I heard Cristal was now out of favor with the club scene, according to something I saw on the NYT website.

ita was about a zillion times hotter than any of the chicks out there on the dance floor

Very unsurprising.

hiphop, by and large, really does make me want to gouge my own ears out with a fish fork

Oh dear. That's not ideal, is it?

Oh dear. That's not ideal, is it?

Not ideal, no, but actually manageable. The book isn't about hiphop, except peripherally; it does provide the soundtrack and some of the scenery, and also explains or exemplifies how some of the male attitudes toward women are perpetuated. The important thing in there is the women, and those attitudes. There's also going to be major crossover with the world of pro sports, especially basketball, which of course would be the one pro sport that leaves me daintily stifling yawns.

Still, I'm a writer. What's more, I'm a writer who writes about music. I can do this. I can even (hopefully) do it well.

Connie, yep, Cristal is out of favour. The idiot in charge of their PR or something made a snooty derogatory comment about the rappers fixating on Cristal, and a couple of people, including Jay-Z, went ballistic, and then there were frantic efforts to downplay, and it was all very whatever.

I'm sticking with prosecco.

Oh, while I was doing the thirty-second boogie with Felipe's guy, a Moment: we put our heads together for a moment, and he nodded toward a group of white girls in white dresses (including the chick with the black bra and the sensational ass), and said into my ear: "You ever see the Brady Bunch movie? Those chicks all look like they're doing the Marcia Brady dance."

deb, I hope this is all going into the making of doc (or literary equivalent).

This is all going into "Yo Mama Don't Dance", the series of realtime articles I want to do about doing this series. We're thinking a Rolling Stone or Vanity Fair pitch.

Excellent.

Advertising? Hmmm. After the club deal:

Workin' It

There's a gaggle of lovelies, cheekbones carefully accentuated, lips outlined, eyes hungry.

Their bags are oversized; mostly, there are little telltale initials locked together, Gucci, Louis Vuitton. A few of the girls carry the black fabric bag with the coveted Prada triangle on it. Higher status, maybe.

They're out on the dance floor, swaying together, labeled with the lords of couture, drunk and yearning for someone to take them home, sweep them away, screw them blind, change their world.

Juicy and ripe, hard-edged and focused. Versace, Prada, Chanel: For Sale.

Everyone knows exactly what they're selling. And that includes them.

Oh, excellent, Deb. I can see that so clearly.

It was seriously trippy, Sail. Before the place filled to the rafters, ita cruised the place for me, and came back with the estimate that there was something like 20 women to every male in the place. A little later, about 80% of the women were out on the dance floor, and there wasn't a single male out there with them; they were watching from the side, like lions.

This is going to be a seriously interesting book to write. In the meanwhile, though? Back to beloved JP and Bree.

edit: and I'll probably use a chunk of that drabble in Yo Mama Don't Dance.

I will never understand the mindset of the club scene. If you really like the music, that's one thing, but to put yourself out there for the meat market . . . Which is probably why I didn't date until college.