I must preface this post by saying that I did not create anything you see here. If you read my blog with any regularity, you already know I’m not that creative.

No, every file is real, which means I’m only the curator of this exhibit. If you’re offended by anything you see here, or you think it’s too soon, or you knew someone who knew someone who almost died that day, or you have proof that the Jews all got an email warning them to stay home that day, or Building 7 was actually made of sugar, I don’t know what to tell you. Start with the man in the mirror.

Anyway, there is a lot of crap here, so I’ve taken the liberty of grouping this garbage into the following categories:

Let’s roll!™

• gifs

This was probably the most prolific category of Nine-Elevenalia, and I’m not surprised. After all, in this MySpace-age world we live in, everyone needs a sparkly way to say, “Thanks for the add!” or “Sorry your friends died in that building thingy.”

While there are thousands of glittery memorial snowglobes and weeping eagles on the internet, I have contented myself to show you just a handful. Please download them and put them all over your Facebook today, if only to annoy the terrorists in your extended network.

• music

Of all the tragedy came out of 9/11, nothing is sadder than these.

• tattoos

Unless you put it on your back. Then it’s your wife’s problem.

More here

• merchandise

• personal expression

• inadvertantly offensive

You could make the argument that some of these images were designed to provoke an emotional response, but I think they stop short of pure trolling, which is the gold standard. I also think some of this was pure stupidity, which is not the same as being an asshole.

• deliberately offensive

Trying to make a couple of bucks on 9/11 is one thing.

Trying to get some bullshit advertising award by doing unauthorized, unsolicited work for a charity and making them look like ghouls in the process is something else entirely.

This year’s Twin Douchebag Award goes to . . .

DDB ADVERTISING, BRAZIL

For this spectacularly horrific and ultimately meaningless bit of batshittery.

Yesterday, when I snagged tickets to see Liza at the Morongo Casino, I was so high. Not quite as high as Liza, but still, pretty high.

Today comes the flipside of happiness; the inevitable, soul crushing disappointment. What comes up, must come down. Spinning wheel, got to go round. You know what I’m talking about.

The point is, I bought this yesterday, in anticipation of the big event. I wanted to wear it to the show, as a tribute.

I mean, this is definitely the way to honor someone’s musical genius. Not to mention the fact that Nate Giorgio has just been airbrushing around the clock to get this piggy to market.

And I also bought this, because it too, is a fitting tribute. And you can wear it with anything.

I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to do. And they’re both available on the installment plan, so there’s no reason not to.

Besides, what if the glistening Swarovski crystals caught Liza’s eye as she stammered through the Kander and Ebb medley? What if she stopped the show, all Patti LuPone like, and demanded to know who was glittering in the upper tier? I could stand up, and sob, “Liza! It’s my Michael Jackson commemorative charm bracelet!”

And she would blink back tears, and I would start to sing, softly . . .

You and I must make a pact
We must bring salvation back
Just call my name . . .

And people would start to stand, one by one, picking up the refrain when it stuck in our throats.

Christ, is that a beautiful piece of imagery or what? It’s like something Aaron Sorkin would write, only a lot shorter.

Anyway, it all came crashing down when I got a receipt from CollectiblesToday.com, with the following heartbreaking words:

Estimated shipping: Ships in 6 – 8 weeks

What?

Six to eight weeks?

Okay, granted, he still won’t be buried by then, but come on! You’ve got to strike while the body is warm. I can’t sustain my grief for two more months. I’m already losing interest.

What could I do? I canceled my order. Wearing Michael Jackson jewelry in September is going to be like wearing white after labor day.

I only hope that Nate Giorgio learns from this, and is hard at work on that limited edition White Diamonds decanter.

What didn’t occur to me was that I would now be on the ABC Store mailing list.

How excited do you think that makes me? That’s right: a lot. Because I just got an email alerting me to a fabulous sale going on right now!

Here are some of the beautiful items available for a limited time:

“Take notes on your favorite character”? Does anyone at ABC watch this show? Because there really aren’t any characters on it.

Unless Marie Osmond was just playing a fainting Mormon nut job.

Who has a magical life? Kendall Hart? Isn’t that a character?

Ok, so characters can create fragrances, but real people don’t win dance competitions.

Whatever. You have two weeks to figure it out.

Telling the world you watch One Life to Live by putting a license plate frame on your TRUCK is classy, all right.

But I think you’d probably need to use All My Children douche to qualify as sassy.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that most women who sit home and watch daytime television are probably more interested in these pants for the elastic waistband.

This just makes me McQueasy.

And this is where words fail me.

Well, until you get your pants off, at least.

And the reviews are in:

- Thanks to Gina

Link

Click pic for link

Giant, brightly lit stores, filled with hideous mother-of-the-bride dresses, Loehmann’s was a glue trap for the crotchety. Everywhere you looked, elderly women with carrot-colored hair clawed through piles of beaded formals, tried dresses on right over their clothes and eyed each other’s finds with a mixture of jealousy and contempt.

My mother loved Loehmann’s, but as a pouting, teen-aged, overweight drama student, this was clearly not my scene. I only accompanied her when I absolutely could not get out of it, rolling my eyes while she tried on anything metallic with shoulder pads in it. Truly, she was Alexis Carrington on a fixed income.

So when she called me earlier this year and started telling me how she and my sister Amber had gone the week before, and about how much “Loehmann’s has changed”, I instantly began formulating an excuse.

But then she said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“You know, they have Theory there.”

This was strange for two reasons.

One, Theory is a very good brand, and it has no business being at Loehmann’s.

And two, it would be completely off my mother’s radar if she hadn’t actually seen it there. If my mother was lying to get me to go to Loehmann’s, she’d probably tell me they had culottes.

Like most things my mother tells me, this required back-up. I immediately called Amber for confirmation.

Amazingly, she assured me that there were many good brands there, and she had found some things she liked a lot. I think you can imagine how excited my mother was when I told her I’d pick her up Thursday.

The first trip was life-changing. Not only did I see Theory, I saw D & G, Norma Kamali, Donna Karan, True Religion, Phillipe Adec, Moschino, Armani and on and on and on.

Now, I’ve never really been a clothes horse, but that’s got a lot to do with the fact that I was fat my whole life. As of this writing, I am 3 pounds from my goal weight, and clothes have a whole new fascination for me.

For hours I carried armloads of clothes into the giant, communal dressing room, trying on anything and everything that interested me. I had no idea what I wanted, just that I wanted. And while I loved the clothes I bought, nothing was as satisfying as seeing my exhausted mother leaning against a display, rolling her eyes.

Several months later, I was driving home by way of La Cienega. I had driven this route hundreds of times, but it was only this day that I realized there was a Loehmann’s there, less than a mile from my house. And not just any Loehmann’s: a two story Loehmann’s with its own parking garage! I vowed it would be mine.

Shopping at Loehmann’s is not a passive thing. Woman stare when you take something off the rack, sometimes grouping themselves around you, waiting for you to put it back. It’s not unlike the way Sully looks at me when I’m eating. My mother once dropped a black sweater while we were shopping, and when she turned around to get it, someone had already grabbed it and disappeared.

Yesterday, I decided to brave it and I drove down there. I knew it would be dicey so close to the holidays, and I suspected there would be some bad manners on display. But John and I are going away on Friday, and I wanted to make sure I had something to wear on New Year’s Eve.

It didn’t take long.

While I was waiting in line to get my ticket to get into the garage, I noticed a very small parking space right by the door. It was pretty prime. As I inched up, I looked at the ground, and saw that the word “COMPACT” was painted in the space. Seeing as I drive a Mini, I decided that was my spot.

As soon as the guard arm lifted, I made a very hard left and parked in that little spot. As I got out of the car, I heard someone yelling at me in a very thick Russian accent.

“MEEESS! MEEESS!”

I turn around and there’s an ancient hag in a Buick, about three cars down the line to get her parking ticket. She has her window rolled down, and she’s gesturing wildly at me.

“Yes?” I say.

“Do you working here?”, she yells.

“No,” I say, and start to walk into the store.

“Then why you parking there?”

I stop, totally confused.

“What?”

“That space is only for people who is working here. You no working here, you can’t parking there.”

Is she right?

I go back and look at the space. There’s nothing on the wall. There’s nothing on the ground. I walk to the back of the car to make sure I read it correctly, and there on the ground it says, “COMPACT”.

“No,” I say, “it’s not reserved.”

“Yes it is! It say right there, RESERVE.”

“No,” I say, getting irritated, “it says COMPACT. It’s in English so that could be why you’re having some trouble.”

“No, it say RESERVE! I see!”, and she continues pointing to the ground.

“Lady,” I say, “RESERVED doesn’t start with the letter C!”

Not getting what she wanted, she started to attempt to engage other people in their cars.

“Look, she is not working here but she is parking in that spot!”

At this point I figure there are two ways to fix it. I can either pull her out of her car and beat her with her antenna, or I can get a ruling from an employee.

Opting for the Ghandi approach, I walk all the way to the opposite end of the garage to find the cashier’s booth. The whole time I could hear her yelling from her car.

I approach the cashier and ask if I can park in that spot. He looks over at the car, then at me, and says, “I don’t care.”

I tried looking for her in Loehmann’s, but they all look like her in there.