Shop, in the Name of Luuurve
0 Comments Published by totallygone.com on Wednesday, February 18, 2004.

Not one of my cheezy little titles - credit and kudose goes to Macy's for their Valentine byline. Valentine, Schmalentine - aintchasickofit (ALREADY)? Squat and Gobble, a local fusion eatery where I've just lunched with a tall, dark, and handsome Italian, sported a selection of palm-sized heart-shaped brownies next to the cash register (the "oh, why not?" spot), topped with little scarlet carcinogenic hearts for your added pleasure. Pass the sick bag.
So, this week, I've discovered that my stipend is to be snipped by $200 per month, enough to push me over the edge of being sick of my job, to being OVER my job. My return ticket to the UK is dated April 2nd, and I'm minded to return, do another round of visits, take off to do a TEFL course, then off to the Far East for a while. San Francisco is lovely, but I think it'd be lovelier if I were 23 and just coming out after a midwestern Mormon upbringing, or as a wealthy, late-middle-aged man with dogs, an SUV, a "long-time companion," and a lust for leather. The former option is of course impossible, although there's plenty of time left for the latter.
Changes of life loom also large for America's stylish sickly-sweetheart, Martha Stewart. To truly grasp the iconic import of Martha, you must look to Jessica, the US version of Victoria Beckham - complete with cool, handsome, hetero husband. Jessica Simpson's daftness has been captivating and entertaining the nation recently (in between episodes of MBFOF, Janet Jackon's Superbowl breast-baring, and of course the Democratic nomination debacle). MTV's Newlyweds is a clever vehicle for La Simpson, portraying her as dumb uber-blonde, while cunningly disguising the fact that she's getting trillions of dollars of free advertising to a market who couldn't give a monkey's whether she's clever or not. Cutesy little episodes showing her inability to differentiate between tuna and chicken have been spun into PR coups, and her all-important recognition factor has sky-rocketed. Watch this space - she'll be California's first female governor before you can say "Sun-In." So what, you're wondering, has this got to do with Martha Stewart? Good question. One particularly hilarious episode showed said newlyweds in their new 500,000 square-foot mansion in the Hollywood Hills, playing house. Jessica didn't want to play, though, instead demanding that a team of interior designers (Queer Eyes, natch) kit out the pad on their behalf. This was a shame, because I (and about every other gay man in the country) was glued to the sight of her husband's glutes as he hefted this armoire and that armchair up their absurdly ornate marble staircase with equally gorgeous pal, and had no desire to see the Tiresome Fivesome simpering and primping in their place. "But Niiick," whined the aromatic Jessica, in her valley-girl voice, "how are we gonna know what looks good if we don't hire designers??" So this is how deeply, dearly beloved, the Land of the Free is in the thrall of Martha and her ilk.
So, this week, I've discovered that my stipend is to be snipped by $200 per month, enough to push me over the edge of being sick of my job, to being OVER my job. My return ticket to the UK is dated April 2nd, and I'm minded to return, do another round of visits, take off to do a TEFL course, then off to the Far East for a while. San Francisco is lovely, but I think it'd be lovelier if I were 23 and just coming out after a midwestern Mormon upbringing, or as a wealthy, late-middle-aged man with dogs, an SUV, a "long-time companion," and a lust for leather. The former option is of course impossible, although there's plenty of time left for the latter.
Changes of life loom also large for America's stylish sickly-sweetheart, Martha Stewart. To truly grasp the iconic import of Martha, you must look to Jessica, the US version of Victoria Beckham - complete with cool, handsome, hetero husband. Jessica Simpson's daftness has been captivating and entertaining the nation recently (in between episodes of MBFOF, Janet Jackon's Superbowl breast-baring, and of course the Democratic nomination debacle). MTV's Newlyweds is a clever vehicle for La Simpson, portraying her as dumb uber-blonde, while cunningly disguising the fact that she's getting trillions of dollars of free advertising to a market who couldn't give a monkey's whether she's clever or not. Cutesy little episodes showing her inability to differentiate between tuna and chicken have been spun into PR coups, and her all-important recognition factor has sky-rocketed. Watch this space - she'll be California's first female governor before you can say "Sun-In." So what, you're wondering, has this got to do with Martha Stewart? Good question. One particularly hilarious episode showed said newlyweds in their new 500,000 square-foot mansion in the Hollywood Hills, playing house. Jessica didn't want to play, though, instead demanding that a team of interior designers (Queer Eyes, natch) kit out the pad on their behalf. This was a shame, because I (and about every other gay man in the country) was glued to the sight of her husband's glutes as he hefted this armoire and that armchair up their absurdly ornate marble staircase with equally gorgeous pal, and had no desire to see the Tiresome Fivesome simpering and primping in their place. "But Niiick," whined the aromatic Jessica, in her valley-girl voice, "how are we gonna know what looks good if we don't hire designers??" So this is how deeply, dearly beloved, the Land of the Free is in the thrall of Martha and her ilk.
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