A Gentleman Must Show Professional Restraint

Fair Reader,

I have been working as a New York City reporter for one of Herr Binn's many fledgling tabloids (if you live in the Long Island area, you may be able to find the publication in your local bagel shop). Last week he assigned me to cover the acquittal of the "Weekend at Bernie's" fellas, James O'Hare and David Daloia, two junkies who had wheeled their dead friend to Ninth Avenue to cash said-dead-friend's social security check.

Daloia and O'Hare at trial's end.

My editor asked me to interview the two at their Hell's Kitchen apartment, to which I happily accepted. As I had their apartment number and everything, I rang their buzzer at their apartment in the hopes for entry. Unfortunately, the two were not at home - or at least, were not responding. I buzzed another apartment at random in the hopes that I would find someone to let me in. A youngish lass with a heavy Venezuelan accent answered, to which I asked if she knew the notorious duo. She said she did, going as so far as to say that she was James' "Sugahmama." I asked if she wouldn't mind speaking to the two on my behalf to see if I could interview them. She told me to meet her on the second floor and buzzed me into the apartment.

I entered and walked up to the second floor, where I saw a casually dressed woman around the age of 40 coming down the stairs. "They not going to talk to you," she said. "Believe me, I'm his sugahmama." I asked her kindly to just try on my behalf. She smiled, then knocked on their door, announcing it was her "sugahmama" who was there to see them. The door opened and I was able to catch the haggard Mr. O'Hare from where I was standing. My Venezuelan friend kissed O'Hare on the cheek and then asked him, in Spanish, whether he would like to speak with me or not. O'Hare gazed in my direction, smiled and waved in a "farewell" gesture. He kissed the lass goodbye on the cheek and then closed the door.

She smiled at me, said "I told you so," then returned to her flat upstairs.

I stood in my spot not too far from O'Hare's door, expecting them to come outside shortly after my rejection. Alas, fifteen minutes later they remained indoors. I went upstairs to my Venezuelan friend's flat (I could hear loud music coming from within) and knocked on the door.

She opened the door to reveal that she was fresh out of the shower, barely covered in a robe and a wet towel wrapped around her hair.

Her outfit was not this provocative.

"Yes?" she impatiently asked.

I apologized for the intrusion and said that I could return once she was dry and clothed.

"No, that's ok," she said. "What you want?"

I asked her that I was going to ask her to phone the two junkies on my behalf as a last-ditch effort to interview them. However, I explained, as I was an Amateur Gentleman, I was not going to let an attractive and sopping wet Venezuelan lady stand nearly nude in front of a stranger and possibly catch cold.

"That's ok," she once again assured. "You want coffee?"

I offered to return when she was fully clothed, but she asked for me to enter.

I proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes engaged in a very awkward conversation. To further flesh out the scenario for you: an admittedly sexually attractive woman was making me coffee as she was dressed in a robe - one that was untied, fastened only by her free hand - as I, a presentable Gent, sat uncomfortably in my seat. Sure, as a full-blooded male, I was partially aroused by the scenario, even pondered on whether I should take action. However, I thwarted all thoughts of ribaldry after remembering a key principle taught to me by my great Uncle Beverly the Dashing:

"Serendipitous acts of sex with strangers is always a regrettable act. Should you find yourself in the den of an alluring Japanese madam or in the shop an intoxicating Bolivian seamstress, remember this: They're not worth whatever medical bills that will come your way as a result of it. Oh, and if you've seen them kiss a heroin fiend in an affectionate manner prior to the moment of passion, it's probably best to keep your willy in your trousers."

Remembering this lesson helped regain my composure. I thanked the lady for the coffee and gave her my card, saying that if she can convince the two junkies to speak with yours truly, I would be waiting at a nearby diner for the next hour. Of course, nothing materialized out of this. The important part of this tale was that I did not allow the situation to devolve into a poor 1980's Venezuelan porno scene. I maintained my professionalism throughout, and by jove, was it challenging.

Stay chivalrous,

EtG

A Gent's Birthday

Fair Reader,

Yesterday was my birthday. I finally turned the age of 29 (there, I said it). The manner in which I spent celebrating my birthday was a gentle indication that I am indeed improving like an aged chateauneuf de pape. For instance, I awoke at 10 am to take my vitamins and pills to aide in my wine and scotch hangover from the night before. I then met two ravishing lasses for brunch at Morandi restaurant, where many of the Italian waitresses recognized yours truly from my 2005 appearance on a news show on Rete 4. Did they ask for an autograph? Of course not.

I went on just after this bit.

After a long and tasty brunch, I took the train to my gym, where I enjoyed a nice schvitz in the sauna (the vitamins and aspirin failed to entirely halt the hangover). I returned to the EtG lair for another nap, then met JI Tippero for tapas (who was in town to promote his new cologne, "Vanilla Lace Lust"). The day was concluded at trusty Balthazar, where I was joined by Allan the Gent III, Allan the Gent IV, Allan the Gent IV, Dame Renata the Gent, and four childhood friends for a delicious supper.

As for presents: sadly, my wish for a wife and a terrier did not come to pass. So, I suppose I will have to wait another year before starting my own Nick and Nora-esque private investigation business. Also, Margherita Missoni failed to appear as well, much to the Gent men's chagrin. I did receive some fine pocket squares from my father (who purchased them in a legitimate manner).

I then returned back home for a nice night of rest. I was rather surprised on how much I enjoyed a simple and low-keyed birthday, leading me to fear that next year I will spend my 30th playing pinochle, taking Flomax and watching Jackie Mason in person on Broadway.

Don't get him started on Obama.

I suppose the lesson from my 29th birthday is simple: enjoying the simpler things in life (like good food, beautiful women, sleep, and pinochle) is the inevitable result of aging. Which is quite all right with yours truly.

A presto,

EtG


PS - This is entirely unrelated to my post, but I thought you would enjoy nevertheless.

A Gentleman Comes In Every Size

Fair Hermano,

As you know, I spent the weekend in Barcelona to attend a "meet-and-greet" Handsome Man Event, held in an undisclosed subterranean room in Antoni Gaudí's classic building, Casa Batlló. There, handsome contenders from across the globe gathered to size one another up, drink loads of sherry, and, most importantly, make their company (and some cases, their bodies) available to the Catalan Cougar Society of Barcelona.

If we told you where this room was... well, we wouldn't kill you. But we'd certainly ask you not to tell anyone.

The highlight of the evening was when I won four front row tickets to an FC Barcelona match against Espanyol. I won these tickets in a highly competitive contest (a raffle, in other words).

As my brother, Allan the Gentleman, was visiting the city with me, I invited him, last year's Handsome Man Games winner J.I. Tippero, and Mbanga Ka, the Filipino bodybuilder, to join me at the match.

For those of you who have yet to see a proper football match in the flesh, doing so at Nou Camp is strongly urged. Be you passive or ardent about your football fandom, watching a Barca match in the company of 100,000 passionate and quasi-homicidal fans is an experience to behold.

But the bigger reason as to why you should see a Barca match: Lionel Messi.

If a man stands at 5'5, and yet, could play football like Jesus could craft a table, surely you wouldn't begrudge him his remarkable talents? At Barcelona - and at Argentina and throughout the globe, for that matter - they simply worship him for it.

To give you a good gist of this bloke's talents, here's a goal Lionel had last year against Mexico:



...and here is a clip of his legendary, Maradona-esque goal against Getafe:



As Barcelona are set to play Manchester United in a UEFA Champion's League match today, manager and noted Handsome Dutchman Frank Rijkaard decided to rest his top stars, Lionel Messi included. As Barcelona is a well-stocked club, we did manage to catch Samuel Eto'o and Carles Puyol play in the flesh, but we were slightly disappointed that we wouldn't get to see the "Argentine Jesus" do his magic with a pelota.

A view from our seats

But as the first half drew to a close, a palpable excitement came over the crowd. This was curious, as the game was not terribly rousing at that stage. We swerved our heads down the sideline to see "Argentine Jesus" warming up, running furiously up and down the benches. The crowd's excitement did not abate, and they broke into a sonorous and loving chant of his name ("MESSI, MESSI, MESSI, MESSI").

Messi did not play that first half. But for the second, his presence was felt by his team, his opponents, and his 100,000 adoring fans. For a man to be so tiny to have such a dazzling array of skills is almost criminal. He danced the ball around any defender who dared challenge him, be they two or four in number. He did everything in his Godly might to will the team out of a nil-nil draw. Sadly, as the final whistle was sounded, his team could not follow his lead (I blame the lackadaisical play of Bojan Krkić).

At one point, Messi blew past an Espanyol defender and tried a daft shot from the left corner of the pitch. The shot flew far wide, and in an attempt to draw more time off the clock before the final whistle, the Espanyol defender (who shall remain nameless, the scum) collapsed to the grass while clutching his left leg. Messi, the true Argentinian Gent, walked over to the defender, took his left leg, and helped his foe stretch it by gently leaning on it. The Espanyol goalie tried to shoo him away, going as so far as to push "Argentine Jesus." But Messi remained, finishing the stretch and then returning to Barcelona's side of the pitch.

It nearly brought a tear to the eyes of yours truly, which I know sounds remarkably poncey, but please understand that it is rare for a sports fan like myself to see a player who plays like a God and acts like a Gent. Sure, David Wright is getting there for the Mets, but Messi is in an entirely different class.

Behold your new Lord.

A presto,

EtG

Quick Thoughts on Lasses, Janka, and Adios for Now

Dearest Readers,

I am rushing to the airport to catch a plane to Barcelona (competing in a Handsome Man game qualifier out there). Because of my time limit, allow for me to make a quick point as to why Women fall for "Manslappers":

1) Most women our age (18-40) grew up adoring New Kids on the Block.
2) Most women our age enjoy a few good drinks.
3) Most women our age become horny when drunk.
4) "Manslappers" hang out in bars to prey on drunk women who grew up adoring New Kids on the Block.

Thus, why women fall for Manslappers.


Our dear Old Douchecad Friend Paul Janka appeared on Tyra the other day. Of course, his comments are hardly that surprising. Check it out for yourself.

All right, I have to run to JFK. We'll chat when I return next week!

All best,

EtG

A Possible Explanation As to Why a Manslapper Came to Be

Genteel Reader,



For those of you new to this journal, a "Manslapper" is a more polite way of describing a bloke who is, for lack of a better term, a "Douche bag." If you visit the popular website "Hot Chicks with Douche Bags," you will see several blokes with exaggerated tans, highly-gelled hair, creatine-enhanced musculatures, disturbingly tight t-shirts, a complete disregard to proper dress and decorum.

Recently, I was sharing a drink with friend and inventor of the term "Manslapper," Basil Andreacostas. During our discussion, we both wondered what was the original stylistic influence on this growing modern phenomenon. To help answer our question, we first looked into the skeevy qualities that comprised a modern "Manslapper".

Save for the aforementioned descriptions I stated above, the "Manslapper" is prone to using sappy, cute language on his lass (most likely with the aide of abbreviated text speak and emoticons). He wears an obscene amount of cologne. He listens to a obscene amount of R&B. He most likely cites Michael Jackson as an idol. He holds a blatant disregard to proper and presentable fashion. And he does all of this with the underlying belief that all of this will secure him a lot of female tushie.

But how did the Manslapper - and for that matter, how did Basil and I - come to this conclusion? Because at some point during the Manslapper's childhood, he witnessed a particular band behave in a similar (albeit a more commercial) manner, thus securing a grotesque amount of female tushie in the process.

The band I speak of? New Kids on the Block.

I would like to share with you a photo of NKOTB from the 80s.
Pay heed to the mismatched flair, the clumsily-sculpted hair, the perceptible attitude, and yet, the slight puppy-doggish glint in their eyes. This was all an attempt to get into your daughter's mind and slacks, Fathers.

Now take the photo of three proud Manslappers featured at the top of this post. Notice the frightfully-sculpted hair, the overwhelming attitude, the mismatched flair, and of course, the slight puppy-doggish glint in their eyes. This was all an attempt to get into the mind and thong of your scantily-clad daughter, Fathers. No need to wonder where they got this idea in the first place.

Recently, the boys from NKOTB announced that they would be performing a reunion tour. They did so while wearing sharp suits, but still refusing to shave.

Here's the video:



You may think, "By Jove, if they can show the Manslapper world that they have grown up, surely the Manslappers can do so by acting more maturely and dressing more properly as well?"

Well, yes and no.



Later, my thoughts on why the Manslapper succeeds with women.

Stay chivalrous,

EtG

PS - I would like to extend a very chipper Birthday tiding to longtime commenter and overall Gent, Theo. I trust he will spend most of the day at his country club, shooting his prized Krieghoff Classic rifle at clay pigeons and a few Liberal bystanders before enjoying 10 bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with his captivating Countess. A Happiest of Birthdays to you, fine sir.

Marche-Style Squid with Wilted Watercress

Fair Reader,

I was in my local market the other day and noticed my fish monger had some squid available for a mere pittance. As it looked and smelled of good quality, I purchased right away with not knowing immediately how I was going to prepare it.

Naturally, I turned to the Silver Spoon and found a recipe for Marche-style squid, one that involves a lot of oil, garlic, and anchovies. I know not everyone enjoys the taste of anchovies in their dish. A good way to fix this - without removing the ingredient from the dish altogether - is to cook the anchovies in the oil for two minutes or so before you include the squid. This way, it will help cook away some of the anchovy taste.

As I had some watercress available, I tried wilting a bunch of it in the Marche broth, which proved to be a solid move. Below is the recipe for Marche-Style squid for those with the stomach for it.

Serves 4

2 whole canned anchovies (or 4 anchovy fillets)
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 garlic clove
1 fresh flat-leaf parsley sprig, chopped
1 3/4 - 2 pounds small squid, cleaned
5 tablespoons white wine
salt and pepper
1 bunch of watercress

1. Chop the anchovy fillets. Heat the oil in a pan with the garlic and parsley. Add the squid and anchovies and season lightly with salt and pepper.



2) Cook over low heat for 10 minutes, then stir in the wine and 2-3 tablespoons of water. Simmer gently for 20 minutes until tender.

3) Just before you serve the dish, push the squid to one side and leave some of the cooking broth in the center of the pan. Place the watercress and let it wilt for roughly 20 seconds. Remove and plate how you see fit.



It's a tasty dish, although it does pack a fishy punch. For those with sophisticated - if not Mediterranean - palettes, I highly recommend taking a stab at it.


A presto,

EtG

Gentlemanly Adages for Thee

Patient Reader,

1) A Gentleman should always apologize for being late for a dinner or for being egregiously absent for an extended period of time. In these instances, a drink, a kiss, or even a prepared meal will help diffuse the situation. As we normally converse via this online journal, it is impossible for me to treat you to a drink, a kiss, or even a plate of cookies. As I am also staunchly against the use of emoticons for the purposes of contrition, I will not do this as a substitute: :-{} (this is supposed to signify me blowing you a kiss... blecch).

So, please accept this painfully cute video as a substitute (EtG has a soft spot for howling dogs)

The funniest duet EVER!


2) When arguing with a hobo at a booksigning, it is advisable not to do so while you are talking to a fair lass. It is also not advisable to challenge said hobo to a fight, as hobos are hungry and may have a self-made shiv on their person. It is best to ignore the hobo altogether and to focus all your efforts on the lass, for lasses look and smell a whole lot better. I bring this up as this happened to me this past Friday night.

And on to some very helpful adages:

3) It never helps for one to fret about what their boss thinks about their performance at work. Focus on the job at hand, not on the hand that controls your job.

4) It's counterproductive to fret on past mistakes. As my Great Uncle Beverly the Dashing always told me, you can't bike up hill by looking behind you the entire time. He meant this literally as he once tried doing so on the Lycabettus Hill in Athens. The result was rather painful.

In all fairness, Beverly was keeping an eye on the gorgeous Grecian cyclist who was trailing behind him. That and he was drunk off his tits on grappa.

5) Reservations are always easier to break than they are to make. Err on the side of "never too safe" when booking a table/hotel room/Medieval Times event for you and your lass.

6) At the end of the day, the one bloke/lass who can make you the happiest is you... and your howling dog. And your personal butler. And your collection of whiskeys. And your Nintendo Wii. And your mistress. And your mistresses mistress...

That is it for now. There will be a recipe for a tasty squid dish in a moment.

A presto and lovely to see you again,

EtG

A Brief Defense of Spencer Pratt

Fair "Hills" Fan,


It may come as surprise to you that I see very little evil in Spencer Pratt's doings. In fact, I would go as so far as to categorize the notorious trustafarian and overall schemer as a "decent bloke."

Before you spit your morning screwdriver at your computer screen, allow for me to make a swift defense.

Thanks to Radar Magazine's online edition - not to mention his strangely poised and semi-mature performance on this season of "The Hills" thus far - I have started viewing Herr Pratt less as a scoundrel and more as a complicated bloke slowly adjusting to adulthood.

Take, for instance, his cold and direct chiding of his sister, the traitorous Stephanie. You may think, "my lord, what a ferocious wanker." But you know what? Spencer was entirely right in his actions. A family bond is stronger than any casual friendship you might develop at a fashion institute. Sure, his characterizations could use some improvement (he repeatedly calls Lauren "crazy"), but like it or not, the man does have a point: Family is blood.

Then there is this interview Radar conducted last year with Herr Pratt. In it, I learned that Spencer prefers to play squash (always the mark of an authentic and maturing Gent) and considers himself "an entertainer."

Here's an excerpt from that interview:

Do a lot of people approach you in the clubs? I'll be honest, I haven't been out to the clubs in about a year. I stopped going as soon as I stepped up my business. A president of a major talent agency that I play squash with every day gave me a quote: "Spencer, I know you want to be the biggest and the best. And nobody in the clubs is the biggest and the best. People are either on the squash court at night or they are in bed and get up at 4:30." And that's when I stopped going, and everyone was all, oh, Spencer can't get into the clubs! Please, I know every promoter in town.

You know what, there's some wisdom to those words. Sure, the kid can be a scheming tw*t sometimes, not to mention is naked in his ambitions, clumsy in his execution, and controlling in his romancing. That aside, I believe we are beginning to see the makings of a reformed Gent.

A presto,

EtG

A Monday Night Conundrum

Fair Reader,

I write you now on Monday night. I have endured a brutal slew of workdays since Friday. My foot is sprained from covering a story on a Chinese Gent known for a unique and ambidextrous approach to pleasing his woman. It turned out to be a hoax, as he had yet to even touch a lass.

With that said, the one thing I wanted to do on Monday evening was kick back and watch "Darkman" on HBO On Demand. But "The Hills" is also on. Now, any man with a chest mane and a proper pair would say, "watch Darkman, brah! What are you, some kind of homoqueer?" However, I have been blogging about "The Hills" since the season opener. Although I would much rather see Dr. Giggles try to blow up a deformed Liam Neeson with a grenade launcher than watch several anorexics get so wrapped up in all the drama drama drama.

This man is neither an anorexic nor a catty bitch

But a Gent has an obligation to his readers. So, tomorrow, I will have my brief thoughts on the blasted "Hills." For now, please allow a Gent to indulge in a simple pleasure:



Ciao,

EtG

A Gent Endorses His Mates

Faithful Reader,

A few matters to address before I share my recipe for the week:

1) Being a well-traveled and somewhat sociable Gent, I have managed to befriend many-a-talented artist and photographer. One artist, Harold Hancock, is a magnificent portraitist, as evidenced by the one of your esteemed author. His website shows further testament to his adept drawing and painting. A photographer, Brian Moghadam, is magnificent in his own craft, which you can see for yourself when you visit his personal website. By the way, should one of his many rock photographs appeal to you, Brian tells me that they are for sale.

2) I shared a delicious evening of drinks and food with a fetching Californian lass at Death and Company on Wednesday night. Most of their drinks feature a rare ingredient this old fashioned Gent sure appreciated: Egg whites. The bartender made one drink especially for me that featured the rare ingredient (and tequila). It was good, although I paid the price for it dearly the following morning. As for food, they had a short rib on plantains number that was just brilliant. Their duck and aged Gouda quesadilla with rum pineapple salsa confirmed for me that this place has the finest bar food in all the city. If you live in New York, or if you plan to visit, I highly recommend making the trip. I believe you do need to book a spot at the bar in advance (a disagreeably stodgy policy in my mind), so be sure to do so before venturing over.

3) As you can notice from the bizarrely long list of items to the right of this post, I have finally bothered to label each post. You will notice that there is a "cuisine" folder, along with an "honorable decorum," featuring past articles that touched on both of these essential matters.

And now on to today's recipe:

It's spring (technically). Although the weather isn't behaving as such, it is almost that time to warm up the BBQs (my apologies to my NYC readers as very few of us do have access BBQ grills). With that said, why not try a grilling dish this early in the game to get you prepared for the summer season? This recipe for Red-chile rubbed salmon comes to you from Bobby Flay's Boy Meets Grill cookbook.

Red Chile-Rubbed Salmon

Makes 8 servings

8 Salmon steaks or fillets (roughly 6 ounces each)
1/2 cup of ancho chile powder
2 teaspoons of ground cumin
1 teaspoon of cinnamon
2 tablespoons of brown sugar
1/2 cup olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

1) Preheat your gas or charcoal grill to medium high.

2) Combine the ancho chile powder, cumin, sugar, cinnamon, and olive oil in a small bowl and season with salt and pepper. Coat the salmon with the mixture on one side only (I normally do the flesh-side). Grill, pepper-side down, until a crust forms, about 2 minutes. Turn the steaks and cook for 5 more minutes, for medium doneness.

Have a splendid weekend and I will speak with you soon.

A presto,
EtG

A Gent at a Rock Show

Honorable Reader,

There are times when a Gent can act like a Gent, and there are times when he can act like an unadulterated ass.

For instance, on Saturday night, I joined my fine friend, Pieter, to watch Blitzen Trapper at the Bowery Ballroom.

I erroneously called them "Blitzen Popper" to friends before the show.

The opening act for Blitzen Trapper, who are a "fiery" and scruffy band from Portland, OR, was The Fleet Foxes, who are a melodic and very scruffy band from Seattle, WA. Beforehand, Pieter and me shared a bountiful charcuterie and many glasses of wine at nearby Xicala, a tasty-yet-pricey tapas bar on the lower east side. We then made our evening decidedly less effeminate by going to the Bowery Ballroom to drink a steady slew of whiskeys and beers at their upstairs bar. By the time the first band reached the stage, I was feeling slightly cheeky and tad "buzzed."

At first, Pieter and I confused the Fleet Foxes for Blitzen Trapper. When they started their set, Pieter kept assuring me that Blitzen Trapper "will rock the f**k out anytime soon." However, each song Fleet Foxes performed was far too supple to be considered "rock the f**k out." It wasn't until a kind fellow concert goer informed us the band's real name when our confusion ceased.

An example of rocking the f**k out

As their short set was nearing its finish, the keyboardist decided to tell a little story about his strange encounter with an eccentric homeless person on the "F" train. As the story was dragging - and as I was still feeling cheeky - I screamed out in a meatheadish tone, "LESS TALK, MORE ROCK!" This got a few uncomfortable laughs from those in my vicinity, leading the keyboardist to apologize before saying, "I see we've got 'that guy' in the crowd." I giggled, blushed, and then was firmly put in my place after they played a rousing version of "English Houses" (at least, I think it was "English Houses").

I should go on record to say that the Fleet Foxes are an exceptional band. Their songs are soft, haunting, melodic, and very affecting. They remind me of a Mogwai with better lyrics; that is, if Mogwai dressed like Justin "Bobby" Brescia of "The Hills" fame (sorry for throwing another Hills reference, brahs). Their EP, "Sun Giant," is available on Sub Pop's website and is well worth the $5 download price, in my humble opinion.

Imagine seeing this man in quintuplet form.

For those rare moments when cheekiness prevails over decorum, doing something silly and embarrassing is permissible. I would warn against making a habit of it, though - and yes, I am addressing this more to EtG than I am to thee.

A presto,

EtG

Do Any of You Fair Readers Know A Good Place To Get Two Beds?

Fairest Reader,

Before I commence, allow me to apologize in advance to my male readership. I realize that dedicating posts to "The Hills" is a deflating and castrating experience. However, as I always point out, there is a lot to learn from this show. So tuck in your pride and your sack and read away.


Well, she has done it. The awfully sweet and awfully dim Whitney Port has managed to transform herself into a stylish and commanding lady, all in the span of two episodes. In last week's show, Whitney sheepishly suggested to a Teen Vogue superior that she would like to depart the mag for a different opportunity. "I sort of see myself in styling," she says to Teen Vogue mag hag Kimball, albeit with much fear and contrition. Come to think of, almost all of young Whitney's language shows a reluctant callowness. For instance, here are some of the phrases she used during her exit interview with Lisa Love in last night's episode:

"I sort of want to be"
"kind of want"
"kind of been behind the scenes"

Why this reluctant tripe?! Say it to Lisa Love with gusto, with testes! Like, "I WILL RULLLLLLLLLE YOU!" Well, not that forceful, but by simply removing "kind of" and "sort of," a Lady comes across more assuredly.

Whitney's brilliant stroke came in the second episode - something I was not expecting or was prepared for (ran out of scotch last week) - when she jumped into her new job at People's Revolution. First, she learns that her new job will essentially deprive her of her old life. She eagerly accepts this challenge and jumps straight into the job, flying to NY for a fashion show.

There, she delicately suggested to Heidi, one of the homely designers of fashion company Sass + Bide, that she keep the black tights in the fashion show. This encourages Heidi, ornate in style and avian in physical appearance, to follow Whitney's advice.

It was somewhat of an inspired moment for yours truly, so much so that the thought of possibly being married to Whitney was a feasible one. However, there remains the possibility that it will be a union fraught with separate beds, luxury, her endless work schedule, and my constant pleas for sex.

Hell, a Gent needs his lady.

A presto,

EtG

PS - To all my EtG "Dogz": Here's a video that I hope will reward you for reading my "Hills" tripe. Enjoy witnessing the world's finest drummer: