Fool Me Once? Go F Yourself.

As many have most likely read recently here, "someone" faxed random notables (love contradictions like that) throughout Dallas about Tribeca "closing its doors" and unloading liquor for all to come and enjoy.
Let's be honest here - We should only be so lucky. Tribeca is kind of a beating, from the dance floor that can't help but contain creepy guidos staring down Dallas twenty-somethings, to the crowded bar and even more crowded bathrooms, I'd love to see some sort of adjustment in that space, but alas - it was a "prank." Or piss-poor marketing. Ironically, though, I guess if people are dumb enough to fall for it - it's not so piss-poor, now is it. Unfortunately, that still doesn't take away my initial reaction of: Really, Tribeca? Go F yourself.

If I had been a fly on the wall, I would guess was nothing more than a last minute meeting between Tribeca's owner and promoter (yes, stop giggling, they really do have a promoter) to come up with half-assed idea for how to get more underage-groping 30-year olds in the door to pay for their short-bus version of 'bottle service' on black leather couches that no more resemble something from a VIP section than the cheesy "velvet ropes" they use at Republic.

All bitching aside though, from the looks of things, if it was posted on Frontburner, and I am even writing about it, it worked. Kudos to Tribeca for the "worst" marketing effort yet of 2008. Please have my vodka tonic waiting this Thursday.

Love ya. Mean it.

If You Are What You Say You Are...

Lupe Fiasco just happens to be.
Incredible concert - made me wish I knew more of his songs from past years. A few odd things though... I have never been to a concert with more people over 6'3"... Everywhere I looked there was another ridiculously tall guy, which for a person of average height is a horrible thing to have at a standing room only concert.

No worries... we found our way over to a wall to lean against during the 2 hour set, where we found a shorter, yet certainly more entertaining crowd. As the smell of weed and cigars wafted through the air, I began to notice what a diverse fan-base this artist seems to attract. From a 35 year old white man in a business suit singing every word to every song, to the ghetto-fabulous Asian mafia... from the trendily-dressed group of twenty-something black men, to the young couple who looked like they belonged more at an indie show at the Palladium... the crowd was a different one... and one I haven't ever seen at the same concert.

That, along with lyrics that penetrate and songs as addictive as the coke he raps about, is the reason Lupe is what he says he is... and as long as he keeps that up, I'll gladly Kick, Push & Coast my way to every one of his shows.

An Open Letter to the City of Dallas, Part One

A few things.

Dallas, oh how I love thee. From the trolley tracks that throw my car to the right or left every time I drive down McKinney, to the way my cell phone drops calls on 75 daily without fail whenever I pass Mockingbird or Northwest Highway. I love you. With all my heart. But we have a few things that need some attention.

#1 – I like my sleep. I do. I also like my job. I want to keep both. And it’s becoming more and more evident that the never-ending construction on Oak Lawn could have a hand in disturbing both of those precious items.

With that said, whose brilliant idea was it to go ahead and install the light at the front of Scottish Rite, which basically serves no purpose whatsoever other than to 1) force me to be the bitch who pulls into the middle of the previous Oak Lawn/Maple intersection to ensure I make it through the light 2) encourage everyone to pretend to be ignorant to the fact that there is only ONE lane that goes through the intersection, and subsequently cut everyone off at the last minute while thinking a wave in the rearview makes up for it and 3) guarantee I will piss off everyone within 30 yards of me prior to 9am just to make it to work on time… always a great start to the day. And I have you… along with my inability to not press snooze or efficiently pick out an outfit… to thank for that.

I’m a lover, not a fighter, Dallas. And road rage is so not hot.

#2 – I’m all for public transpo. Truly. I think it’s a crime people aren’t able to walk more in this city… and we have some incredible city planners to thank for that who were obviously trying to set Guinness Records for urban sprawl. Hijacking that escapade with crazy thoughts of vertical versus horizontal growth would have been ludicrous.

And unfortunately, the solution to that is not more diesel buses, as DART so ungreenly proposed at December’s commissioner’s court meeting. Believe me, the day I accidentally slam into a DART bus from behind after it slams on its brakes at any one of its ridiculously-inopportune locations throughout Dallas will be a bittersweet one. More sweet than bitter as long as my insurance pays on time.

And for all of the countless times I have not had the foresight to see the upcoming DART stop, and subsequently gotten trapped behind a bus while everyone flies past ignoring my blinker, do I get reimbursed for my medical bills at 65 after years of inhaling those diesel fumes from 2 feet away? Or simply for my allergy to the color yellow? It’s true. Putting me in a room with bananas and a DART bus would spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e.

I think DART should invest in rick-shaws. Way cooler. Way less toxic to the environment, and darn it, just make sense.

#3 – Tollway = As much fun as a kick in the junk. When I think back to the last few months, some of my fondest memories come from the many days (about 24, to be exact, according to my bill from the Dallas North Tollway Authority) I have spent trying to remember to press my Tolltag against my window while flying past the makeshift toll booth that is located about ¼ mile past where it used to be… I always realize it about 3 seconds too late, and then am reminded again via mail from DNTA.
Thanks guys. I got it. I’m trying. Really. But the far left lane is a bitch on its own thanks to the uneven pavement… and trying to text message while shuffling around for my Tolltag is simply impossible. I know, I know. That is what the Velcro is for. That solution would be way too simple, and then I would have nothing to write about.

And I’ve unofficially mastered the art of two-handed texting while driving from the tollway entrance until it becomes three lanes, but I’m not sure everyone else has. Get a clue, people. It’s not rocket science. Not sure how much longer I can take it. So, hop to it, DNTA. And no, my check is not in the mail.

All my transportation-based love,
Jackie O

Dear Jackie O, (Week 5)

A weekly (or not so weekly) installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
Aren’t you going to write about my sick NYE party? It was so ridiculous it would make you want to buy a house or something. And that happens to be exactly what we do here at Rogers Healy & Associates. Call 214.368.HOME TODAY!
Best,
RH

Dear Rogers,
Well, the drinks ran out incredibly early, which made dealing with the random girl who continued to comment on the authenticity of everyone’s attire/handbags/jewelry a little more annoying than usual. Wait… yeah… check that. Overhearing “fashion critiques” from NM assistant buyers who are more profuse in this town than post-Loon hookups makes me want to punch myself in the face drunk or sober.

Happy New Year 2008! My David Yurman ring isn’t real! Neither is the interested look she gets back while spewing faux-elitist nonsense! Yay!! Someone toot a horn or throw a streamer!

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
Hear about our recent purchase? We are doin’ big deals. Lots of deals. Deals. All day long.

Swimmin in Green,
Cash Cow Kenny

Dear Bank of American CEO Ken Lewis,
Oh hell, Ken. I mean, first of all, the wait times on hold are already ridiculous, and I’m guessing your purchase of the biggest financial fucktard in recent mortgage history is only going to make my wait time for the rude customer service call I have to look forward to that much longer.


And the checks, Ken. The checks. Sharon and I had a heart-to-heart about it a few weeks ago… or I was calling her an idiot while she read from her script in front of her. But it’s not Sharon’s fault, Ken. It’s not. I said that. Apologized. And refrained from calling her a retard again until she told me for the fourth time I don’t get free checks... which I guess is what you mean by "Redefining Free Checking."

Ken, I reached the lowest of lows at that point. I feel terrible. I made overly arrogant statements about how much money I had in your bank (which I do), and how much any other bank would love to have that money to invest (which they would), and oddly enough Sharon gave in – 38 minutes and 23 seconds later. But I feel terrible. Just awful, really. I know paper is expensive. And ink – sheesh. I might as well have you print my checks with truffle oil. And the very idea I should be able to use my money… I mean, I owe you a written apology… so consider this it. It was great to hear from you, Ken. Congratulations on your new purchase, and keep up the good work.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
Where were you after our big win over Detroit the other night? Shit was crazy… and ohhhh the ladies… well, the ladies obviously know this year is our year.

Poppin’ Champagne,
Like We Won a Championship Game

Dear Devin Harris,
First of all… let’s not count our chickens. Second, I think you are great. I really do. But a few things… stop hanging out with the shadiest of shady in Dallas. Those ladies aren’t for you… and neither are the STD’s that come with them. Next, you have more than enough money for a designated driver, so just because Matthew Giese hops into his Mercedes in front of you after hanging out all night doesn’t mean you have had the same self-control drinking-wise to do the same.

I need a championship this year… from someone in Dallas. And between y’alls notorious party habits and Romo… well, I can’t even comment on that… it’s not looking up for me. It’s all about me, Devin. Let us not forget.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
I have been working hard over here, and I have figured it out.. You just wait for that stock of yours to skyrocket… it’s a sure thing.

So awesome it hurts,
Jimmy

Dear Blockbuster CEO Jim Keyes,
So, no midget ninjas, huh. I’m disappointed. But not quite as disappointed as I was when I heard your master plan for increasing profits this quarter is based on high gas prices keeping people at home and the writer’s strike. So… how exactly does this make you any different from Netflix again, and what exactly have you been doing over there if these external events are the previously-undiscovered keys to your success?

Oh. Right. Makes sense. Foiled again, eh Jim? Original. Seriously… that prank is so ad agency Circa-2003. So in the words of the beloved successful businessmen we look up to on a daily basis 'round these parts, Rob & Big, "Do Work."

All my love,
Jackie O

Not A Portuguese Breakfast, But...

My liver is pissed. Furious, really. The past two weeks have been a fuzzy haze of vodka, vodka and, every unfortunate while, a drop or two of tonic water to stay hydrated. My holiday philosophy has obviously been go hard or go home. And, in between those drinks and the ever-so-often craving for nicotine, have been countless blog-worthy happenings. I had planned on sharing the first of those with you for your Monday morning reading pleasure. Unfortunately, I’m having trouble concentrating in my classy Uptown apartment as my neighbor sounds like he is giving his hooker of the week a Cincinnati Bowtie. So, until I can get some peace and quiet around here, or a guy who can make me scream louder than his special lady (currently accepting applications), you will have to be a little more patient.

Until then, though, feel free to email me your random New Year’s happenings. If they are even half as good as my neighbor is at keeping his bedposts way too close to the wall, you just might find them posted here.

Keep it classy, Dallas. Keep it classy.