Posts tagged ‘writing’

April 25, 2011

I Ain’t Hiding (The Black Crowes, 2009)

aCS Blog: Confessions of a Trophy DadKevin Rudge

Any similarities to actual events and persons in my family are not coincidental. This story took place on Tuesday, August 4, 2009.

“I have seen three emperors in their nakedness, and the sight was not inspiring.” ~ Otto Van Bismarck, Prussian German Statesman (1815-1898)

Like Eve in the Garden of Eden, something changed, making my 3-year-old little girl embarrassed or at least flustered by my nakedness — or, more accurately, by the prospect of my nakedness.

It’s not like I parade around the house unclothed. My nudity is strictly confined to the bathroom and bedroom — and even there, I try to maintain a discreet level of modesty when in the presence of one of my daughters: a strategically held towel here, a slight turn of the body there. But as a parent, especially a stay-at-home parent, nudity happens.

Lucy is okay with nudity, generally speaking — actually, I think she prefers her birthday suit to any other outfit or costume, dress-up or otherwise. However, she apparently doesn’t like me wearing mine — at least not within eyeshot.

I learned this one afternoon upon returning from a run while visiting my brother and his family in Upstate New York. It was there that Lucy found herself alone in a room with me as I began to change. This was nothing out of the ordinary; I had changed in front of my youngest daughter many times without incident.

Sure, I heard the occasional “Eeeww” — come on, who hasn’t at one time or another? Or “Daaaadd,” said as if my penis was some kind of overused sight gag. Akin to how someone might for a cheap laugh put on Groucho glasses, to her it was like I had this silly little private area thingy I liked to do — pretty funny the first time, but not so much anymore.

As I readied to change out of my running shorts, speaking unusually slow and deliberate, Lucy looked me straight in the crotch and said, “Dad, are you going to change?”

“Yes,” I said.

Sensing there was more on her little mind, I temporarily suspended the removal of my shorts. Motionless and in a trance-like gaze, Lucy continued to stare at my private area. Still speaking in slow-motion she asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” I answered. Although, I must admit, her zombie-like fixation was beginning to make me a tad bit uneasy.

She stood frozen next to the bedroom door. It was as if my groin area, unbeknownst to me, had some kind of hypnotic power. Seconds passed before her need to clear her throat seemingly broke the spell. “I’m gonna leave now!” she blurted.

Lucy hastily opened the door and scurried out, slamming the door as she escaped into the hallway. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard a low pitched scream as she fled down the stairs — away from the room of naked horrors.

What the hell? My dadhood has been the recipient of my children’s indiscreet ogling before — the duration of which only a toddler or unabashed pervert could getaway with. Awkward, but easily attributable to innocent curiosity or, in the case of the pervert in the park wearing the trench coat, mental illness. But this change in attitude seemed so sudden.

With the passing of time, I’ve come to realize that Lucy’s seemingly sudden awareness is likely just an early sign of my littlest one growing up. Not so much innocence lost, but maturity gained. It’s only natural you know . . .

Anyone got a fig leaf?

“I was born modest; not all over, but in spots.” ~ Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court

Kevin Rudge is a stay-at-home dad of three girls and practicing trophy husband.  He lives and writes from his home in suburban Chicago.  More of his humorous observations and confessions can be found at

April 20, 2011

Misunderstanding (Genesis, 1980)

aCS blog: Confessions of a Trophy Dad-Kevin Rudge

make-up \ˈmāˌkəp\ – something that makes up for a previous postponement, omission, failure, or deficiency. ~ Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary

Every Wednesday my three-year-old daughter went to gymnastics.

Well, most every Wednesday.

Because of my forgetfulness, and occasional bouts with lethargy, we missed a class or two, or three, or maybe . . . well, who’s counting?  Thankfully, I was able to schedule make-up classes.

The first time we missed class I informed Lucy that yes we missed gymnastics but not to be sad because “I was able to schedule a make-up class for next Monday.” To my surprise, Lucy wasn’t the least bit upset.  She appeared even excited about what she called her “new class.”

The day of the make-up class came. As I dressed Lucy in her black long-sleeved leotard, she asked me,”Dad, why do I have to wear my leotard to the make-up class?”

I answered simply, “Because it’s gymnastics. Gymnasts wear leotards.”

For a moment Lucy looked confused, before apparently making sense of my response. Running late (what else is new?), I moved past her odd question and quizzical look.

As we pulled into the gymnastics parking lot, Lucy asked, “Is the make-up class here?”

“Of course, where else would it be Silly?” I said.

Lucy sat silently, suddenly looking unsure about the situation.

I hustled Lucy inside and quickly shed all but her leotard (and Dora The Explorer underwear — stylishly visible underneath). Racing through the gym door, I directed her to a smiling instructor seated in a small circle of Lucy sized humans.

Lucy hesitated before slowly making her way to the circle and finding a spot to sit.

For the next fifty-five minutes I watched with a handful of Moms from the waiting area as the children stretched, straddled, somersaulted, jumped, ran, balanced, and lastly — what I’m told is the very “bestest” part — got ink stamps on their hands and feet. Lucy gave her instructor a high-five and came bursting through the gym door. Looking like she had something very important to tell me, she ran to where I sat.

“Daddy! There was no makeup in the class.”

Puzzled by her comment I repeated,”No makeup?”

Shaking her head from side-to-side, Lucy said, “Yes, they had no makeup! It was not the makeup class.”

I smiled, “Honey, that was not a makeup class it was . . .”

Interrupting, she said, “I know Dad, you put me in the wronged class!”

Oh okay, you mean the makeup class, as in a class about cosmetics, commonly confused by fathers with the make-up class, as in the save your ass class when he forgets to take his kid to the regularly scheduled class. Well, someone had some explaining to do — and that would be me.

The same word but with a different meaning conundrum. The peculiarity of language or the natural by-product of a forty-four-year-old man sharing his days with a three-year-old makeup crazed little girl?

I don’t know who or what is to blame. But I do know, you can’t make up this stuff.

makeup \ˈmāˌkəp\ – cosmetics used to color and beautify the face. ~ Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary

Kevin Rudge is a stay-at-home dad of three girls and practicing trophy husband.  He lives and writes from his home in suburban Chicago.  More of his humorous observations and confessions can be found at

February 22, 2011

Congressman:Turn Off The Dark (or What a Wicked Web We Weave)

Note to the producers of Spider-man: Turn Off The Dark

How disheartening it must be for you to have put on a $65 million dollar musical and have the critics universally trash it. “As directed by Julie Taymor, who wrote the show’s book with Glen Berger, and featuring songs by U2’s Bono and the Edge, “Spider-Man” is not only the most expensive musical ever to hit Broadway; it may also rank among the worst,” wrote Ben Brantley.

I mean, the people responsible for the film versions managed to turn them into one of the most lucrative movie franchises of all time, but you came up with something which Peter Marks of  The Washington Post noted:

“The 8-year-old boys in the audience might be able to key on the Cirque du Soleil-style stunts on wires and video-game graphic elements, and probably not worry too much that Spider-Man is a tangle of disjointed concepts, scenes and musical sequences that suggests its more appropriate home would be off a highway in Orlando. Come to think of it, the optimal audience might be non-English-speaking.” 

It must also be disheartening to learn that for all the similar pre-production skepticism that accompanied  the premiere of “Anna Nicole”–yes, as in tabloid trainwreck Smith–  in London, “it proved a weirdly inspired work, an engrossing, outrageous, entertaining and, ultimately, deeply moving new opera,”  according to Anthony Tommasini in The New York Times. “This was an improbable triumph for Covent Garden.”

Clearly you need some help and I’m here to help. Scrap the incoherent everything and start from scratch. I propose to you:


Turn Off The Dark

It’s the story of New York congressman Chris Lee, a 46 year old married father( pictured, left)  and his  web alter ego lobbyist Chris Lee, a divorced  and buff 39 year old (pictured, right).

Lobbyist Chris fights his arch nemesis unprepossesing, mendacity prone CL Man by sending shirtless photos of himself to a woman  on Craigslist who implores in song: “Will someone prove to me not all CL men look like toads?”

By day congressman Chris is a family man and one of the 50 richest members of Congress. The lobbyist Chris fancies himself a “fit, fun and classy guy” who promises “not to disappoint.”  By night lobbyist Chris battles CL Man who frustrates his mission to meet only  the hot gullible women without access to Google  and who populate the  “women seeking men” ads on the web.  Cue the production number  “She was not as advertised,”  a lament in which lobbyist Chris details the pain caused him by dishonest damsels who got caught in his web.

Meanwhile, in a flashback sequence, congressman Chris, on the campaign trail, lectures teenagers against the dangers of using the web and social media inappropriately: “responding to what may seem like a friendly e-mail or an appealing marketing offer can have serious consequences. Private information and images can so easily be transmitted to friends and strangers alike.”

It turns out to be prescient advice. Cue the dancing algorithms which fly atop the audience in high tech harnesses.

Clearly, at the heart of the story is the  how  this man–and by implication all of us– can use social media to create  any number of new realities, the search for the meaning of it all– or just a cheap thrill–  just an engine search away. What is identity, authenticity and privacy in the vast darkness of the new frontier of the web?

The production will also feature the Queen of reality television Kim Kardashian, about whom Lynn Hirschberg has written “can’t sing, act, or dance but she’s found the role of a lifetime playing herself.” (Tony nomination anyone?)

Ms. Kardashian will appear in a parallel storyline in which she plays a vixen who  continuously complains that she doesn’t want to be famous for taking off her clothes but just can’t stop herself from doing exactly that at every opportunity. Her character will be known as “The Lying Queen.”

And since you still don’t have a showstopping number to end the show, no need to further humiliate Bono and The Edge to come up with yet another listless one. They’ve already written the perfect song long ago. It begins:

I have climbed highest mountains
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you
I have run
I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
These city walls
Only to be with you

But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for
But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

March 18, 2010

Read This, Not That

“How Oscars Ruin a Marriage”

Before the details of Sandra Bullock’s cheating husband get more salacious, you might want to read Nicole La Porte’s thoughtful piece from The Daily Beast.

“Texts Without Context”

And if you’ve ever wondered how all the new media and information technology is altering the cultural and political landscape– and even your own sense of self, as you read this–definitely check out Michiko Kakutani’s excellent piece  from The New York Times.

November 1, 2009

The Women (1929/1939/2009)

tom_kolovos_wordpressnewEven if Jodi Kantor’s  essay “The First Marriage” in the New York Times Magazine  didn’t have the misfortune of appearing in the same Sunday edition as  the extraordinary continuing series “Women at Arms,” which today highlighted the  difficulties women veterans face when diagnosed with with post traumatic stress disorder from the Iraq/Afganistan wars, it would still come off as a thoughtless, tone deaf and premature hagiography of Michelle Obama. (Yes, the real subject here is not the marriage but Michelle. Surprise.)

You don’t have to be a raving fringe political lunatic (Liz Cheney comes to mind) to notice that even though Ms Kantor’s aim is to illuminate how the Obamas “mix politics and romance in a way that no first couple have before,” her tiresome analysis (and dubious premise) is short on history and long on the two-married-professionals-with-children cliches better suited to the ilk of celebrity rags and television chat shows.

And you don’t have to be Virginia Woolf to know that intelligent and ambitious  women have historically sacrificed so the men in their lives get ahead. (Wo)Man bites dog circa 1929.


Compared with the two most obvious political high wire duo marriages of the last century,  The Kennedys and the Clintons, The Obama’s balancing act comes off as cotidian. (Perhaps that’s the way in which it it’s “modern,”  by which Ms Kantor surely means contemporary, but as I said history is not her forte.)

There’s nothing here  that any one of us out here in a long term relationship hasn’t experienced and nothing newsworthy about the balancing act all of us have to achieve in  life once we grow up and realize that balance and compromise (if we’re lucky) is all there is. The Obamas spent a lot of time apart when Barack ran for political office. They weren’t making a lot of money. They couldn’t all be there for the girls’ activities.  Barack thought he could go it alone. Michelle never signed up to be a political wife. Michelle’s character and support were invaluable to Barack’s success. Yada yada yada.

You mean to tell us, Ms Kantor, that Pat Nixon knowingly signed on for the disgrace of Watergate? Laura Bush for the the alcoholism and coke fueled benders? Hillary for the public infidelities? Nancy Reagan for the 10 years of home nursing? Jackie Kennedy for the blood splattered head of her husband in her lap?

It simply does not occur to Ms Kantor that,  given what could possibly go wrong in a  political marriage, the way she portrays the Obama’s marriage as a  shiny new model of “modernity” just a year into the job, she’s completely overreaching.

Her obtuseness reaches its nadir when she walks “into the Hyde Park apartment the Obama’s bought when they married, hoping to find clues to their old lives. The cramped master bedroom,” she proudly observes, “had a closet barely big enough for one wardrobe. Where did Michelle keep her clothes?” Excuse  me?

The marriage of Jacqueline Bouvier into the crass Kennedy clan was seminal to the political career of JFK. So even if we start there, the very notion that Mrs Obama was intent on upscaling her husband’s office space, his venues for public appearances  and ultimately humanizing him by appearing in public and speaking on his behalf speaks both to the naivete of Ms Kantor and to the valuable image savvy of Mrs Obama.

The wide latitude that Mrs Obama can enjoy in her role  as First Lady, is in no small part due to the trailblazing legacy of Hillary Clinton, so it’s snarky on the part of Ms Kantor to  both oversimplify the comparisons between the Clintons and the Obamas and then to take cheap shots at Mrs Clinton’s expense. “While the Clinton marriage seems forged in shared beliefs about the promise of politics, the Obama union has been a decades-long debate about whether politics could be an effective avenue for social change.” Clinton bad. Obama good. Got it. Thanks.

She continues: Michelle “also played a vital role in heading off the most promising female candidate in United States history. It was essential for the Obama campaign to present some sort of accomplished female counterweight to Hillary Clinton, to convince Democratic women that they could vote for Barack Obama and a powerful female figure besides. Consciously or not, Michelle made herself into an appealing contrast to the front-runner. She was candid; Hillary was often guarded. Michelle represented the idea that a little black girl from the South Side of Chicago could grow up to be first lady of the United States; Hillary stood for the hold of the already-powerful on the political system. And Michelle seemed to have the kind of marriage many people might aspire to; Hillary did not.”

And then there’s this. Kantor reports that “as a first-time candidate, Barack could be stiff; friends remember him talking to voters with his arms folded, looking defensive. Michelle warmed everyone up, including her husband. “She is really Bill, and he is really Hillary,” one friend recently put it.” We get it. She’s not Hillary.

As I was reading the essay I was reminded how much of the seriously misguided effort by Ms Kantor could easily be remade as  a screwball comedy, let’s just say the George Cukor classic 1939 film of Clare Boothe Luce’s play The Women. It would take  some time to figure out which First Lady and in which way Ms Kantor has maligned whom so I could align them with the the cast of the film, but I think it could be done.

Jungle red mother.

November 15, 2008

2008 IN REVIEW: The Year in Color

Grey is the new black.
Everyone’s got the blues.
Black is the new white. Red states are now the new blue states.
Gays got played by the Mormon Church and by the black vote and are now singing the blues.
African orphans are the new
Two white women nearly made history running for the White House. One of them was actually qualified.
Elitist is now the correct term for uppity negro.
White political candidates who believe in Virgin Birth still believe in teaching their children–and yours– that abstinence is an effective form of contraception till they’re blue in the face.
Among those folks for whom shotgun weddings for expectant white teens are all the rage, gay weddings between consenting adults still make them see red.
“In the red” is the new “in the black.”
Pink is red hot.
Pfizer turns blue to green with sustainable wood. VIVA VIAGRA!
November 15, 2008

10 things you can’t afford to live without


We are all being forced to cut back on the non essential things in our lives. Here’s my list of things you can’t afford to live without:

10 New York Times Select. The online version of the newspaper of record. If you were part of the 70% + of people who thought Iraq was responsible for 9/11, don’t worry, you won’t hate everything. The Op Ed page has Bill Kristol who convinced John McCain to put Sarah Palin on the Republican presidential ticket. You’ll like him. You can’t afford those damn American Girl dolls anymore for your children/other people’s children? Good.  You are not the only one that thought they were always a transparent antifeminist waste of money. American girls don’t need dolls, they need math skills. Come to think of it, so do boys. Playing with dolls or soccer balls will not be a valued skill set in the 21st century global economy. If that surprises you, then you need to fork over $150 a year, per child, ASAP–before their math score turns out to be 150 on their SAT.

8 Window shopping. You go to a museum to educate yourself about the history and quality of art. You don’t go there to bitch that you can’t afford the art or to ridicule the artists. Try the same logic in a high end department or specialty store.

7 A museum membership.Museums exist for a reason. If you are unsure why, now would be a good time to find out for yourself and for any children in your life.

6 A good hairstylist/colorist. Length is not a hairstyle. Peanut brittle is never a convincing shade of hair color even if you are the governor of California and are married to a Kennedy. Oh, and ladies –male and female alike–highlights are not a hair color either.

5 A great pair of  shoes and jeans. I mean ones that other people consistently compliment you on and not the ones you’re wearing while you are reading this.

4 A friend that will bring you chicken soup when you have the flu. That eliminates everyone from your Facebook/bigmuscle/jdate account. Now what?

3 Your own personal Gayle King: Someone who (or something that) would have no real reason for being if it were not for you.

2 A loving mother. Just like she keeps telling you: you really are going to miss her when she’s gone.
1 The knowledge of what  the hell has happened to Nicole Kidman’s face. Did anyone catch a glimpse of Clutch Cargo Kidman on “Oprah” this week? Caveat emptor.

September 30, 2008

Sarah, Plain and Tall(tale)

With my apologies to Patricia MacLachlan, let me tell you a tale about loneliness and abandonment.

John, a “maverick” who, in 8 years of political marriage to his party’s president voted for 90% of the president’s legislative agenda, finds himself saddened by his chances to successfully distance himself from the selfsame disasterous economic and military agenda he voted for so he can now become President himself.

Somewhere in one of his eight homes, he is also saddened that his opponent, an elitist African American upstart half his age and who was raised by a single mother on food stamps, picked a champion of the working class and expert on foreign affairs as his vice presidential candidate.

Even his couture clad, brewing-fortune heiress wife is unable to console him from his public admission that he knows very little about economic matters, which suddenly matter very much to the voters.

Clearly unable to to handle the the burden himself, he decides to put out feelers for an upstart half his age of his very own to put on the presidential ticket.

He asks a few buddies, perhaps some randy buddies, and they tell him that putting a woman on the ticket would show the other side that he meant fundamentally sound business.

So they look around for a political bride.

They find a really good one in Maine, but decide that she isn’t young enough or much of an upstart, so they send her packing.

Suddenly, as if she were a credit card sent through the mail without a FICO credit check, someone pops up on their radar. Her name is Sarah.

She is from Alaska and she is eager, really eager and more than willing to travel down to the lower 48 to take the job immediately. The randy friends like that she was a former beauty pageant contestant and although she is married with children and a potential future ex son in law, it means that she has plenty of practice in the interview portion of her pageants to give confusing, nonsensical answers to difficult questions, and such as.

She seems like the kind of gal that can really read the heck out of an electrifying speech, which some friend of John’s could write and pepper with truthiness. No need to bother the FBI to do a background check.

Just as John had hoped, his plan succeeds beautifully. Within hours of the political marriage, they manage to steal the political thunder from their elitist community organizing upstart opponent. Everyone is talking about Sarah!

Oh, and how much does Sarah like talking about her Alaska homeland which she misses very much. To relieve her homesickness, she paints beautiful, fanciful pictures with words about her life there and the shores of Alaska and their proximity to a far away land called Russia. She even talks about the strategic proximity of her homeland to the exotic land of Canada.

But after a severe economic crisis threatens to force the entire world to party like it’s 1929, John is afraid they may lose the election and he may be forced to sell the entire country to China.

When Sarah leaves to go to the United Nations and on national television with Katie Couric to talk more about Alaska, John panics. Fearing Sarah may not survive the return trip, he declares that he will suspend his campaign and cancel the scheduled debate with his upstart opponent to go to Wahington to help fix the economic meltdown that a week earlier he had declared didn’t exist.

In his haste to get to Washington, he forgets to close down any of his campaign offices or stop running any of his campaign ads on television. He also forgets his haste, since, having cancelled an interview with David Letterman because he has suspended his campaign, he goes to Katie Couric’s CBS office instead, where it turns out he decides to be interviewed. David Letterman feels lonely and abandoned..

In the end, John’s fears are well founded. Sarah does not survive the return trip. Actually, she is politely asked not to return, abandoned really, by one of her most influential admirers at the National Review. She’s had enough of Sarah’s tall tales. She admonishes that “if BS were currency, Sarah… could bail out Wall Street herself.”

Sarah is now working on learning to print currency, and in her spare time, cold fusion. (It’s cold in Alaska and her parents say there’s nothing that their daughter can’t do.) She plans to report on her results this Thursday nite.

June 4, 2008

Your gift has been scent

I get the giggles when I think about what people get paid to write.

Apparently you can get paid to write an anonymously sourced 9,500 word article for Vanity Fair insinuating that Bill Clinton is having extramarital affairs with B-List actresses and defend yourself by admitting that you’re only insinuating. Way to go Todd S. Purdum. Dude!

It’s someone’s job  to come up with the names of paint colors. Who are these people and where do I get that job?

It’s someone’s job to write more books than she’s read. (We all know that’s Ann Coulter and that job is safely hers. Dude!)

And then there’s the people who come up with descriptions of scents. You could spend weeks deconstructing some of this stuff. I though you might all get a giggle from  the descriptions of 5 of my favorite fragrances which, coincidentally, would make for great Father’s Day gifts!

Touch by Burberry The spicy masculine notes of Burberry Touch are warmed up by mandarin hints. It’s unique violet-scented middle note is enhanced by woody tones lingering into an elegant layer of musk.  The wooden cap, carved in ash tree has the natural look and feel of the veins of the tree.

Extreme by Paul Smith An updated version of the classic Paul Smith fragrance, Paul Smith Extreme cologne for men a spicy, light scent with top notes of Bergamot, Rosemary, Hesperidia, Nutmeg and Cardamom. The scent of choice for Jude Law, Paul Smith Extreme offers a more individual fragrance that’ll really amaze.

AntidoteAntidote by Victor and Rolf Like a rare flower pinned to the lapel of a tuxedo jacket, it is an expression of classic masculine elegance with a flair of sophistication. A rich, woody oriental, Antidote opens with a refreshing burst of mint leaves and Italian bergamot, sparkles with spicy facets of black pepper and cinnamon, and yields to the warmth of sandalwood, ebony and patchouli.

Pure by Jil Sander (Note: despite what follows, this is a unisex fragrance.) Jil Sander Pure is a simple, fresh, everyday scent that was designed for the active, urban woman. The heart of this soft scent is pure air molecule, coupled with cyclamen flower, fresh petal jasmine, and lush sap, cooled with the caress of white musk, sandalwood, and ambrette seeds. Notes include Pure Air Molecule, Cyclamen Flower, Fresh Petal Jasmine, Lush Sap, White Musk, Sandalwood, Ambrette Seeds.

Comme des Garcons 2 Man Comme des Garcons 2 Man cologne has an intellectual presence with a twist of humor for a man who sets his own rules. The mixing of extremely classic and unusual elements expresses a distinctive, masculine, and powerful signature. The scent’s personality comes through a blend of complementary and contrasting mossy and woody notes. Notes of Nutmeg, Incense, Saffron Flowers, Vetiver, White Smoke.

July 22, 2007



Ignore this at your own peril. ( I know the last time
you screwed up, you got promoted from National
Security Advisor to Secretary of State, but I have a
this time you’ll have to be held accountable.)

Victoria Beckham has hit American shores! Yes,
Victoria, wife of superstar soccer player David (as in
Bend it Like) Beckham. You may have seen them both on
the cover of the August W. (No, not
your W, but the
magazine.) There’s much, much more of them on the
pages inside. You say you have no recollection? I

Did you happen to catch the NBC hour long reality
show of her arrival to Los Angeles? Reality shows
really aren’t your thing? I should have known.

Perhaps you’ve been busy re-reading the Baker/Hamilton
Iraq Study Group recommendations–oh, wait you said
you don’t like reality shows. Well, in any case let me
catch you up, girl.

The special starts in Spain, just as the Beckhams are
finishing up shooting their very risque spread for W.
(No, not
that W. Please pay attention this time.)
Victoria has to come to Los Angeles, with her makeup
artist and hairdresser in tow, to prepare for her
family’s arrival.

That basically means she has to hire a personal
assistant for herself, buy a mansion( she had planned on that),
and get a valid driver’s license (poor thing had no idea
she had to do this until she got pulled over and
discovered her European license was not gonna cut it. Who knew?)

Those pesky aliens, I know, Condi.

Anyway, hillarity ensues as Victoria (Secret Service Name: Posh Spice)
goes to the DMV, puts Perez Hilton in his place, and
learns how to throw a baseball. The segment where she meets her socialite
Beverly Hills neighbors is priceless. These women have
had more work done to them than the reports of WMD in
Iraq. (Oh, now you get it. Funny, right?)

Advance word was we were all supposed to hate her,
since Posh is much reviled in the UK–confirm that
with Tony Blair, he’s not busy these days–as a hauty,
humorless, robotic, anorexic, rhymes with rich (as
they used to say about Nancy Reagan).

Well, surprise, surprise, she’s the best thing to hit
American television and America since the early
episodes of “Absolutely Fabulous” originally aired on
Comedy Central.

Condi, how can I describe Posh if you’ve not seen the
NBC reality special documenting her arrival to Los
Angeles? Here’s my best shot:

She’s got Anna Nicole’s tenuous hold on reality–but
she’s sober; Kathy Griffin’s wit, and determined self
promotion–but she’s on the A list; Donatella Versace’s
high heels go with everything and everywhere lifestyle –but
her native tongue is English.

They don’t call her Posh for nothing.

The conceit of American culture is that the rich and
famous are just like you and me. Posh, refreshingly,
shows us otherwise. (Of course, so did Scooter Libby,
but you already knew
that one.)

So I say, move over Obama girl and Guiliani girl.
Victoria Beckham is in the house, and “that’s major!”

Ignore her at your own peril.