Sunday, April 30, 2006


I saw the movie Flight 93 yesterday. I didn’t want to see it, but since I had done the red carpet makeup for Jody McClintock – one of the stars of the movie – I went. I am glad I did; and I recommend it to everyone.

I will never forget that clear sunny day that was September 11. The year 2001 was not a good year – my boyfriend was diagnosed with a fatal cancer and I was misdiagnosed with an illness that turned out to be nothing – gotta love those quack doctors! Needless to say, I walked around much of the year in a fog.

On September 11, the ringing phone awakened me – it was my boyfriend calling from Israel. I remember looking out the window and seeing the beautiful blue sky. Too lazy to reach for the phone, I heard him pleading over the answering machine about my whereabouts. I thought it was strange that he called so early – I tried calling back, but the phones were dead.

I heard people in my hallway screaming that we were under attack. I turned on the television to find the World Trade Centers burning. I live on 12th street in the east village – just 2 miles from the towers. I ran outside and I could see the smoking buildings. My cell phone rang and it was my agent. I had totally forgotten that I had an afternoon shoot. He asked if I was up to going - he had received word that the rest of the crew would be showing up.

Yes, even with the world at war, fashion comes first.

I didn’t know what to do - sit home and drive myself crazy or go to work. I decided to go to the shoot. With my makeup in a backpack, I rode my bike the mile or so to the studio. The streets were devoid of cars and strangely quiet. The only movement were the people covered in white dust making their way uptown.

I don’t remember much of the shoot because everyone was glued to the television. Afterwards, I rode my bike down the west side highway towards the cloud of smoke. As I turned onto Houston Street I came upon a scene that will never leave my memory. The television cameras were set up and behind them were hundreds of people carrying pictures of their loved ones – each trying to get their images on the cameras. No news had come out yet, but everyone knew that the emergency rooms were empty – no survivors.

The camaraderie on the streets was overwhelming, and even though I didn’t know anyone who died, I felt I knew each one of the victims. Over the next few days every business, church and storefront were flying American flags – every building except the mosque around my corner. I can’t tell you how many times my boyfriend would walk by it and mutter…”I wonder what those motherfuckers are in there planning.” I would smile politely and pooh pooh him….I guess he was right after all.

Later in the week, a friend and I walked to what was left of the World Trade Center. Standing amidst the twisted pieces of steel and concrete, I felt an eerie sense of dead souls surrounding me. And the smell - the workers were spraying formaldehyde onto the burning pile to preserve the bodies. It all seemed so unreal.

As I watched the movie with tears in my eyes, my 9/11 memories came flooding back to me. I can only imagine what those poor souls felt on those planes, but they should never be forgotten.

The most ironic scene in the movie is hearing the Arabs praying to Allah and the passengers praying to Jesus.

See the movie.

Thursday, April 27, 2006


Living in New York City, one meets a lot of people with big career dreams. And most of these people work as waiters, bartenders and dog walkers to make those dreams come true. But lately I’ve been asking myself when is it time to pack up and close the show – dream over.

I got to thinking of this dilemma the other day on a shoot. The model was an older woman who had moved to NYC in her youth to be an actress. Yes, she’s had some minor success, but at age 58 she was struggling to pay her rent and afford health insurance. In her long hair, fanny pack, and mom jeans, her obvious lack of money was obvious. She looked rather sad when she talked of friends retiring with huge pensions and the many planned vacations. I noticed she ate extra food at the lunch table.

As I watched her gobbling down - and not caring one iota about my carefully constructed lip line - yet another plate of free food, I started thinking of my life and the many friends who are struggling to make it big in NYC. One friend is nearing 40 and still trying to make it as a pop music sensation and another in the same age range is still making the rounds as an actor. Of course, both of these would-be stars work part-time jobs spritzing perfume and waiting tables – both live hand to mouth without a cent in the bank.

I moved to NYC with the dream to be the next Kevyn Acoin, but he died and so did my dream of a Vogue cover. I still love makeup, but I’m much more aware of the need to make money and save for the future, which good Virgo that I am, do on a regular basis.

Dreams might sustain your life, but not a NYC lifestyle.


I am getting so sick of all these people constantly talking and texting on their cellphones and blackberrys. I ask you: Is it really all that necessary to call your girlfriend from Whole Foods to discuss the can peas?

I think not.

Saturday, April 22, 2006


Oprah has really pissed me off. I mean, she’s been riding her opinionated high horse and singing her own bloated charms for some time, but now she’s crossed the line. On Friday’s episode, she made the idiotic and arrogant statement that LUCK plays no part in a person’s success.

Oprah claims that success occurs when an educated and skilled person meets an opportunity.

Sounds good on paper, but in reality, it’s a pile of bullshit.

I know numerous talented and educated men and women with tons of ambition that can barely pay the rent because opportunity has not presented itself. And I know numerous untalented and uneducated men and women who have achieved great success via opportunites presented by lady LUCK.

Believe me, it takes LUCK to meet that opportunity.

And for the record, I wonder what category Oprah would put her best friend Gayle in – I mean, Gayle is a millionaire because of her LUCK of befriending Oprah.

Oprah, step down from your black tower and get a reality check.

Monday, April 17, 2006


Things that make me go hmmmm or things that rattle my cage.

Why do some Jewish women – I think Hasidic – shave their heads, yet wear hideous wigs in public? I mean, if you’re gonna shave your head for some religious reason, fine and dandy, but then why wear fake hair? I don’t get it.

Why does milk taste so good with chocolate chip cookies?

Why are there so many fat kids?

Why do overweight Puerto Rican women with bad orangey highlights wear so much cheap perfume? The other day I was caught in a lift with one of these monsters and I almost passed out.

Why do mothers today have baby carriages the size of small cars? I mean, these things resemble covered wagons and take up half the sidewalk. I ask you: What the hell is in these things?

When did Trader Joes on 14th Street turn into a nightclub? The lines at the door are so long that a snotty doorman has been hired to choose who gets in and who doesn’t. I guess the ghosts of the Paladium nightclub - the former residents - are still around.

Why is it we can have 10,000 songs on our ipod and still have nothing to listen to?

Why do older gay men love Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli and Bette Midler? For a group that loves beauty, these three would make Helen Keller thankful she was blind.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006


I was on the bus the other day and I heard two girls having a most interesting conversation – it went like this:

“Girl, you know it was a good night when you come home with your panties in your purse.”

“I think it’s a better night when you come home without your panties.”

“You left your underwear at the club?”

“I think so.”

“How did that happen?”

“I have no idea…I think I took ‘em off while I was dancing, but later when I went outside to have a smoke, the bouncer had my panties in his front pocket.”

Only in NYC, kids, only in NYC.

Friday, April 07, 2006


Ok, dear readers, here is the final chapter of Glamour?? (If you are new to the site, scroll down to read Glamour?? Part 1 before reading this installment.)

We arrived at Kate’s Lazy Meadow Motel ( at around 3 pm and immediately started working. Bulldog shoved me into a tiny room and instructed me to start “touching up” the models. For the next three hours, I covered zit after zit and flat ironed one frizzy mop after the next until I was ready to drop. All the while, Bulldog kept screaming at me to hurry up. When I asked if we were going to be given something to eat, Bulldog growled, “You will be fed later.” When I asked for a beverage, she told me to drink from the hose next to the cabins. I can laugh now, but as famed author Jackie Collins says, truth is stranger than fiction.

My spirits picked up when Kate arrived in a cute yellow Volkswagen bug. I ran from the makeup room wielding my camera screaming, Kate, Kate, Kate – I love you, Kate. She looked at me like I was a stalker – and in all the pics of us together, her blue eyes look very frightened.

When a photographer asked Kate if she wanted pictures from the motel shoot, she glanced at our “ma and pa kettle” love shack photo shoot and shook her head no. After 30 minutes, Kate got back in her bug and never returned.

We kept shooting and shooting until 8 pm and still no food or drink. Finally, Bulldog and her cohorts set up a huge Mexican buffet on the picnic tables.

“You can eat in two hours,” Bulldog yelled as flies and other various insects descended on the food.

When we finally wrapped for the night at 12:30 am – that’s almost 15 hours of work - Bulldog instructed me I was to bunk in the makeup room. I looked at the filthy room littered with trash from 10 models and exploded at Bulldog.

“I am not sleeping in this room!”

Bulldog gave me an evil look, but relented –a dyke is no match for an angry queen.

We drove to a rather fancy hotel and I was given a gorgeous duplex suite with a hot tub – too bad I couldn’t enjoy it.

At 8:45 am I staggered into the hotel’s restaurant and joined the other models for breakfast. As the waiters were bringing our bacon and eggs, Bulldog came storming into the restaurant and ordered everyone onto the vans.

“I don’t care if you people have not eaten. I told all of you to be ready at 9 am.”

Some of the younger models started to cry. I refused to move and bellowed in a loud dramatic voice:

“I’m not leaving until I finish my breakfast.”

Bulldog hustled the starving models onto the vans and drove off. In 10 minutes she was back - and I could tell she was mad.

“I don’t like your attitude.”

“Well,” I said as I fixed my lip liner. “I don’t like looking at your face.”

We drove back to Kate’s in silence.

At 12 noon, Bulldog announced that lunch was served. As I walked to the lunch cabin, I joked to the models that Bulldog was going to serve us the Mexican leftovers from the previous night. We laughed, but sure enough, sitting on the tables were the soggy insect ridden leftovers.

I went outside to find Bulldog. I found her in the van with her cohorts eating freshly bought hamburgers, salads and fries! I called her every politically incorrect name in the book. She sat there stone-faced and handed me a hamburger.

Yes, I’m not proud of myself, but I took the hamburger as I watched the models eating the soggy bean burritos. What can I say? I was so hungry I would have taken a fresh falafah from Bin Laden.

The rest of the shoot was a blur – all I remember is getting back into the city at 12 midnight. I was so exhausted and starved I could barely get out of the van.

As my feet touched 23rd street, I fell to my knees and kissed the Manhattan pavement.

So you see, my dear readers, life isn’t always pretty in the land of powder and paint.

Thursday, April 06, 2006


Ok, I admit it, I'm a TV whore. My boob tube is glowing every waking moment that I am awake. Now I might not always be watching it, but it keeps my poor soul company. Here are some of my favorite shows:

NoTORIous (Sunday nites on VH1) - I love this campy reality/sictom starring Miss Tori Spelling. I mean, you have to watch it just to see Loni Anderson playing Tori's mom - a classic freak show.

DYNASTY (weekdays on the Soap Network) - The clothes, the hairstyles, the catfights - OMG this show is a masterpiece! And for the record, I've worked with Joan Collins and she wasn't acting - she is Alexis Morell Carington Colby Dexter Rowen.

OPRAH (weekdays) - OK, she can be a bit smug, but for me, it's like going to church. Yes, she gets preachy, and talks way too much about how fabulous she is, but I still love me some Oprah.

CELEBRITY FIT CLUB (Sunday nites on VH1) - Watching chubby D-list celebs struggle to lose weight is just way too much fun for words. Who had any idea Chasity Bono was really a 300 pound man?

Tuesday, April 04, 2006


Everyone thinks my life is one big bowl of glamour. What with celebrities, models, travel and free lunches, sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t, and sometimes I wish I sat in a cubicle all day. As the old saying goes, the grass is always greener on the other side of the septic tank. Let me share with you a story that should put an end to all of you wishing for a life in the land of powder and paint.

Sit back, my darlings, and enjoy my misery.

I was booked for a two-day shoot in the Catskill Mountains at Kate – the B- 52’s - Pierson’s retro campy motor lodge. I have always been a huge fan of the B-52's, so I was overjoyed by the thought of doing the rock lobster with a punk legend. I was told there would be 10 models that would require “light” touch-ups. Ok, 10 models, not sounding so good, but ever the trooper, I thought it was a small price to pay for a chance to dance with Kate in the Catskills.

The next morning, I found 10 of the mangiest looking models I have ever seen. I mean, I have seen prettier faces coming out of the crystal meth clinic on Avenue A. Turns out, they were from a modeling school in Queens. And these kids were not only ugly, but covered in acne and cursed with heads of frizzed out mops resembling pubic hair - so much for "light" touch-ups! Truely, Helen Keller would have ran screaming from this bunch.

With my head in my hands contemplating my beauty fate, I was introduced to the producer of the job. As I looked up, the butchest dyke this side of Rosie O greeted me. Now, I’m sorry, but I just don’t like bulldog dykes. Try as I might to like my saphoric sisters, I just can’t comprehend why they run around sans concealer while mimicking Vin Diesel. Furthermore, why do they constantly have to prove that they are the alpha dogs - sister, you have a pussy, and penis trumps pussy any day of the week, so get over it.

Ok, back to the story at hand.

Bulldog ordered everyone onto the vans and off we went. After about an hour of driving, one of the girls asked to use a restroom. I could see a McDonald’s about a mile or so down the road, but no, Bulldog pulled her van to the side and motioned to the other van to form a V on the road. I had no idea what was going on – that is, until I heard Bulldog order the girls to squat behind one of the vans. Next, she ordered the boys to the other side of the van.

Was this really happening? Yes, it was – we were being forced to use the side of the road as our latrine. (Stay tuned for Part 2)

Monday, April 03, 2006


The other day I read that a brother who gave his sister a much-needed kidney requested liposuction while he was under anesthesia. He thought since he was already knocked out; why not get a little “work” done. In fact, he was making his sister pay for it.

Am I crazy, or does that sound like a good idea? I mean, it’s kinda like a reward for a good deed.

Sunday, April 02, 2006


Why is it that straight men go plum crazy around big-breasted women? I mean, it's almost embarassing to watch as they pant, perspire and act just plain nutty. Toss in some blonde hair and that same straight man would push his mother in front of a bus to get a better look at those moving mammeries.

Furthermore, I just don't understand the straight man's fasination with strippers and strip clubs. I was once doing a shoot at Scores and I was shocked to see the straight men being reduced to blubbering idiots around all those mounds of flesh. Man after man gleefully pushed his children's college fund into the cleavages of the gyrating dancers.

I watched one man put at least $400 into the bra of a busty blonde with a face only a blind mother would love. I mean, for $400 he didn't even get to touch those tits.

Believe me, for that amount of money in a gay bar, you could touch a hell of a lot more than just the tits of the stripper.