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.

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.