Look what my brilliant friend Hammie developed to help non-verbal kids communicate, starring her daughter Grace. If only we could all have mothers like Hammie (and daughters like Grace!)
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More Girls I Want To Be
Today I came across this bewitching long-haired girl and recognized her at once as another girl I want to be.
I don’t see many of them but when I do see one, it’s like an ache of remorse and disappointment. It’s like, I should have been her! What happened? Here is another one. Her name is Pandora, apparently, which spells trouble, but I’d like to wake up and be her anyway. Click on her to see the full glory.
It seems to be all about hair, doesn’t it? It’s not just the hair, but hair is a big deal for me. I used to have a recurring nightmare that someone had cut off my hair. It’s a little like the one where you’re spitting out your teeth. The other night I dreamed there were bugs in my bathtub, and when I tried to squash them, they got bigger. I would say that’s a Sisyphus dream….or maybe it’s just about anxiety.
Here’s another girl, I can’t remember where I found her but I see I have saved the picture as: “I will be her!”
Here’s a young model named Zippora Seven. Eerily reminiscent of Pandora, name-wise.
Why didn’t I get to be any of these girls? It’s a mystery I will never understand. Of course, I would much rather be Patti Smith or Amanda Palmer, but at this point I’ve learned to settle for worshiping them.
Looking through my file of photos, I came across this artist whose name is poetry itself: Marion Tampon-Lajarriette.
I don’t want to be her but I like the idea of putting “tampon” in my name like that. I guess that’s what Art is all about.
An Addictive New Waste of Time!
Has everybody already discovered the Askinator game? The Wolf household can’t stop playing it. Think of any character, real or fictive, and the Askinator Genie will guess the answer. So far, it has correctly guessed Ignatious P. Reilly, the Gimp from Pulp Fiction, god, Madame Bovary, Borat, Marianne Faithfull, my mother-in-law and our dog.
Ode to Max Blagg
In my youth, Max Blagg played a key role, which included my introduction to Astral Weeks. He was my first “boyfriend” when I moved to London. To a 15 year old juvenile delinquent from L.A., Max was the essence of English allure.
Max was always larger than life, one of those people who emote at high volume and always teeter on the edge of elation or dark despair. He seemed always to be yearning for another environment, another notebook or another woman. He once spent several weeks bitching about his futile search for a Victorian nightshirt. And I once risked his wrath by secretly borrowing his pink corduroy Levi’s, even though I could barely stuff my fat ass into them.
Max lives in NYC now, where he is a poet and man-about-town. I’ve only seen him once in the intervening years. But every time I hear certain records from 1969, I recall the indescribable joy of being free to do everything and everyone, and those memories usually contain an element of Max Blagg.
I missed out on high school but I racked up an education. Some of it was rough but mostly it was thrilling. It’s the kind of shit you can take pride in once you’re a boring housewife with costochondritis.
Happy New Year, Max! I’m glad you’re still around. In my heart you’ll always be 20 years old and the hottest thing on wheels.
The Perfect White T-Shirt
It goes with everything, and it’s only $24 at Urban Outfitters.
Good Riddance to 2009!
The only thing good to say about 2009 is that it’s finally ending. What an awful year it’s been.
Please join me and Sea and Ronald in hoping for a brand new start in 2010! If you don’t already have an Asian-ish gay friend, may you acquire one in the year ahead!
Love and blessings to all,
Sister Wolf
Oooh, Demi Has a Lawyer!
Demi Moore has a lawyer and she’s not afraid to use him. She is threatening to sue the Internet for daring to accuse her of being photoshopped on the cover of W magazine. You can read her lawyer’s letter here.
Why does this woman get to be such an idiot?! Why doesn’t she have something better to do? Why are rich people so fucking delusional?
I’m sick of this bitch. I’m tired of her face, her child husband and her bad movies. I’m suing her ass.
Dear Mr Singer,
My client, Myself, is putting you on notice that unless your client, Ms. Moore, stops being a public nuisance, we will see you in court. My client has a right under the US Constitution to ‘the pursuit of happiness,’ which cannot be conducted under the present circumstances vis a vis Ms. Moore.
My client would like an apology from Ms. Moore for the continuing abuse of her celebrity. My client asks that Ms. Moore and that idiot she married stop tweeting, and tweeting about tweeting. They both need to go away and attend to the three daughters with the awful names and disfigured faces. They need to just shut the hell up, frankly, in order to restore my client’s relative serenity.
I really believe Demi Moore owes me an apology, along with Madonna, of course, who will have to kill herself on pay-per-view to make restitution for my pain and suffering.
Who owes you an apology?
A New Page
How can I thank the Angels who have made donations to the Sister Wolf Plague of Calamities Fund? You are amazing. You have given me strength and put food on my table. I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve you but I’m so grateful for your generosity.
There’s a new page to honor my patrons and angels, over there on the right-hand column.
The Thrill of Neiman Marcus
For the first time in months, I went out to shop today! My BF took us to Neiman Marcus, where we saw LaToya Jackson in the men’s department wearing a red Santa hat and sporting a bubble butt that jiggled wildly but still looked fake.
In the shoe department, the sale racks were overflowing with eye-popping high-end monstrosities by the usual designers. I thought it would be nice to try on some $1,500 alligator wedges. I would rather die than try to walk in shoes like this, since I clearly have trouble walking in flat athletic shoes.
I was transfixed by an awful woman trying on some high suede boots. She modeled them in different positions as though trying out for a contest of some kind. Her legs were as thin as my arms but her lips were inflated enough to save at least half of the passengers on the Titanic. I hope she bought the boots.
Upstairs in the clothing department, a woman who looked like Terry Hatcher kissed up to a woman with awful frizzy red hair, who revealed that she was up for a directing award. Terry gushed that she always saw Frizzy on Facebook, but Frizzy insisted that she rarely logged in.
It was a joyous day, and I achieved a dizzying level of shopping-endorphins without having to spend any money. Like any addict, I can’t wait to do it again.
leather jacket by Gar-de, ill-fitting old jeans by Wrangler, blue shoes by Adidas, Chanel bag, cane from Rite-Aid.
Godawful Jeans Alert
Okay, you thought you’d seen everything after those horrible muffin-jeans, but check out the Sneaker Jeans, again from our visionary friends at Karmaloop. Laces, grommets AND zippers!
WHY?