Attention All Personnel: Incoming Fashion!

cojocaru.jpgHere to preview this fall’s hottest fashions is Ivan Billotte, design guru/professional gay stereotype perpetuator.

I’m back, darlings! Autumn is my favorite time of year, except for all the others when I get paid to tell women what to wear! The leaves are changing, the temps are dropping, so you know what that means: The top designers unveil their latest soups!

Look: You can’t be seen out there with just any soup, can you? Of course not! You want to walk around with some Chicken And Stars on your arm? What is this, the Midwest? Or get caught in a deli sipping Split Pea And Ham like some homeless Nebraskan? Gag me!

Luckily, you won’t have to make decisions for yourself! I got a sneak peek at all the latest brews at the annual opening of Soup Week here in Manhattan, and honey, I’m gonna set you straight on the hottest soups this season! They’re gonna warm you up–with fashion!

Carrot Ginger, Cosi: I tell you, everyone, but everyone was waiting to catch a glimpse of this one on the runway. We were not disappointed. So bold with the orange, but so right! And the tartness of the ginger brings it right back around. Just the kind of saucy number for a take-no-prisoners night on the town! Mm-mm good!

Seafood Bisque, Au Bon Pain: Smaller bites, Au Bon Pain–you’re ripping off more than you can chew! I pull up my spoon, I see all these little tentacles and bits of clam. Too much! Apparently, they didn’t get the memo–we look to you guys for “simple and unpretentious”, not “swimming with bottom feeders”. Stick to Jalapeno Asiago bagels, honey!

Broccoli and Cheddar, Hale and Hearty: The green, the yellow–it’s almost a little too 70s for me. I was ready to run away screaming, but then this little number came right back from the edge and redeemed itself. Perfect for the office or just kicking it with the girls over Sunday brunch. Accessorize with some oyster crackers, and you’re ready to take on the world, sweetie!

Chicken and Sausage Gumbo, Metro: This was a stunning, just stunning tribute to the victims of Hurricane Katrina. A perfect representation of their fighting, spicy spirit, or something. I really have to hand it to Metro–they really know how to use an enormous human tragedy in order to make soup.

Mulligitawny Soup, The Original Soup Man: I’m sorry, he can call himself “original” all he wants, but I’m pretty sure I had this soup same time last year, girlfriend! Listen, nobody has more respect for him than I do. I don’t think anyone will forget his Italian Wedding Soup back in ’03–he officially declared himself the Jimi Hendrix of little tiny meatballs. But it’s time to stop resting on your laurels and get back to making some soup, snookums!

That’s all for now, lollipops! Check back with my in a few weeks, right around Thanksgiving, when I’ll have my report from the yearly Mashed Potato Proms in Paris!

Ivan Billotte earns his living shaming women and dressing like a retarded 6-year-old scarecrow.

Continue reading Attention All Personnel: Incoming Fashion!

Mota-ta

Oh blimey.

I was hoping the first Mets-related news of November would be an awesome trade or free agent signing. MINAYA NABS DONTRELLE WILLIS IN EXCHANGE FOR VICTOR ZAMBRANO AND BAG OF BALLS. Or some other bit of good news like PEDRO MARTINEZ’S SHOULDER REHAB MONTHS AHEAD OF SCHEDULE; NEW ROBOTIC ARM CAN THROW 150 MPH, HEAL LEPERS.

Sadly, this is not the case. No, the first Amazin’ headline of the 11th month is late-season acquisition Guillermo Mota, who tested positive for something bad and will be suspended for the first 50 games of the 2007 season.

Continue reading Mota-ta

Time’s a Bastard, Don’t You Know

It seems appropriate that my sports-writing gig should end now, with the baseball season concluded. This is the sports-time of year when I find it hard to get too excited about much
of anything. Sure, I like wasting a Sunday afternoon via football as much as any other red-blooded American. (Although I’m still waiting lab results to prove that my blood is, in fact, red.) I now look forward to making picks and watching them get completely  destroyed. I enjoy watching grown men tights try to kill one another for several hours. I even root for the Jets, an act of masochism usually not undertaken by the casual fan.

But I simply don’t live for football the way I do for baseball. I’m under no illusions that one game is superior to the other. It’s simply an end result of growing up in a Baseball-Centric Metropolitan Area, in a Baseball-Centric Family. In my house, football was enjoyed, but baseball was worshipped. If I’d grown up in, say, Alabama, I have a feeling I might feel differently. But I didn’t, and I don’t.

Continue reading Time’s a Bastard, Don’t You Know

A potentially explosive collection of verbal irritants