House Scavengers

I am, as usual, relaxing at the end of the work day by watching my favorite real estate porn, House Hunters. A few months back the New York Times commented on the ways in which real estate shows were adapting to the crash of the housing market. No more of those ubiquitously optimistic "Flip this House" series. I find it very disturbing to see that in House Hunters, they show cases where a home buyer is getting a home in foreclosure. This is mentioned as an asset, because the price is low, and a liability, the house is a "fixer." Never do they discuss the situation of the persons left homeless. In one episode, a couple cracks jokes about a series of stuffed animals scattered throughout a "bargain" home in short-sale, which the broker helpfully explains is when a bank is selling a property in foreclosure. Those were kids' toys, where are those kids living now? Needless to say, it kills my buzz. And then in a new series called "For Rent," because few can afford to buy and on "My First Place," you often see foreclosed properties being bought as "starter homes" by young couples who are willing to put in the elbow grease necessary to fix up "abandoned" homes.

Hail to the Hot Dog

I am at a loss as to how I will cope with the loss of so many icons of my childhood in such quick succession. This morning brought the news of the passing of Oscar mayer, founder of the company that brought me and so many others joy. I was raised eating an infinite number of hot dogs, as recent immigrants, we had no money. Also, my mother was completely inept in the kitchen, save for her outstanding coconut flan.

Michael Jackson's Memorial

I was swept along with millions all over the world watching (Sidebar: Is it just me, or was this the largest number of black people we've ever seen on CNN? The delicious and juicy nerdolicious Don Lemon, Suzanne Malveux -whom I'd rather see the than Wolf Blitzer, any day, Donna Bazille, Soledad O'Brien -who thanks to Guanabee I learned is Afro-Cuban-Australian...) the dramatic Michael Jackson memorial this afternoon. It helped that practically every channel - cable and broadcast - was giving the memorial. It was a historic global event and I was curious to see how the family would stage it. His legacy was framed in a very consistent manner. He was portrayed as the greatest entertainer ever (as Barry Gordy described him), his work on behalf of various charities - including his pioneering of global celebrity charity work in the We Are the World initiative against AIDS - was spoken of extensively. At some points, especially when he was anointed by the Rev. Al Sharpton (in the most amazing speech I have ever heard him give) and the children of MLK, he was described as a quasi Prophet, Civil Rights Leader and martyr. Analogies were implicitly made with Jesus - a leader who left us too soon, but his work here was done and his love remained. The symbolism was fascinating.

By the way, although I agree that he broke barriers for musical and other media entertainers, I am not sure that he should get all of the credit for President Obama's election. In terms of entertainers, should we not also credit Sydney Poitier, Harry Belafonte, Diana Ross? And are we forgetting MLK and other Civil Rights leaders (sidebar: Jesse Jackson didn't speak, surprisingly, although the Rev. Al gave him a shout out), as well as Harvey Milk, or Geraldine Ferraro and Hillary Clinton, as pioneers that made our current President's run possible?

The performances were once-in-a-lifetime: Lionel Ritchie, Stevie Wonder, Mariah Carey (who sadly could not hit a note, although she attempted to distract us from this with her signature Dramatic Hair Toss and Wavering Hand Move), Usher, Jennifer Hudson, Jermaine. Several of these were preceded by emotional acknowledgments of love or admiration for Jackson. Usher, in Ray Ban aviators, broke down in tears as he touched the casket. Queen Latifah read the ubiquitous Maya Angelou poem, I know it's not PC to say this, but I find her poetry platitudinous. (and as a failed poet, I know of what I speak)

More than one person alluded to the dark allegations made against him which a court of law ruled were unfounded. (I have to say that after re-reading Maureen Orth's entire set of articles (1993-2008) about Jackson's legal, family, financial, and prescription drug woes in Vanity Fair, I was nauseated and more conflicted than ever about what the actual truth about Jackson might be.)

Janet, LaToya, and Jermaine console the children

On a frivolous note, let's talk Jackson Family Fashion. The brothers all had on silvery bedazzled single gloves. Janet and LaToya looked fierce. Janet had on a tight pencil skirt, a short sleeved sweater, short black leather gloves, diamond tennis bracelets, pearls, sunglasses and a beret style hat. Black Panthers Meets Chanel! HOT! And miss LaToya had on a huge hat the size of a satellite dish with a tight black suit. That hat was Old Hollywood glamour, you can imagine one of the Gabors or Greta Garbo rocking a hat like that. Update: Janet asked Donatella to make clothes for the family as an homage to the late Gianni, who was MJ's favorite designer. This explains the Fellini-esque mourning attire of the ladies. So I should amend the above to "Black Panthers Meets Versace." I also need to acknowledge the Patriarch's look, his signature old school hat fit right in with his daughters' glam accessories, but why has no one commented on his large gold Africa map necklace? It looks more Ice-T than old man but he rocks it with pride. That thing must weigh 10 lbs. Mama Jackson looked gorgeous (she is) and the massive Chanel sunglasses added a touch of discreet elegance.

I cried during several parts of the memorial, it was extremely moving to hear Brooke Shields, Sharpton's and MLK's daughter's speeches, Jermaine singing his brother's favorite song, but seeing the three children really pushed me over the edge. The kids resemble LaToya and Janet, I think they might actually be his after all.

At some point, I noticed that Blanket held a doll depicting his father. Nothing that I have read comments on this poignant fact. The level of weirdness that those poor children must have experienced can never fully be understood. The ways in which most celebrities live can never fully be understood. This is the only life that they know.

I could not believe the finale, after two of the brothers went up to the mike, Paris Michael Katherine stepped up and tearfully said goodbye to her father, in front of millions of people world-wide. She said he was the best father in the world, then collapsed into her Aunt Janet's arms. Is this exploitative? Is it as close to a funeral (although they did have a private service just prior to the event at Staples Center) as they would get? Would not many of us want to speak to our loved one for one last time? Will Debbie Rowe be incensed? Dame Liz Taylor tweeted (!) that she did not want to participate in the "whoopla" or add to the circus like atmosphere, Rowe said something similar, and where was Lisa Marie, I wonder? And Diana Ross? I later saw that Smokey Robinson (in a gorgeous custom-made plaid suit, he looked very handsome) read a statement from her excusing her absence and sending her love. No such thing from the others, though, as far as I know. As we say in Spanish, ahi hay gato encerrado (there is a cat locked up in there), not sure why, but basically, DRAMA! And I had forgotten about some of the shandisimos like the allegation that Jermaine hooked up with his brother Randy's wife, the latter had two children with her, but the union with the former gave us Jermajesty. As always with me, it all goes back to the naming practices. And what is it with the family's love of royal monikers? Let's be clear, I certainly don't critique it, I only wish I'd thought of it first!

I also found the Honkey Interlude interesting: suddenly Brooke Shields came on to give an extremely moving account of their childhood shennanigans, tearfully recounting pranks and confidences of two young child stars. I guess she was there to represent his heterosexual side, although she has said that he was asexual and there was nothing between them. In any case, she was lovely and followed by John Mayer doing his instrumental guitar riffing version of a few of his songs. Every single other person was African American. I think the concert promoter at the end might have been Latino, he had a hispanic surname and of course our girl Mariah is half Afro-Venezuelan.

In the end, I admire him for breaking barriers for African Americans in the entertainment industry. I was sad for the loss of a genius, one of my favorite entertainers, of whom I have fond childhood memories. I was sad to think that he was so unhappy with himself and for his children and family. And I dread the future revelations regarding his cause of death, because clearly we'll never know the truth about his life.

The moment when Paris spoke about her father - the grisly finale:

Meta-Jacko

I have been reticent about writing about Michael Jackson partly because I have reached the overkill level thanks to being home with a nasty flu on the days following his tragic demise. Except when I was asleep, I had access to 24-7 Jackson death coverage and no stamina to leave the sofa or bed. CNN in particular has been focusing about 70% of its time or more on the tragic, grisly death and what may or may not have lead up to it, and its chaotic aftermath. But as my sister and I were discussing today, the news has hit the now familiar cable TV tipping point, the "Story about How Much the Media is Covering the Story," and the "Story Asking Itself Earnestly: Has the Media Spent Too Much of its Time on This Story?" both accompanied by "Talking Heads Analyzing their Role as Talking Heads." There is a variant to this, which is the parodic news shows parodying the real news shows and then the real news shows in turn turning that into a story. Anderson Cooper (see below) is a pro at this particular meta media move. Of course, in writing this, I too am part of the meta media story machine, aren't I? In any event, I am as susceptible (flu or not) to the carrot-on-a-stick drug dealer in the courtyard addictiveness of the 24-7 "BREAKING NEWS" box pop up, cable/internet nexus that follows any disaster or death, not to mention political developments such as the July 4th Christmas Miracle that was the Evil Sarah Palin's resignation. Flu or not, I will watch for too long in the hopes of yet more "facts," hearsay, analysis, witness, family, friend, or frenemy testimonials, "Experts" positing theories. On that note (pardon the pun), the best thing about the Jackson death, besides the opportunity to listen to his music incessantly, has probably been the frequent appearances (in my cable TV drug of choice: CNN) of celebrity addiction peddler and specialist Dr. Drew Pinsky.

Sarah Palin has RESIGNED!!!!

Sarah Palin's resignation has been one of the best things that has happened in politics since President Obama got elected. A welcome distraction from the beating a dead horse Michael Jackson (overdose?) coverage, it took us back to the story we stopped paying attention to during the Week When My Childhood Died (because my other idol Farrah Fawcett also passed though that was seemingly forgotten by most), the implosion of inarticulate and inept cad Gov. Sanford, his Argentine booty calls, and the other women with whom he "crossed the line" but not the "ultimate line" which he did cross, with his "exotic" "soul mate." Like Sanford, Palin imploded during a rambling, manic, incoherent, self-serving, contradictory, dishonest hastily-called press conference, which, like the one that foreshadowed it, I thoroughly enjoyed. Let's hope that after the curiosity regarding her motives is satisfied, that we'll never see or hear from this bitch ever again.

Falete

Falete, looking fabulous with a lace trimmed sleeve, his signature French manicure and pulled back ponytail.

I can never ever get enough of Falete, my favorite gender-bending flamenco/copla singer. Lately he has been in the news again because of his messy break up with Israel, a young hustler who had been planning to wed the singer, then staged a fake kidnapping (secuestro espress as they called it, or a quickie abduction) in order to get ransom money to pay his numerous debts. Falete stood by him until he learned the truth, broke up the engagement, and of course was devastated.

Below are Falete and Israel, in happier times. Note that Falete is dressed in his ambigous "unfiorm" of tunic top usually in a shiny polyesterish fabric (very much what an older Spanish lady from the provinces would wear) but instead of a skirt, worn with pants. However, he dons a Manton de Manila, the lovely embroidered silk shawls worn only by women, never by men.

Falete resembles the passionate women who are known for singing flamenco/copla, such as the late Rocio Jurado, Isabel Pantoja, or Maria del Monte. Del Monte, pictured above, is as butch as Falete is femme. They meet in the middle on the gender spectrum. Rumors surround del Monte about her sexuality, but she refuses to go there. Falete, on the other hand, proudly calls himself a maricon. He's out but not out in the Chelsea clone manner that is becoming more and more popular in Spain. No, instead he looks like a 50ish lady singer, keeping it old school with his mantones de manila, French manicures, updos, and satiny lace trimmed bedazzled schmattes.

Below is a photo of del Monte with her reputed ex, Isabel Pantoja. Pantoja is the most famous flamenco/copla singer since the deaths of Lola Flores and Rocio Jurado. She is the widow of famous bullfighter Paquirri, and I have written here before about her lady and male loves since and her sinister political/financial doings. Note the resemblance between Falete and these two.


Even in their casual wear off stage: Falete and Maria del Monte, which is which? Well, for starters, the one with the long French manicure is Falete, miss del Monte doesn't do manicures. And the one with the denim (ahem) jacket is del Monte, of course.

But the really uncanny resemblance is between Falete's mother (left) and Falete himself. I recently saw a video of the two of them, dressed exactly alike, with identical designer sunglasses, French manicures, and lip gloss, and I almost passed out. (the mother is a bit slimmer though) The mother is the greatest, she totally supports her son.

But even if he wasn't fabulous and out, I would still love him because of his huge talent. Here he is singing the classic "Señora" a song about the other woman singing to the wife of her lover. Note that Falete sings it with the right pronouns, so he is addressing a wife about having an affair with her husband! Fabulous!!!!! And to make this even better, there is a lady dressed up as a bullfighter. Can it get any better? I don't know because I just fainted!

Aramis Fuster - Bruja and delincuent?

Since I am home writing and editing a book, I need to take the edge off by watching bad TV from Spain, and what better than the afternoon chat shows which often feature the frikis, or freaks, as I have explained here before. A classic of this genre of personalities is the bruja (witch) slash pitonisa (fortune teller) slash self-help author slash self-designated sex symbol, Aramis Fuster. She resurfaces periodically each summer to pose in a thong bathing suit pool side (which will sear off anyone's eye balls, so I refrain from posting that here), or more demurely, as you see her below in her lovely black mesh schmatta.

This summer, she is facing two years of jail time for owing money to a computer company that was helping her set up her Tarot reading website. Below, a video that had me literally crying from laughing so hard, featuring her recent court appearance and its aftermath, a dramatic faint outside the court house. Everything about her elegant and dignified outfit - too tight tube top, a weave that was about to fall out, skintight snake print pants, platform patent leather peep toe shoes, huge (presumably) fake Vuitton bag, and garish makeup, must have impressed the judge. For those of you convinced that she is a drag queen, no way, she is an R.G. (biological female, or real girl). In fact, a couple of summers ago, she tried to convince us that she was dating James Hewitt, yes that Hewitt, former riding instructor of the late Lady Diana and alleged father of Harry. You cannot make these people up. I love Spain! Sadly I cannot spare the time to visit this summer, but the TV shows make me feel right at home.