Holiday Gift Suggestion #2

This Christmas, I think what someone needs to give Midge is a new best friend - her current one is clearly a classic Mean Girl frenemy.

Holiday Gift Suggestion #1

Over in his fabulous corner of the InterWebs, Il Duce has come upon a serious contender for Toy of the Year, but for the past couple of years, whenever I've needed a little sure-fire pick-me-up, this treasure has been my go. Just the thing for the tot one wants to scar for life!

Toy [Not] in the Attic

She was marketed as a character from the recent Disney Cinderella, one played in the film by Miss Cate Blanchett. As for me, though, I can't get past thinking of her as Lillian Hellman Barbie. Photos don't really do justice to her expression, which is something between peeved and not-suffering-fools-gladly - a feeling with which I suppose one really must feel some empathy...

All My Darling Daughters

So my new office, now that the good people of Golden Handcuffs Amalgamated International have moved our exiguous little unit up closer to the mother ship, as it were, is rather centrally located. Because we are in Our Nation's Capital, it's come as no surprise that one thing that means is that we are near museums.

Come to Me...

...My melancholy Barbie...

Wedding Belles

A little tableau en style Warhol, in honor of yesterday's good news.  Café regulars are well aware of my longstanding amusement with American's vinyl sweetheart...

Sunday Storybook Theatre

A little escapism in a rather dreary week, darlings, not to mention a reminder of half-forgotten childhood pleasure...

Mysterious Beige

Who knew? In these parts, Blythe is a spokesmodel with her own hair color line.  It's about time the big-eyed one got one over on that damn Barbie Roberts and her endless merchandise machine.

Where Were You?

I honestly had no idea that Mattel had started pimping out the most obscure of its Barbie spin-offs - her baby sister Kelly, the doll for people who found Skipper too stimulating - but seeing that they have, I can't think of anything more fabulous than these faintly terrifying tiny-tot Charlie's Angels.

The Moving Diaries, Continued

So, the fun never stops at the Villa Apartment Muscato.  Just ask Midge.

Things That Happen at Our House

At some point in the past month or so, Mrs. Galapatti-Da Silva had apparently had just about enough of our not finishing up with putting away the last of the Christmas decorations and decided that our tree topper needed to go for a ride.  Yes, she's a former South Africa Barbie dressed in a vintage tulle and silver lamé ballgown.  You got a problem with that?  As for the camel - believe me, you live in this area long enough, you end up with camels.  You live in Africa, you get masks; in Egypt, papyrus and scarabs.  The Sandlands, camels.  They come with the territory.

We use the "company" part of the Villa Muscato infrequently enough that I only noticed it today because I was padding around the house in an invalidish sort of way, as I'm feeling poorly.  It makes me wonder what other decorative innovations she's come up with that have escaped our notice...

Mystery Shopping: the Limits of the Infinite

Yesterday being the end of the weekend, Mr. Muscato and I went shopping.  Because it was the end of the weekend, we decided to avoid the mad hordes that descend on Saturdays upon the aggressively Britannic supermarket not far from the Villa Muscato; we went instead to the vast and always amusing Cooperative supermarket on the other side of town.  It's been nearly a month since we've been to one, and for this particular foray, we chose the very largest of them all.

The Coops are the kinds of store aimed squarely at an audience looking for discount beauty products, as above...

...and that takes its chickpeas very seriously...

On our way in, we had to admire the pluck of this fine young fellow.  Given his affinity for Grace Jones hairdos and Joan Crawford lips, he probably knows a lot about Rising Above Hate in this part of the world...

As always, I made for the toy department.  Mr. Muscato is nothing if not a discerning produce buyer, so I always have plenty of time to fritter away while he's making grave decisions of state about bell peppers.

There's something about Headscarf Barbie that never fails to amuse.

The range and sheer bizarerie of playthings (and their hapless packaging) are a steady source of bemusement.  On this trip I noticed a hitherto overlooked theme among them - an obsessive occupation with superlative enjoyment.  This mutant elephant pull toy, for example, is advertised with a bold promise:  "It will give you infinite pleasure!"  I understand that it's a New Edition, but that still seems a stretch...

This undoubtedly thoroughly licensed piece of Smurfiana, meanwhile, announces that "It will string along with you a pleasure childhood."  I'm sure it will, even though that sounds thoroughly illegal in most jurisdictions.

This hallucinogenically awful Lovely (???) Bee is apparently dedicated "To the children brought infinite happiness."  The honeydripping font, I can tell you, was even more unnerving in person.  As for the toy, I don't have any idea what it is, but it's definitely not coming to my house.  I'd never sleep again.

This mystifying Pooh-Bearische game (Little Bear Put the Fruit, indeed) can't settle on just one slogan.  Less focused on happiness, it is still hyperbolic, being "Infinite of innovative design" (which, if by "innovative," you mean "utterly bewildering," I might agree with).  At the same time, it wants to make sure you know it offers "Fairyland/The paradise of the dream/Let us playing together!"  Okay, but only as long as we can leave behind those frightening citrus creatures on the left...

While the parade of Engrish is for some reason worst in pre-school toys, those aimed at a moderately older set aren't immune.  It's not infinite, and it won't make you any happier, it seems, but this wall climber is "Smooth on the wall, the panel, the ceiling, the glass with a taxi."  Only a taxi?  Curious.

On our way out, we paused to admire/shudder at the kiddie attraction - a vast bouncy labyrinth, grubby and slowly but inexorably deflating - that fills the store's central court.  After everything I'd just seen, even that thing in the center - bear? mouse? hellhound? - didn't seem all that unusual.

Which is why, I suppose, we only go to the Cooperative once a month.  Anything more and I'd never be fit for re-entry to the dull world of Whole Foods, Harris Teeter, and Giant supermarkets that will someday seem so pedestrian by comparison...

Meanwhile, Over at Glamor Shots...

Nobody, really, was all that surprised when Barbie left Francie.  Of course, they'd been together for years - all the way back to Malibu and those hardscrabble days in that terrible band with Ken and Allan (not to mention that grade-A bitch PJ - she was the one who forced them into those mortifying fringe costumes, before she just up and disappeared), long before Barbie even dreamed of being a vet, let alone a TV news anchor, a fashion designer, an astronaut, and a presidential candidate.  Still, these things happen, and suddenly good-hearted, sensible Francie was yesterday's news.  Last I heard, she was still teaching algebra, but thinking maybe she might after all have a vocation.

No, the real scandal didn't start until after Barbie joined the Lipstick Ladies Bowling League.  Life without Francie at the Dream Condo® was pretty quiet, and she needed a hobby.  The girls' regular Tuesday nights got pretty raucous in the Bowlarama bar, and who should Barbie discover one Tuesday, after a couple of margaritas, was tending bar there but an old friend? 

Midge was nearly unrecognizable after her stint in the adult-film industry, but there was no denying she looked good.  So, anyway, they're trying to give it a go.  Turns out Midge even still had Ken's number and they're in touch sometimes.  Small world - he lives just a couple of miles away with Joe, an ex-G.I.  Maybe they'll all get together for brunch some Sunday and laugh about how strange things can turn out in the end...

Blond on Blonde

Mr. Warhol presents his portrait of Barbara Millicent Roberts. Should I be embarrassed that I know that the subject is depicted in her Superstar Barbie incarnation? It's a look that's half '80s trophy wife, half JonBenet, but Andy makes it work...

Meanwhile, at the Bargain Center

During her recent stay, Miss Rheba was treated to all the highlights of local tourism: we took her to forts and castles; she went on a dolphin-watching excursion; we visited the Grand Mosque and the capital's steadily expanding Royal Palace. She saw the souq, smoked a shisha, and ate in restaurants brimming with local color (experiencing one oddity of life in the Gulf: the more atmospheric, thousand-and-one-nights the restaurant, the likelier it is to serve Lebanese food. For very good reasons, mostly, if you've ever tried the actual traditional foods of the Arabian Peninsula).

And, of course, we took her to the One-Rial Store.

...where she experienced the legendary Wall of Knockoff Colognes, an ever-changing array of horror and splendor. This time the highlight was this I'm sure entirely coincidental hommage to one of the region's signature buildings. If you can't actually stay at the $1,000 a night Burj al-Arab Hotel, why not wear a $1.50 parfum that vaguely looks like it?

None of the dozens of Walking Angels on display showed even the vaguest sign of the promised flapping wings (and we wondered whether, in this part of the world, her prayers would be particularly welcome). Nonetheless, we were taken by the way in which she resembled nothing so much as a L'il Edna May Oliver doll and were briefly seized with the idea of a whole line of infantilized character ladies (Baby Marie Dressler, Toddler Magic Margaret Rutherford...).

And this particular offering made us laugh and laugh. We didn't feel good about that, but we did. I know it's just a set of tumblers and pitcher, liberally gilded. But still: golden water set.

Somehow, when inevitably we return to the dear old shores of North America, going to Costco or Target is going to seem awfully dull...

Be Our Guest

Much excitement about the Café today, as we're getting ready to welcome this evening our dear friend The Executrix, on a break from her dauntingly high-powered metropolitan life up in Europa. We look forward to several days of gossip, intemperance, and general catchings-up.

Seen here, of course, is one of the principal guest chambers of the Villa Muscato, in which we shall be lodging the dear girl . Oh, all right, it's not; it's a bedroom in the fabulous doll's house that formed one of Queen Mary's great legacies and which is one of my favorite things to visit when I've an idle hour to spare in Windsor. I do like to think it rather gives one an idea of our décor, though...

Been Shopping

What with Hallowe'en, various other holidays in the offing, and the possibility that Mr. Muscato will jet off and see the relatives over the next few weeks, we decided that yesterday was a good time for another trip out to the One Rial Store at the edge of town.

While he shopped for gifts, I as usual cruised the aisles looking for local color (no, not in that way, and get your mind out of the gutter, you).

Even if we were not as on previous expeditions threatened with poxes or terrifying quasi-medical devices, I and my trusty crappy cell-phone cam did observe a few things of possible interest...

For instance, that even here on the edge of the Arabian peninsula, thousands and thousands of miles from the nearest Walmart, we're not immune from that dreaded seasonal plague, Christmas Creep. I mean, what's with the tinsely decorations? It's not even Eid al-Adha yet!

As always, the toy department proved a festival of tragic knockoffs and too-inventive packaging. This little Blythe-Bratz mutation looked especially grotesque even in the low company she's keeping. As for her tag line... well, haven't we all, somewhere along the line, met that special someone whose lips light up when he/she/it phonates?

The fragrances wall - and a massive one it is, too - is a veritable carnival of trademark infringement. You can learn all sorts of things, for at least as long as you can hold your breath (this is one pungent aisle). For example, that Dolce is apparently a goner, with his former partner having, it would seem, taken up with a relative...

Herewith, the latest offering from that talented designer, Galvin Klein. Also on offer were coveted brands like 121 Men, Fahrenheat, Darkker Noir, Pollo (could it possible be chicken-scented?), Kool Water (now in Menthol?), and, in its distinctive plaid packaging, Bruberry. Also something especially vile called Very Sensual Man, which might be the case only if you find kerosene a turn-on.

This little offering achieves a very rare thing indeed - even as the lowest rung of tacky tat wrung from the sweatshops of Asia, and priced to move at the equivalent of less than $1.50, it is less vulgar and squalid than the phenomenon for which it was named or any of his licensed products.

And in that, somehow, perhaps there's a lesson for us. I'd come up with what it is, exactly, but it's going to be a long while before I recover from the fumes...

Nice Panda

I always hoped he went for bears...

It was Forty Years Ago Today

And doesn't that make you feel old? Well, presuming you're old enough to remember it at all. Or young enough...

It was one of those everybody-come-inside-you're-going-to-watch-this moments, that's for sure, and it made for a pleasant change from the ones the year before, which were funerals. Everyone took it very seriously, because somehow it was going to make everything different: men on the moon.

As it turns out, it didn't particularly, unless you really, really like Tang (local fun fact: in this part of the world, you can now get Tang Strawberry - does that exist back home?). Oh, I know it was a vital part of scientific advances of the era, and it meant a lot in terms of beating the Russkies, but really: by 2001 we were supposed to have intergalactic flight attendants and resorts on the Sea of Tranquillity and all that. On some level, no matter how much has happened since, is it any wonder that we can, at times, feel vaguely ripped off?

Afterward, when the doors on the Mediterranean Fruitwood Consolette that held the television were closed again, and for the rest of that summer, Susie Cooney next door and I would play moon landing, even though Midge didn't have a space suit and had to wear her green prom gown instead if she wanted to ride along with Barbie and GI Joe. Susie would solemnly tie a little plastic bag over her head, which was good enough as a space helmet for Midge.

Later on, a real live astronaut came to town, and because Father Muscato was a Rotary Bigwig or a Shrine Kahuna or for some other reason, I got to be taken along to meet a Man Who Walked on the Moon. It made you feel funny, to think about, but he was very nice. Typically, I remember his wife more, because she was wearing eye makeup, which among Our Kind was considered very racy, and had a large and elaborate hairstyle (I believe that sausage curls were involved, and it was definitely dyed, also racy). I don't remember which astronaut it was, one of the first ones or one of his successors, and now the only other person who might remember would be Father Muscato, and while it's the kind of fragment that might one morning surface, I'd probably first have to explain who I am, and...

Forty years can seem like an awfully long time. Maybe it's time for our next Giant Leap.

Angel

She was, in her way, the defining beauty of an era; she even turned out to be something of an actress, of the sort whose successes, fairly or not, are each treated as a surprise.

It was always odd and somehow unsettling to think of her as a 60-something invalid, and in time perhaps some of her less fortunate moments will fade and we will think of her as I think she would have liked, all hair, teeth, and California charm.

(Image from the fabulous photostream of Bouffant Headbutt)