

My boyfriend of yore gave my present boyfriend a case of the crabs.

Is this, indeed, the final insult?

So there they are — my gripes and rage and annoyances. As Clark Terry would say (who's Clark Terry? Oh shut up) I’m not complainin’ — I’m explainin’ …

But really — is there anything MORE New York than bitchin’ about how New York has changed? It was fun to see Fran Leibowitz and Martin Scorsese goin at it in “Pretend It's A City.” And hate to sound like Fran but — where would I go? Paris? Rome? Lisbon? They’re all great — for six months. But Manhattan? Sigh … until that damn skyline no longer makes me swoon — I remain. The last standing soldier … kvetching.

How It All Began

Goddess Twiggy: Lookin as clueless as I felt …

Photograph: Barry Lategan

He was the football captain. The lead of every musical. Coveted by my girlfriends. He — who went “all the way” — or so they said — with the hottest, fastest “hood” in senior year. He was tall. He was dark. He was oh so handsome. Yeah yeah yeah. But it was that bad boy thing that drew me in. He danced with me just once in junior year, gave me a twirl, and promptly cast me aside. But I would think of that embrace each night. This time? As we approached the end of senior year? No “almost” — I’m going for it. I had nothing to lose. I am asking him to the Prom and I am gonna win him.

I was a “B” girl in high school. Come on. You know how that is. Plenty “cute” — but I was a little odd — even then — not in A circles. And he … he was an A+.

We went to the prom. I remember wearing as much guck in my hair as I did on my face, my twiggy eyes, my all-over. Oh yeah, I went all the way.

And it worked. I won him. That very first night.

“I was a “B” in High School. Come on. You know how that is ... And he ... he was an A+”

We were “together” for four years. We went steady, we got “pinned”— please, does anybody remember getting “pinned?” And I wore his engagement ring. He went off to an Ivy League School majoring in economics. I am yawning as I write this. And me? I went off to art school — and by year three, I would fantasize about him getting shipped to Vietnam so I could be free of him. Nice. He wanted to go. He wanted to “save our country.” And he was increasingly concerned about my shift in dress, in thoughts, in interests.

And he should have been. I broke up with him two weeks before our wedding “event” at the local Wayne Manor. I broke his heart in my little VW with the WHO in the background screaming I’M FREE while I gave him the news. And I can so remember trying to repress the feeling of exhilaration as that poor boy was losing his shit. He went off to Vietnam. And I went off to get happily radicalized.

What felt like winning on Prom night soured pretty quickly. But the feeling in that VW as I broke free from a life I did not want has felt like winning every day since — it was the start of my life as a Glorious Broad.

"I Can Still Gussy Up"

QUEEEEEEEN

That was the line that slayed me — Lena Horne swanning on to the stage — right before her last Broadway show at The Nederlander. My heart stops just thinking about that moment. 

Wrapped in a floor length midnight blue clingy number — arms out — giving us all a big ole sexy hug.
I was a kid then — and she to got me — and the rest of the panting audience — hook line and sinker.

And now, 39 years later, I understand that smirk, I understand her knowin’ she was killin’ it, I understand her relishing these years of being able to slay.

Broadway — I thrived on the tradition of those nights. Lena was a must see! And after curtain: such fun scoring the right table at Joe Allen’s — milking the martinis — or better yet — squatting at the bar, swapping boozy critiques — was it over-hyped — did it transform you — even for a moment?

Lena transformed me. Cherry Jones transformed me. Eileen Atkins transformed me.

Glorious Broads all.

I was in the middle of a massive clean out of my studio today. Gotta happen. It’s a disaster.

And I am about to trash the Playbill for Lena’s  “The Lady and Her Music.”

I’m sobbing as I throw out these relics … for Broadway … for a very different life we will probably not be able to recreate. Post COVID. Or at the very least — it won’t be “the same” now — will it? Not in my lifetime …

And — I’m amusing myself with a new little fantasy — that I might be Lena — recreate HER … ’cause I too can still gussy up … and fuck it, I just may take up crooning. We have the time now, don’t we?

WARDROBE!!!!