oh crap. it's monday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0GHi81jDhw

RIP DJ AM

When Michael Jackson died I was sad. But it was a nostalgic sad, a moonwalk down memory lane for the man he used to be. Farrah Fawcett, I was moved by her struggle but really didn’t have an emotional connection to her. I didn’t see Charlie’s Angels. But the news of DJ AM’s death has really shocked and moved me.

I am not a fan/groupie/stalker of his, I wouldn’t recognize his music or style, but because I am an avid reader of the celeb mags (It’s all I can get in with the kids you understand, my husband buys them for me, okay, okay, I love them and would rather read one over War and Peace any day. You can put down that water-board now.) I know his life story, and that’s what’s making this so hard.

Adam Goldstein (DJ AM) had a huge drug addiction. He overcame and survived that.
He was massively overweight, had stomach surgery to lose the weight and did.
He dated Nicole Richie and survived that.
Then in 2008 he actually survived a plane crash that killed everyone else on board except for himself and Travis Barker.
The man was clearly a survivor. And yet….

It’s just too sad for any more words.

On a lighter pop culture note Noel Gallagher has left Oasis after a fall-out with his brother. Does anyone really give a fuck?

Hi, my name is Robyn and I’m Technology’s Bitch.

I’m only writing this because my phone and Internet are down. Time Warner Cable might as well have chopped off my right hand. They’ve rendered me useless. I can’t email, talk or connect to another human being besides my kids and they’re playing their DS. More importantly I can’t update my Facebook status. How will everyone know that I’m having Internet problems if I can’t share it with 100 plus of my closest friends? I am because I Twitter.

So here we are. You and me. Merely killing time until they’ve hooked me up, mainlined my addiction and fed my habit. Your hair looks very nice by the way and I do like that color on you.

My best friend Lips (I won’t go into details as to why she’s called that, suffice as to say that your imagined reasons are far better than the boring truth, so stick with those.) is also an Internet junkie. Lips and I type-talk everyday. More worrying we type laugh. Hahahahahahahahaha. Gone are the days where you’d need to hear a person’s giggle, see their smile or hear their laughter. Hahahahahahahaha is good enough. In fact it’s better. You can make yourself a cuppa tea midway through a type-laugh, do your hair, pluck your eyebrows. You don’t need to concentrate on the conversation. It’s funny, you’re having a laugh, your type-laugh says as much and you no longer look like Frida Kahlo. Love it. Hahahahahahahahaha.

Hamptons, schmamptons ...

The Hamptons reminds me of the popular kids at school. Rich, beautiful, immaculate. They trim their hedges better than Bella Brazil does Tribeca bush. (NY ladies, trust me on this: 212 240 9434 ask for Carla and prepare to be violated). Montauk, not so much. It’s like all the dorks, freaks, outsiders, loners and stoners got together and decided that they too deserve some beach. Why should the rich and gorgeous get all the perks? And thus, there’s Montauk. Flabby bum capital of Long Island. And that’s just fine with me. As a barely-5-foot Jewish woman I doubt I’d make the cut in The Hamptons. I’d drown in a sea of 6-foot blondes. I’d fumble the hand movement when high five-ing P.Diddy. My designer label would say “Target”. Plus, as far as I’m aware, my husband isn’t wanted for fraud, money laundering and or embezzlement.

And so Montauk it was for me, my husband and our 2 daughters. Hubby taught my eldest daughter to surf. She got up, standing, first time. Hello, that’s STANDING FIRST TIME. We lounged, drank cocktails, ate seafood and frolicked in the sea. A fabulous time was had by all. And we’ll go back next year. Along the way I’ll roll down our windows, stick out my bum and give the popular kids a big, stretch-mark ridden, wobbly, pale, full moon.

Where to stay: We stayed at http://www.soleeast.com/. The food, pool, drinks - like awesome dude. Do not expect great service, one cannot rush a surfer. Be prepared to have to ask for more shampoo.

Hidden yum: http://thehideawaymontauk.com/Home.html

No one picked my keys. Or, My 2009 party.

Birthday parties.
They always start with these elaborate, fabulous ideas in my head. A pool party. Bring all. Kids will be running around, splashing, laughing, playing, topping up mom's wine. Gorgeous friends, all color-coordinated in pastels and beige, sipping martini's and munching truffle-infused cheese and who-knew-you-could-fancy-it-up-so-much crackers. Breasts popping out of flimsy dresses, booze-induced sexual innuendos, boys patting each other on firm bums, glasses are clicking so often that we don't even need the stereo, laughter and happiness galore. Except for the designated drivers who are simply miserable.

Well that's what I had pictured. What I got was rain. So party canceled.

But that isn't the moral of the story. I do feel that because this is my first ever blog, it does need a moral. I will not be so righteous in the future. Nor have I ever been in the past (except for my brief time as a Zionist radical but again that's another blog)

So we decided to invite friends over for some truffle cheese at our place. Our place being a typical tiny NY apartment with views of the Statue of Liberty. You know, typical. Bring all. And they did. Not a pastel ensemble in sight. My pretty friend Jo baked a 3-tier, chocolate, Jewish princess cake for me. It was delicious. The kids managed to smear some of it onto the floor and walls but we did manage to salvage most of it into our gluttonous mouths. I scored great gifts. We laughed and clinked glasses. No one flashed.

And guess what? It was great. That's the moral. So quick you could have missed it had I not pointed it out in this sentence and the following sentence. The moral is that if you have great friends you can have a party anywhere.

Actually, because it's my birthday, I'm going to change the moral. Moral police be damned.
The new one is: Getting older sucks. I don't care how many woman pretend that it doesn't bother them, or how many times we have to read that botox-tsunami'd Jennifer Aniston is happy to age gracefully, it's just not true. So best we age drunk, and with lots of friends and screaming kids than all alone getting your face dot-to-dot needled at the dermatologist.