Archive for the ‘money’ Category

Dallas Bimbos and Bottle Service

Last night I had the displeasure pleasure to hang at my first bottle service bar. And it had one name. Like so many of them do. One name everything like we are trying to be a mini Los Angeles or something. Kind of sad. I was there for a singles event and I had a good time until everywhere we sat eventually we were kicked out of because of “reservations.” Which basically means people called ahead to spend nearly $1,000 on a table of liquor and mixers they put together themselves. Seems like that kind of money should come with a bartender at every table. So I see this Tom Leykis looking joker (but worse) come with five better looking guy friends and whip out his wallet immediately for two bottles of Belvedere. All I could think was what a way to get attention. I mean all that cash is going down the drain — literally. I mean I pee after two drinks.

Well. Like I said. I did have a nice time — prior to the crowd getting there. But I had no qualms leaving before midnight. While I waited for my car from the valet (yea, it’s THAT kind of bar where you really don’t have a choice) I was privy to a little play I call: Dallas Bimbos and Bottle Service. This is where I saw a gaggle of ditzy women, drunk, waiting for their car.

The blond says, “We need the white Volvo but we’ll take a Bentley.” Her brunette, equally vacant friend chimes in, “Yea, or an Aston Martin.” She annoyingly giggled. The blond staggered a bit. And I imagined it that is was only going to take two more chocolate martinis before that one was going to need the brunette to hold her hair back. The group of them said a number of superficial epithets. And they laughed — that laugh. The one where you have to ask if there is air between the girl’s ears. I was in absolute disbelief that the Dallas stereotype was standing right there next to me, putting on a real life comedy of errors. I wish I had a video camera.

And this is Dallas. I am thinking that at sometime back in college or better that I felt that THIS was the lifestyle I wanted. I think looking at it now at 30, I just shook my head. Before heading to my car, which I found was a $6 valet instead of $5 and the guy just stood there because there was no tip (sorry, miscalculated), I remembered all the pumped up guys who rudely brushed by me to get to the bar, the girls overdone with silicone tits and acrylic nails and the fact that I’m happy not to fit the look and attitude of the typical uptown “Dallasite.” In room of fake, I felt my own fresh air.

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I don’t want to be a hooker, but…

$4,300 for one night of the horizontal hula? Man. That’s some easy money. Well not so easy for New York governor Eliot Spitzer. You all know the story.

Shameless…

What kind of prostitute is awesome enough for nearly $5,000? I mean does she have a special skill? Does she wear something that makes men drop their pants and their wallets? I need to know this gal’s secret because I feel like it’s the key to everything. Like finding the fountain of youth. Or a safe weight-loss pill that works.

All joking aside, I’m sure everyone reading this is asking “WTF?” when you saw Spitzer’s poor wife Silda standing there, I mean standing RIGHT THERE next to that loser during his press conference. Way to put women back 50 years, lady. If it were me, and I know they have children, I would have held a much different press conference. By myself. And nothing but my lawyers and publisher in tow. Just because you have children to consider doesn’t mean that you have to put yourself aside to save face for the family. What about YOUR face? What about what it does to YOUR soul putting up with such embarrassingly public indiscretions. It’s enough to make you want to puke.

I can’t wait until we see this ho’ that Eliot had on loan (he actually had a balance with this service.) I bet she’s not all that. It’s just got to be something magical she keeps in a velvet bag and smells of fairy dust. Come on people. $4,300! No nookie can be THAT good to risk this kind of exposure — pardon the pun.

Hahahah! Kitty feels guilty.

The writers strike has me in bed early…

I miss you already, Jimmy…Say it ain’t so, Jimmy. Say it ain’t so that you don’t write your OWN jokes and skits?

I can’t believe that I now have to skip my nightly dose of Jimmy Kimmel just because some writers want more money from the sales of DVDs. Shit, I want more money too. But I guess I can’t really afford the markers, poster board and extra cups of coffee to sustain a strike in our department.

It must be nice to have so much power on the world right now. Those writers have managed to halt the all-mighty Desperate Housewives as well. Eva even brought pizza! Boy those writers really have it so bad…

OK, OK. I can go along with this to a point. I understand the feeling of being unappreciated. And I know big-time producers pretty much squander the money earned from great writing. I understand it can get kind of “unfair” when the money from DVD sales isn’t thrown at those who made all our favorite movies and television seasons possible. But what irritates me is that I just don’t think these writers were hurting in the first place. They have what many of us scribblers would call “The Dream Job.” And maybe it kind of sucks to be the bearer of such merriment and not get the dinero for the hard work. However can’t we all say that about our “everyday” careers?

BLAH!It isn’t that I think these guys don’t deserve a little more dough. Everyone could use a few extra quarters in their purse, but I guess I’m just a little bitter. Jimmy is one of those guys that you don’t really want to admit having a crush on because they are so dopey, but just can’t help it because they are so funny and smart. My kind of man. Now he’s all rerun-y and I’m all teary. I haven’t been this depressed since I realized he and Sarah Silverman were a duo. What a waste of a good guy.

Just give the damn writers what they want. I know it’s “hard” but try to pry a few millions out of your already very heavy wallet, O powers that be. I need my Jimmy fix. I can live without DH.

He didn’t have a chance, but he looks good…

 The before and after shaking your booty for over a month…

 

 

 

 

 

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This will be my last Dancing with the Stars post. I’m not a fan of having a blog that tracks shows and crap. I refuse — but will retract my refusal if something like a dancer passes out again or kills someone.
I’m writing this because our own (Dallas’ demigod) Mark Cuban has been booted off. No real surprise. Those facial expressions were just bananas and so many people didn’t like that he didn’t dance seriously. But what good old Cuban did do was have fun and shed about 30 or more pounds. Just look at the BEFORE picture to the left.

Anyway, he lasted longer than most bets probably surmised. He’ll be alright as you all must surely need to know. He’ll comfort himself with his special pillows filled with the good green dough and distract himself focusing on those new irons in the fire with all that mixed martial arts stuff. All I know is that the Cowboys better win, the Mavs and the Rangers to make up for this Dallas disappointment. I shed a tear…

We’ll always have Emmitt.

why do it?

It’s 10:07 p.m. (central time) and I’m at the office.

I’ve been shooting/networking/writing since 4 p.m. in the heat that is the staple of the wonderful South. Even as I type this, I can smell the outside yuck and the old sweat that has since dried on my face and flattened my hair. All of this plus I’m tired and have an early morning.

But as I drive home I will be filled with the satisfaction of progress….something I needed to feel today for TODAY was one of those I-think-I will-walk-out-of-the-office days —even before my little evening of coverage began. And it wasn’t because I had a bad day. I just felt heavy, tired and kind of like packing up my stuff and plopping on the couch. I don’t think that is from the feeling of laziness but more to the point — feeling like there’s more. There has to be right?

Well at least today meant progress: I made new contacts, got people excited about our publication and fulfilled today’s duties. There is so much I have to do from day to day in this field. Why are we so curious that it becomes the decision to be journalists? The money isn’t all that. We don’t do it for money I guess. And sometimes I really wish I wanted to do something else.

But I think we also do it because we think we will make some kind of mark once we are gone. Or maybe not.

Maybe it’s just narcissism…

I did a happy dance in new shoes…

Why did I just do a really bouncy, silly dance about a pair of new shoes? Could it have been the margarita I had prior to finding these great shoes? Or is it just that I never get to treat myself anymore to a pair of shoes that were over $20?

You see, I used to be a real shoe freak. And at times I think I still may be. Today I broke the heel off of a really great pair of rare looking, purple/pink shoes. I was just talking to my assistant and was suddlenly lumpsided. My right leg dropped and I looked down to see that these wonderful shoes I’ve had for nearly 10 years (yes 10 years) had finally had their day. What did I do? I went to the car (barefoot)after laughing and mouring the stupid things and put on sneakers. I looked like such an old soccer mom, but without the kids. I felt my age. I felt how old those shoes had gotten and how far I’ve come from when I bought them.

When you get older you realize a few things about luxury:

Money really doesn’t just appear after you charge stuff and magically pay off the debt you created trying to look as fabulous as possible.

Haggling is a badge of honor to be worn with pride, not something to be ashamed of.

After you have spent a day of obtaining hard-earned money, and realizing you just still aren’t being paid enough, those items that seemed to be easily at reach are suddenly held victim to being reevaluated.

I’m not entirely sure if I still long for the days of, “Who cares, I’ll pay later.” But I do understand that older means living differently now. And that when I get a pair of new shoes, they mean more than they would have ever meant in my past.