So Many Marilyns

Andy Warhol anyone?

How often do you get to go museum-ing on a whim? If you live in L.A., uh, never. In L.A. you must plan. You must get a Ph.D in Traffic Avoidance. You must schlep, schlep, schlep. In New York, you can say, "Hey, why don't I get my ass some culture, like, now?" Well, that's what I did yesterday. I wandered around the Museum of Modern Art, bathing in Picasso, Monet and Van Gogh, till a guard came by and said, "The only nudes welcome here are on the wall. Put your schmata back on." Message received, sir.

My shoe is your shoe.

I don't know about you, because you never write, you never call, but when I think Warhol, I think about the Multitude of Monroes and Campbell Soups, not shoes. Turns out, he did a whole series of shoes when he was the sole illustrator for shoe maker I. Miller. 

You can lead a shoe to water but you can't make it drink.

I found Warhol's clever shoes so magical, and my own sensible, orthotic footwear so appalling, that I felt momentarily horrified. But it passed, especially when I found this famous portrait...

Frida K.

... and felt instantly grateful that God spared me such a hellacious unibrow. What, they didn't have tweezers back then?

Shiva with Larry D.

In the early eve, hubby and I grabbed Cuban food at Victor's Cafe, totally delish, by the way, and went to see "Fish in the Dark," Larry David's smash hit. How I scored these tickets, I'd rather not say, but a guy named Guido was involved. I adore Larry David so much, it's hard to quantify said adoration. I wanted to adore his play. There were laughs and fun and all, but overall, it didn't quite match my high expectations. But then, what does?