Merrrrryyyy Christmas

Hope all of you have a wonderful "holiday" season, the disgusting political correctness on which I refuse to comment for lack of time. Jackie really does have a life, so for the next week or so you may not hear so much as a peep while I'm busy furiously taking notes at all of the Rogers Healy-esque NY Eve parties around town. I have high hopes for the shameful stories that are soon to follow... so check back in early '08 to see if your embarrassing moments made the cut.

This hood-rat is out. Peace... and joy to you this Christmas season.

Tuesday.

I know by what % my chances of losing my job increase with a night like this... but my question is what the hell do all of you other people do for a living? Or has our generation just become that good at working while hung over? If so, I'm proud. Damn proud.

Bouncer of the Month

Floorman, actually. Bouncer and floorman are two different things, in case you were wondering. I wasn’t wondering. But was politely informed of the difference this weekend – and floorman is to bouncer as Steel is to Sushi on McKinney. But for the purpose of this coveted award, majority title around town rules.

Meet Bobby. Mr. December. Our beloved floorman of the month. Bobby is good at what he does. Bobby is typically stationed at the back of our favorite local spot guarding the VIP basement entry and exit. Bobby also dabbles in kicking douchebags out after 2am as they begin to fall all over the place and give me bruises while fighting over A) Whose shirt is tighter or B) Which fugly will be accompanying each home.

Bobby knows all and sees all. Bobby has cat-like reflexes and the ability to see intricate details from many yards away. Bobby is also very good at convincing the ladies that no one important is downstairs. His wink is quite deadly.

Bobby looks fabulous in a suit, and probably better without. Bobby can escort two $30,000 millionaires out the door at the same time with just one arm. Bobby, simply put, has every skill one might ever want in a bouncer or floorman of the month.

The only thing in all of Dallas Bobby doesn’t have that he should… is my number.

Rock on, Bobby. Rock on.

A Season of Giving.

Acquaintances, friends and frenemies, I write you this note because I know you are concerned. “Where is Jackie?” you query. And to my faithful 2.75 readers, I have to apologize. Well, qualifiedly apologize. I only offer qualified apologies, typically. Those are my favorite.

Regardless, I apologize, but it’s not my fault I’m sick. The musty air that has finally drifted its way up from that heinous and fashionless city called Houston is here. They send their smog our way just to ensure that the abrupt mixture of hot and cold air ruins my daily sexy voice I have worked on for so many years, and turns me into Lucille Ball Circa-1978. Not to mention makes coordinating my Tory Burch shoes with my Gucci handbag a much greater challenge than usual. I mean, Harrison Driver with my Boston bag? Maggie pump with my hobo? (the purse, not the man) It’s all blurring together, and I simply cannot let this obviously deranged mind leave the house, let alone respond to my Dear Jackie O letters this week.

Really, though, as I snuggle up here in my Dian Austin Couture bed linens and email my parents the links to the main 67 items I am asking for this Christmas, I have had some time to think about this holiday season and all it means. This line of thought began while I was driving by the Azure the other day, and as I gazed through the glass windows at their 14-foot tall tree, currently placed awkwardly next to a statue of a dude on a horse, I decided I should make a change this holiday season.

Even just yesterday, as I walked past the hobo (the man, not the purse) in front of Walgreen’s, I actually smiled at him as I lied and said I had no cash on me. Or when I walked into Neiman’s at Northpark to go pick out which purse I’ll be judiciously selecting for the spring season, I generously put a dollar in the Salvation Army tin. And the Angel Tree? I even stopped and read a few of the tags... so I could really feel so sorry for those kids.

As you may have noticed by my example, it’s the season of giving. Everyone in Dallas should join in. Indulge in that spirit of generosity. Toss an extra dollar to the valet guy… give someone your bar spot at the Loon… maybe even refrain from giggling at your friends when they tell you joining Junior League just isn't for them. It’s all about others this season – so do your part.

Now, which one of you is going to bring me my Pear & Gorgonzola salad and soup, with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade and a chocolate chip cookie from Bread Winners? Hmm? My concierge will await your arrival. And don't you dare embarrass me with a North Dallasy-sized tip. I can see it now... A flabbergasted concierge and a shattered reputation. Merry-Freaking-Christmas to me.

Dear Jackie O, (Week 4)

A weekly installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
I really don’t think it’s going to be a prob. U are stressin’ over nuthin, & weekends in LA mid-season are no big thang. Take a ride on the chill out bus, babe.

Madly in Love,
Valley Ranch Romeo

Dear #9,
I don’t want to have to answer your letters every week, Romo. Seriously. We have had this conversation already, and you know where I stand. One question, though: Why do you look like more of a creepy stalker in all of these pics than an escort? HINT: If a girl starts to walk so fast you can’t keep up – stop trying.

And get back to Valley Ranch. Last time I checked, January is 25 days away. Click Clack, Tony. But I don’t hear ya coming. And according to those pictures, neither does Jess.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
Did you see the announcement? Sales & profits are spiking this quarter! Make sure you grab your 100th Anniversary Exclusive Blahniks ASAP – they are going fast.

Skirtin’ Around Town,
Kar-Kar

Dear Neiman Marcus CEO Karen Katz,
I’m pretty busy this week… I mean, I have, well... ya know, something else to do other than spend $1000 on, errr, shoes, only to celebrate the “glorious century of luxury” I cannot afford. But never fear, your work here in our beloved Dallas economy is done, along with millions of baby boomers’ retirement funds. Oh, and Micky P, your faithful M/W/F hobo @ Jackson & Commerce, wanted to know when his 100th anniversary butterfly tag comes in. In all fairness, he has been a more consistent staple over the years than your increasing profits. Plus, he even bought his very own Blahniks to match.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
I’ve heard you have some connections out this way… can you get me out of here????

Ready for early release,
Shackled Sutherland

Dear Keifer, aka Jack Bauer, aka My Beloved Superhero & Hopeful Next President of these United States,
I’ll help you, on a few conditions:
1) President Palmer (David) gets brought back to life and is named Master of the Universe, Esq.
2) His crazy wife does not come back with him.
3) You explain to me when you use the restroom. I mean, I’ve never even heard you mention having to pee. I know you sweat a lot, but seriously. During commercial break? Diapers, perhaps? It keeps me up at night. I worry, Jack. I worry.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
I saw you running on Katy Trail on Sunday. Obviously not too scared, now are we? Hmm?

Still Tootin’ Around in Turtle Creek,
Deputy Doo-Dog

Dear Deputy Chief Golbeck,
Okay, seriously. You know I know your handwriting by now, right? A few douchebags short of a full VIP line, are we?

But yes, I did go for a run. And I think my Chuck Norris facts did the trick… that and the 900 other people on the trail in broad daylight. The issue this time arose when I took the lazy short cut home behind the AAC parking garage. Not a good idea… that and the whole act of going running in general. Jake’s milkshake, anyone?

All my love,
Jackie O

Corpse-Carriers to the Guardhouse

Once again, it is Sunday… or at least the wee hours of Monday. And as I lay here, contemplating the weekend and all of its hilarity, all of its debauchery and all of the shame and robust lies most of us have lived and left scattered all over town these past two days, the one story from which I can’t seem to stop attributing synonymity after witnessing this weekend, I have included below. Not much funny to be found in gas chambers or brainwashed societies, but hey, even Jackie has to be on the “for serious” tip every once in awhile… hence the title of today’s entry.

It was the announcement that would come over the loudspeaker, ever so often, breaking up the dance-enticing house music at Auschwitz to let the Sonderkommando, the special detail of the camp, know it was that time again… time to shepherd the condemned prisoners into their gas chambers, and drag their bodies back out again.

People typically volunteered for this position – it was a noble thing, the Sonderkommando, and the house music – good music – that surrounded it, most certainly had something to do with this group’s notoriety. Most men clamored to be a part of this elite group – even fought, really, for a shot at this different life. Once a member, your dwellings were more impressive, foods richer, drink more potent, and clothing more luxurious. That was the story, anyways. On the surface, they didn’t have to give up much to move up within the Auschwitz social class structure. And the items they plundered from those they were killing did all the more to increase their quality of life.

Yet as quickly as they joined, they were subsequently gassed themselves, with the first duty of their successors being to dispose of their remains. This cycle continued for a time, and to most historians was quite a phenomenon. But one thing was for sure. Whatever lie these men chose to believe was potent, real and powerful, and while it was the lie that held the possibility of life for a few short hours or days longer, it was also the lie that subsequently led to each of these men's deaths - as they, themselves, led their acquaintences, friends and even family to their own.

And whether your Sonderkommando leads you to hugging your favorite porcelain god, a trip to Park & 75 to purchase Plan B where Thelma knows you by name & suggests you buy two to save a trip (but out of pride you never do, and next weekend always wish you had), or simply an awkward trip to Potbelly during the Sunday post-church rush in your clothes from the night before, I guess the lie we have all chosen to believe is truly no different from the ones these men did… that the announcement that repeatedly reverberates within each of our lives is one that is good, one worth blindly following. And that same announcement we hear and see every day is the one that has turned us all into dancing puppets who live a life that consistently floods the bank accounts of our local Hitlers – and much to their pleasure, no matter what choices we make or what happens to us in the future, there is most certainly another Sonderkommando waiting in the wings to take our place, usher us to our deaths, and dispose of our remains.

And now that I have officially depressed you all at the beginning of your week – go knock ‘em dead – and make some $$$. I heard table service is increasing by $50/bottle at our local favorite hotspot. So, get to crackin’ – we have some corpses to carry next weekend.