The Blog

Tamsen Fadal and Matt Titus: 10 Signs He Is Cheating

2009-07-10T16:05:16Z

My husband is very protective of his email passwords. He is always on Facebook. And, he constantly leaves his cell phone in the car, plus it's locked. I suspect he is cheating on me. But are there any signs that I can look for before I accuse him of this?
-Campbell, Miami, FL

We often get questions from our AskMattAndTamsen readers asking for signs of cheating. While no person or relationship is the same, there are a few tell tale signs that you can look for to try and determine if your partner is straying.

1.Too Much Of A Good Thing Is Bad
This is a classic sign of cheating. It may sound weird, but if your man is too attentive, showers you with love, affection and especially gifts, he may be the cheating kind. This is not to say that every attentive man is seeing someone behind your back, but if his affection is out of the ordinary, over the top and all consuming, you may want to keep an extra eye on him

2. New Music, New Cologne, New Attitude
If you man is suddenly rocking out to JT, wearing a new scent and is all of a sudden the life of the party (when he was once Mr. Shy Guy) he may be straying. Often times, men take on new behavior or the likes of the person they are trying to impress and striving to be with.

3. He Accuses You
This is one of those classic signs of cheating: he accuses you of straying. This happens because he is over ridden with guilt and is projecting his feelings onto you.

4. His Phone Is Off Or Off Limits
If you do not have access to your mate's phone or he turns it off or is very private and jumpy when rings, he most likely has something to hide. A man with no "strange on the side" is not worried about who's calling.

5. He Likes To Fight
This is again due to guilt and the fact he is trying to give himself an excuse for his bad behavior. He is fighting with you so he can justify the fact he is seeing someone else, telling himself, "I am not happy in my relationship, she picks on me, therefore it's OK to get attention elsewhere."

6. I Don't Want Your Sex
Your sex life comes to a screeching halt. If you can't remember the last time you had sex, it's a pretty good indication that he is getting it somewhere else.

7. New Friends Could Be Your Enemy
All of a sudden your mate starts talking a lot about a "new friend at work" someone he met "at the gym" or a "neighbor who is nice." This is not a one time mention but a person he constantly refers to in conversation.

8. He Is Unreliable
He comes home late from works, leaves early for the gym and doesn't always answer his phone. Inconsistencies like these can make for a bad bed partners and are another sign he may be seeing someone else.

9. He Protects Friends Who Cheat
'You are the company you keep' rings true in this case. If you man protects his friends who cheat by lying for them and helping them with cover stories, chances are they are doing the same for him.

10. Gut Check
No, you are not being paranoid, sometimes you just know. If you feel it in your gut, it could very well be your man is straying from home. Don't dismiss the smell of perfume on his jacket, the mysterious phone calls to your home or the sudden late hours at the office.

Paulina Porizkova: Fired at 44

2009-07-09T17:40:19Z

I never actually heard the words made famous by a certain man on a certain TV show. Instead I got a lot of harrumphing and vague "I-got-some-bad-news" mumbling. Over the phone. The night before my 44th birthday.

When I was fired from "America's Next Top Model" this past spring, two things hit me simultaneously: the heavy thud of realization that I am not wanted, not liked, not worth my salt, not loved--yes, I know this sounds a little over-the-top, but I have the tendency to run with the negatives--and the lightening of a burden lifted; I would no longer have to worry about missing my children's recitals, date nights with my husband, and all that family life has to offer. It was a curious mixture, one I imagine akin to standing in a falling elevator, but knowing you can jump up at the last moment to prevent gravity from crushing you. And you can walk off. Not unscathed maybe, with a permanent distrust of elevators perhaps, but alive.

My announcement about getting fired was a decision I made when I, a day after a rather depressing birthday, realized that all the famous people I've ever read about have rarely, if ever, "gotten fired." It's not that it hasn't happened. In our biz, the showbiz, you get hired and fired at the speed of sound. But it seems only comedians have the guts to admit it.

Performers are, by nature, self-employed. Sort of. We are used to being out of work; we are used to the thought that this job may be our last. The threat of unemployment doesn't so much hang over your head as it surrounds you like water in a pool. But being fired is different. It's not only that you now have no foreseeable income, but--for a celebrity--you have also been publicly punched in the face. It is the one last kindness that is performed by whomever is actually firing you, usually the producer, to do a lot of harrumphing and vague mumbling about bad news, and allow you to put it out to the public in a way that won't forever mark you as failed.

Generally, admitting to a weakness in a cutthroat setting is far braver than keeping a stiff upper lip, but unless you are Jimmy Stewart in a Hollywood movie, the consequences are the same as announcing you've twisted your ankle to a bunch of muggers.

Hence, all the celebrities that "quit" because they were exhausted, had personal conflicts, and the ol' scheduling problems.

So why did I do it? I'd like to imagine it was in part because I'm always so appreciative of when someone tells the truth--clean water escaping muck, and all that sort of imagery I like to amuse myself with--and in part because I have come to the conclusion that saving face takes more effort than it's worth. For me, anyway. (It is also more than possible that I thought it would get me sympathetic attention and another job.) In any case, a day after I outed myself as a fired (failed) celebrity on Craig Ferguson, my phone rang off the hook. I'm still not sure whether it was because people were appreciative of the truth, or merely looking for me to dish further dirt, but the beauty of being 44 is that one spends a lot less time bullshitting oneself. And none of those calls were to offer me another job.

One of the people I spoke to was a lovely female journalist who, after a few minutes, confided she had also just gotten fired and that I was her last interview. How is that for irony? She had worked for the paper for fifteen years and got a fairly unceremonious boot. She had a little money saved up. She had some plans to make the best of it. She wasn't 20 either.

When you get fired at 20, it may be a kick in the butt, but one that propels you forward to the next adventure. When you get fired at 44, it's a slap in the face that takes you backward to sink into your well-worn couch and to reexamine your life, to re-evaluate your place in the world.

In all honesty, getting fired from "Top Model" was nowhere near as tragic as I'd like to make out. It's mostly a slight public humiliation, and one that I decided to perpetuate myself. It in no way compares to the thousands of people who have been laid off and are struggling to survive.

Still, I wouldn't have minded to walk away with an extended middle finger and a victorious "I quit!"

Oh, and by the way, I'm available for hire.

Related links on Modelinia.com:

*Slideshow: Paulina Porizkova's Covers
*Watch: Paulina Porizkova Wishes You A Happy 4th of July
*Watch: History of Models V: Beauty Incorporated

Josa Young: Women Like Reading About Sex

2009-07-09T16:43:30Z

Reading about sex is all the rage for women over 45, according to Astral -- a pleasant skincare range that you buy in your local chemist (which tells you what kind of client base it has). Which is just as well, because I finally was able to write about fully rounded relationships after my mother died in the mid-1990s and the resulting novel, One Apple Tasted, is launching in August 2009. And it's about a lot more than sex, it is about people and their relationships, and that is what I found it difficult to be frank about when I still had parents.

Astral surveyed 2000 women aged between 45 and 60 this week about their reading habits. The results were revealing. What hit the UK press with a bang is that, far from shrinking from the gaping bedroom door, they revel in passionate love scenes with plenty of detail.

Naturally, I was still worried about the reception it would get, but delighted when acclaimed author Julie Myerson emailed me while she was reading a preview copy, to say: 'Hey, I've been reading your book for the last hour and i have to say one quick thing: you write sex brilliantly! (hardly anyone does)'.

My mother in law, a more outwardly liberated woman than my mother and now 85, also commended my ability to write well and realistically about sex.

Thrilling stuff for a newbie writer, because it's a big risk writing about sex at all. What if you don't get it right. What if you win the hilarious UK Bad Sex Award for Fiction because what you write is lurid, unconvincing, unmoving, embarrassing. I did put a preview passage up on the novel's website and a friend read it and told me to take it down as being too raunchy. I thought it was rather mild, a description of two people completely failing to get there at all, and having a massive misunderstanding in the process. Anyway, she changed her tune when she saw the survey, and I wrote up my whole experience in the UK Daily Telegraph this week.

But the kind of sex I write about is not the parachuted-in, semi-pornographic stuff that writers pop in to keep their readers awake -- it is meant to express the characters in a fully rounded way. And I have to confess, the characters certainly were enthusiastic -- surprisingly so, I felt, as my fingers rushed over the keyboard, that they were getting away from me and up to all kinds of stuff that I hadn't really anticipated.

Anyway, sex is part of life, and I am more interested in what sexuality says about people and their behaviour and motivation, than keeping my readers awake. It drives the plot forward too. So, there you are, I won't take their clothes off (or even leave them on but disarrange them) unless the role really demands it.

The daft thing is, I found letters and photographs after both my parents died that showed how passionate their relationship had been. Of course they would not have been shocked. They might even have been proud. I miss them anyway, but particularly now when my dream of being a novelist looks like coming true.

Jo Bryant: What Is Modern Wedding Etiquette?

2009-07-09T16:14:21Z

The wedding season is upon us and here at Debrett's we are frequently asked: what is modern wedding etiquette? Etiquette is constantly evolving and many traditions and conventions don't fit comfortably into the wedding day. Many brides and grooms are throwing the rulebook out of the window in the desire to have the wedding day that they want, rather than one that convention created.

Does this mean that wedding etiquette no longer matters? Not at all. In its purest form, etiquette is about how we communicate and interact with each other. It is how we make those around us feel -- good etiquette lies in consideration for others. So, in the case of a wedding, the care of the guests and the roles of the wedding party -- the best man, ushers (groomsmen) and bridesmaids -- are crucial.

Planning a wedding is, for the most part, the same as organizing a party. Care and attention are required for those who are attending -- they have, after all, often traveled from far afield, bought an expensive gift and forked out for a night's accommodation. Some couples, however, think that merely issuing an invitation and allocating a suitable spot on the seating plan is more than enough provision for the guests.

Good organization and clear communication makes for happy guests and, in turn, happy guests create a better celebratory atmosphere. The couple should think about weddings that they have attended and use their experiences to their advantage. Did they have to wait for endless photographs to be taken of the happy couple and their extended family? Did they know where to park, and were there plenty of ushers on hand to point them in the right direction? Were they well fed and watered? No matter how happy the guests are for the newly weds, all too often they remember a wedding for all the wrong reasons -- delays, bad timing, disorganization, low supplies of drink...

Good advance planning creates the structure of the day, but too many weddings fall down when nobody, apart from the bride and groom, is familiar with the order of events. The key players -- the best man, ushers (groomsmen) and bridesmaids -- must be properly briefed. The bride and groom should be able to relax, safe in the knowledge that everything they've planned is in hand. It is, therefore, good etiquette for the wedding party to understand what's being asked of them, enabling them to fulfill their duties.

The best man has the most important role. He must be a good communicator, a diplomat and work with everyone, from the mother of the bride and the bridesmaids to the caterer and the wedding band. He is also the groom's personal assistant, ensuring that everything runs to plan and that the groom can focus on the important stuff -- such as enjoying the day, rather than worrying that the carefully-chosen canapes aren't circulating.

The ushers (groomsmen) should also work closely with the best man. They are there to help the guests and, in a sense, act as the floor managers of the wedding day. They must make sure that the guests know where to go and that people are in the right place at the right time.

At Debrett's, we recommend that there is one usher for every 50 guests, but most grooms choose more. What many couples also forget is that the ushers set the tone for the entire day as they are the first faces that the wedding guests see when they arrive. They must employ good manners right from the start when they seat the guests and await the arrival of the bride.

The bridesmaids, meanwhile, get off quite lightly. After last minute bridezilla panics, the maid of honor and other bridesmaids should ensure that the bride has her dream wedding. There may be flower girls to keep an eye on, or the odd task here and there, but often the bridesmaids come into their own in the run up to the wedding rather than on the actual day.

So modern wedding etiquette is not about old-fashioned formalities or getting it right (or wrong). Many conventions expected at weddings of yesteryear now seem contrived and awkward. A successful wedding is one where everyone -- not just the bride and groom -- has a special time. So, don't be scared to ignore the rule book as good wedding etiquette lies in successful organization and planning. Just make sure you look after those guests...

Michael Henry Adams: 'No Homo': More Queers in the Mirror

2009-07-09T15:13:51Z

For generations in America, to say that someone was gay, was deemed comparable to identifying them as a bigamist or in some way criminal. And even today, young people admiring one's sweater, lest any unintended inappropriate hook-up be inferred, end their compliment with the disclaimer, "no homo." In the recent past, the 'bad old days' before gay liberation's Stonewall rebellion in 1969, many well-off gays and lesbians were as much on the DL as young closeted queers in the hood are today.

"We liked it that way. Our lives, like everyone else's, were much more dignified then: appreciating one's own sex was like belonging to an exclusive and select private club. It was far more exciting..."

The speaker was my friend, Alexander C. Robinson, III. The late dean of Cleveland's architectural community, Alex was well past 80 and I was 20 when we first met in 1976. Newly a widower, the father of three daughters, with nearly a dozen grandchildren, he was 'privately' gay just the same, persistently offering attentions as unwelcomed as they were astonishing, coming as they had, from a great-grandfather!

Fabulously rich Leonard Hanna, photographer Jerome Zerbe, Cleveland Art Museum Director William Milliken and several other socially prominent residents of the Western Reserve were also 'gay blades'. But if they were reasonably discrete, unlike Winsor French, Kenyon Bolton or Alec Robinson, they hadn't resorted to the expedient of marrying or having childern. Instead they either moved to, or lived a part of each year in, Europe and New York, meeting and befriending in the process other young pilgrims escaping the intolerant provinces.

The lure of the relatively greater freedom offered here continues. Relocating to Manhattan in 1985, three years after I'd come out, to myself, I immediately met a succession of celebrated men whom I'd read about in books and magazines.
It began with the still raffish Mr. Zerbe, who regaled me with gay tales of glamorous old New York. Like perfect pearls strung on a grand necklace, one marvel leading to the next, Jerry's friendship led to my meeting Luther Greene, which coincided with my calling and introducing myself, as a fan, to Mario Buatta. It's thanks to both Mario and Luther that I went to work as a cook for incomparable interior designer Tom Britt. Oh, how I wish I'd taken better notes when I was young.

Sequestered in a subterranean railroad flat on the eastern end of 58th Street near Sutton Place, Luther Greene's home might have gone totally unnoticed by passersby. To prevent the tragedy of anonymity though, this Virginia-born-and-reared mid-western transplant, who was first a brilliantly innovative theatrical producer-director, and then a creative landscape architect and florist, took decisive action.

Beyond the the entrance and the living room all decked out with Delftware,

behind his vermilion-walled bedroom, at the very back of the apartment, he spent ten years creating a sea shell-encrusted grotto with a pool and waterfall, where he liked to serve meals to awe-struck guests.

Patently illegal, the greenhouse addition that Greene erected on the façade of the one-time tenement where he lived, encroached well into the public right-of-way. It's been removed since his death in 1987. But how ingeniously it helped to illuminate otherwise gloomy digs. It also dramatized one's descent into the special, eclectically decorated realm of a gifted artist: across a stream, past a waterfall, amidst a jasmine-scented semi-tropical garden.

The first Mrs. Luther Greene was painted by Salvador Dali, the director-producer's good friend. Greene's lesbian second wife,
Judith Anderson, is best remembered for a series of first-rate performances in movies that have become gay-cult-classics. "Big Mama",

in Tennessee Williams, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof , and "Ann Treadwell", in Otto Preminger's Laura, each stands out, but it was as "Mrs. Danvers", one of the screen's most memorable and sexually ambiguous female villains, directed by Alfred Hitchcock in Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, that the Australian stage actress achieved true Hollywood stardom.

Appreciating what extreme snobs some gays can be, it hardly comes as a shock that among his well-turned-out wives, and a host of furtive short-term companions, of the type sometimes referred to derisively, as 'twinks', the great love of Luther Greene's life was a genuine royal prince, a son of exiled King Amanullah of Afghanistan. Prince Hussein, a younger son, born of a second wife, grew up in London where he was known teasingly as, "Princess Anne." Married as a youth, he had a large family.

When I knew Hussein, he lived on Fordham Road in the Bronx and worked giving test drives to VIP-customers of Budget-Rent-a-Car. In a solitary room adorned with framed invitations to the coronations of every British monarch from Victoria to Elizabeth, he lived with six rescued formerly stray cats. A one-time boy friend, too fat and too old at thirty, lived next door with his young wife and kids. But none of this, and nothing else from an eventful life grown quite ordinary, was ever permitted to interfere with either Hussein's steady pursuit of muscular young men or his unfailing commitment to the steadfast Luther.

It was because I wanted to write that Mario Buatta persuaded me
to go to work for Thomas Britt. Mario had met the artsy, brazen and antic native of Kansas City while both were students of indomitable aesthete, connoisseur, and decorative arts scholar Stanly Barrows.
When their class at Parsons went abroad to study in Paris in 1956, Tom Britt met Julie Schenck. They were later to marry at St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Slender, blond, demure but elegant, Julie Britt was descended from early Dutch settlers who had immigrated to New Jersey in the 17th century. Creatures of their time, the ultra-smart Britts became darlings at Studio 54 and at the private club at the Hotel Sherry-Netherland, called Doubles.

Tom Britt's East 63rd Street apartment in a century-old town house is as grand as his country house at Watermill, Long Island is serenely simple

Despite ups and downs, including alcoholism and drug addiction, they are still very close. "Our friendship is hard to describe," said the editor, who worked for Glamour (where she put an unknown teenager named Cheryl Tiegs on the cover) and Harper's Bazaar. She was also a stylist for Richard Avedon. A couple of years ago Julie explained her unexpected life in New York to Mitchell Owens in a Time's profile. Recalling the intensity of their courtship, she reflected how, like a latter-day Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, they too, had cavorted in a fountain and danced as Karl Beiter's personification of abundance drenched them in an allegorical shower of 'gold'. Smiling, with what? Yes, incredulity, Ms. Britt said of her
former husband to Owens,

"He changed my whole life."

Scion of one of America's first families James Biddle, who insisted on always being addressed as Jimmy, seems a typical candidate for an old-fashioned 'lavender marriage'. This seems even more to be the case, as his wife, the mother of his heirs, Louisa Copeland Biddle was the daughter of DuPont president Lammont du Pont Copeland. "Alas," confides an old friend, one might wish that it was so straightforward. But nothing, ever, was exactly straightforward, not where Jimmy was concerned".

His wife, as well as many of their friends, several different sources stress, was well aware that he was 'different'. "Only his family, particularly his parents, retained complete and deliberate ignorance. That was how he inherited Andalusia, his family's remarkable estate that was built from 1794 to 1836," insists his friend, "It's a superb house, like a Greek temple above the Delaware River in Bucks County.

When one is gay, as we are, one so strives to please and inspire admiration. It's a feminine trait we aren't afraid to show. In our case it included making an advantageous match, producing descendants and saving the ancestral family homestead, should one be fortunate enough to possess one that's still worth saving. On the other hand, one often acts out somehow, just because one can sometimes, it shows one is a man to be defiant. I suppose that was what Jimmy's black 'friend' must have been all about?

The 'friend' in question, just a 'boy' when he came to Andalusia long ago to clean the pool, and met Jimmy, is now a popular dinner guest, attentive host and retired dentist. "He simply knocked me out, I could hardly help myself" Jimmy said as I listened in disbelief. I was seated beside the immense Gothic revival mahogany four-poster bed where he reposed in his high ceilinged-room in Andalusia's dower house, the imposingly large Gothic Cottage. The only black guest at a house party, I was stunned by this revelation, but not a bit surprised that neither Jimmy's marriage nor his then-controversial black lover had worked out.

Curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's American Wing, Jimmy went on to lead the National Trust for Historic Preservation.

"Exquisitely garbed, always in gowns, jewels and furs carefully selected by her husband, Louisa Biddle, ever gracious and smiling, played the part of a curator and philanthropy director's wife, one on the lookout for needed funds, to absolute perfection,"

Remembers their friend.

"Toward the end, relinquishing those beautifully tailored Saville Row suits he'd sported as dutifully as any prisoner wears his uniform, Jimmy ultimately graduated to custom-made attire that resembled a cross between a caftan from the Levant, and a shift from Lilly Pulitzer in Palm Beach. In the end, no longer sublimating his flair for fashion by dressing Louisa, he was finally, mostly, done with pretending, I think.

How much was the marriage of Calvin and Kelly Klein a game of let's-pretend? Quite apart from the 'style magnate's' gift to his wife of superb pearls that had previously belonged to the Duchess of Windsor and Queen Mary,

did Klein regard Kelly much as some adoptive gay parents treat their children , like a doll or a must-have new accessory? Will we ever really know for sure? As with many lavender unions, now the principals have 'called it a day.' Acquired for nearly $800,000, the duchess' pearls were sold by Ms. Klein for more than five times as much.

In a press release prior to the sale, Kelly Klein is quoted as saying that she hoped the pearls might be "given again, as they have been in the past, as a gesture of love and worn often and proudly." It's a nice sentiment, isn't it? Yet I, for one, hope that the next owner will not be a mere trophy, indicative of how enough money can buy all things, including a beautiful wife or a handsome husband, whose very presence shouts loudly and clear, 'Hell, no, I'm not gay, only, my, you do have a great ass---no homo!

Mr.and Mrs. Michael Jackson

Michael Likosky: Bailing Out Luxury

2009-07-09T09:39:30Z

With the start of Haute Couture Week in Paris, luxury is already on the ropes. Christian Lacroix is going under. Meanwhile, Prada and Armani are offering their brands to cell phone makers, televisions and cars.

Still, at the recent Financial Times Luxury Summit in Monaco, Bernard Arnault, chairman of the Moet Hennessy Louis Vuitton group, explained how the glut of luxury goods on the market was driving down costs and thus stimulating demand. And, as Marc Jacobs shoes sell for the same price as Loomstate at Target, more folks will choose champagne and caviar dreams. Or, as Arnault put it: "We don't buy our dreams at the supermarket."

However, this oversupply of luxury goods is not just the result of fewer spenders on Madison Avenue and Rodeo Drive. We, and our allies, are bailing out luxury.

We are offering government loans, grants and insurance to keep factories around the world over-producing luxury goods. Along with our allies, we are paying power bills, giving money to buyers to purchase these goods and bring them to market, and even building new factory towns from scratch to increase capacity.

This luxury bailout is making sure that artisan sewing jobs, supposedly essential to luxury manufacturing, do not return to Italy or Manhattan. In other words, we are keeping labor costs down overseas, making our own labor markets less competitive. We are also relaxing our legal rules, so that a purse made in China can wear a Made in Italy label by sewing on a strap in Europe.

Our fashion foreign policy is not just about what we wear abroad.

It is also about how we inject large amounts of money into fashion houses. As Louis Vuitton joins Citi, Chrysler and AIG, we should ask what public purpose is being served.

Nicole Williams: 5 Things You Should Never Wear to Work

2009-07-08T22:53:24Z

They say that clothes make the man, and that's often true of women, too. Your choice of clothing speaks volumes about your personality and your level of professionalism. A black figure-flattering suit with a punch of color says "I am savvy and stylish." A miniskirt and stilettos says "I'm the office slut." Here are a few more items that may send the wrong message.

1. Anything resembling lingerie. We know you're too savvy to have a lace thong peaking out of that pin-striped suit. (Right?) But even clothing that looks like underwear can be distracting, like that white lacy cami or that bustier-style shirt. If you don't want give anyone the wrong idea, then cover up with a cardigan or a fitted jacket until after work.

2. Excessive perfume. You may love Jessica Simpson's new fragrance, but your co-workers might be sensitive to strong smells. One or two spritzes should be more than enough to get you through the day. If not, you can always touch up in the ladies' room after work, but there's no need to assault your cubicle mates with perfume. Scented lotions offer an even subtler smell in moderation.

3. Workout wear. This should go without saying, but if your office is ubercasual you might need a reminder. Sweatshirts, Pilates pants, track jackets, and especially spandex shorts should never see the inside of your office. We're willing to compromise on running shoes, especially if you walk to work, but other items should be safely stowed in your gym locker or yoga bag.

4. Sequins. Unless you are Cher and you're working on your Vegas club act, sequins are a definite don't for work. A patent-leather belt or bag offers a bit of shimmer with a more modern, work-friendly vibe. Or use earrings to add bit of bling for happy hour. But a sequined shirt or jacket is a little too loud for daytime wear.

5. That "Barack My World" T-shirt. Or any clothing with a message on it. Though you might enjoy shirts that make a statement (literally), others could take offense at political or religious messages. Best to play it safe and save that outfit for the weekends. Instead, stand out with a beaded necklace or a colorful scarf.

Patricia Yarberry Allen: Want a Major Economic Indicator? The Sex Shop Uptown

2009-07-08T22:03:00Z

The loss of sexual interest among menopausal women has clearly become no longer newsworthy in this time of falling stock prices and rising unemployment. Otherwise, why wasn't it big news when the uptown vibrator store had to close down because of the recession?

Myla, a British lingerie, swimwear and sex-toy line, opened its shop doors just off Madison Avenue at 16 E. 69th St. in September 2004. This was very expensive real estate, and the shop was quite nicely done up. The New York Times did a big piece for the opening. Curious middle-aged women, after lunch at one of their favorite bistros in the neighborhood, came to air shop -- to oooh and twitter -- and then sneaked back later to buy the goods. A little sexual novelty was good for her and good for him.

Long-term monogamous relationships often run low on libido, especially when the wife has reproduced twice and then flies into the frightening 40s. During the good times, there were trips and spa weekends with the girls; Prada bags and fashion openings; gala events, and summers often spent separated during the week. It was easier, then, for certain wives to initiate sex and work at the orgasm thing, and a vibrator often came in handy. Intimacy, for many of these relationships, was never part of the package, and hot, easy sex that lasts needs some of that elusive spice.

Menopause, with its well-publicized symptoms of volatility and loss of libido, has always been convenient for those women who maybe never liked sex all that much, and for those who married someone with neither great knowledge of female anatomy nor the capacity to be a thoughtful lover.

Many women did find, though, that they missed the girl they once were, or else wondered if they could ever be the sort of woman whose orgasm is easily achieved. The booksellers' shelves were filled with manuals on how to do it.

Pole-dancing classes were sold out two years ago.

Goddess tutors helped women find their sensual selves.

Physical therapists taught women how to improve their love muscles.

Partners were delighted if women showed any interest in doing it, and unless they were real cads, really wanted to be part of a woman's orgasmic event.

And up there on 69th Street, just off Madison Avenue, Myla was having a boom time in the good times, with its sweetly sexy lingerie and vibrators that weren't purple with multiple prongs.

Women, those of us who grew up after the sexual revolution in the late 1960s, if we were interested in sex, generally had a vibrator tucked away, somewhere where the cleaning woman and the kids couldn't find it. But for the shy and somewhat inhibited woman, a vibrator was often a subject never discussed or acknowledged. I must confess that I visited Myla after The New York Times article -- purely for professional reasons, of course. Then I began to give their name and address to patients who were having trouble re-starting the mid-life sex engine, as part of the general conversation that should be part of every visit to a gynecologist. You know, "Any pain in the abdomen? Is the bowel function normal? Any bladder problems? And, how often are you having an orgasm each week?" I am sure your gynecologist asks that question!

Women who complained that they had no libido and could no longer have an orgasm when there was no emotional or physical barrier to successful sex often just needed a bit of genital rehab with local estrogen, coaching and cheerleading and some new ideas to consider. Throw out those nightgowns or T-shirts you sleep in, buy some new lingerie, and how about a vibrator? Practice, practice, practice was the motto, and motivated women did indeed get their sex lives back for themselves and their partners.

Then the recession slammed households and relationships all over the country. But especially hard hit were many of the relationships that were based primarily on commercial and reproductive transactions. Women who were anywhere near "The New Menopause" grabbed the menopause label; they effectively said, "I am in menopause, honey, and I am done." Unless these relationships can be reinvented....

For the rest, click here.

Gerald Sindell: Universal Rules of Framing Pt III: You In Print

2009-07-08T19:09:58Z

Great framing can change the way we see a piece of art. Great framing can do the same for you and your ideas. If your book's first edition is from a major publisher, has a handsome cover and comes with blurbs from a full pantheon of quality endorsers, your reader will be nicely teed up to seriously consider the merits of your ideas. In contrast, if you self-publish in a paperback edition, have your art major child design the cover and send an email blast out urging all your friends to buy the book in the hope it will go to #1 on Amazon for ten minutes on Thursday, you may experience a bit more difficulty getting the respect your ideas might deserve.

The title of your book is also part of the framing. Either the title or the subtitle of the book must tell the prospective book buyer what the value offering is for the book. The right title and subtitle will in effect say, "Yes, I'm talking to you!" A typical non-fiction book buyer will take a look at that value offering, and if it's appealing, open the book and fan through it to see the scope of the book. The chapter titles that appear along the top of the book as it's being fanned are the next frame. They are saying: These are the topics that the author says are necessary to understand my ideas. The style of the chapter headings -- are they funny, do they hang together as a family of ideas -- will frame the experience of learning for the reader.

The next framing is the back cover of the book, and the text on the inside flap of the dust jacket. I like to think about the back cover and the flap copy as the beginning of a conversation between author and reader. Here's where the author (or the publisher) can speak as if they were standing next to the prospective book buyer right there in the aisles of the book store. The flap says, "You are holding in your hands the solution to one of mankind's great problems." As a marketer, I often look for the opportunity to direct the reader right into the text of the book. "Want to save $500 on your auto insurance right now? Turn to page 227."

The next place the prospective buyer heads is to the back flap, where she will look for the author's short bio. She's looking for two things: do I already know this author, and if not, what is the author's credibility.

If we've done everything right so far, there will be a short pause here. This is the moment when we've made our sale and our prospective reader snaps the book shut, having decided she can't live without it. She takes us to the checkout counter, buys us, and takes us home.

The next time we'll see each other may be a few hours later on a plane, or some evening near a cozy fire. But we can't relax, yet. Our framing work is not yet complete. When our reader opens the book there is still an overwhelming possibility that she'll read a little bit and put us down, maybe to never return. Yes, it's horrifying, and yet this terrible scenario plays out thousands of times a day all over the world. A good book bought but never read. What could we have done to lose our reader so fast?

The danger is in not realizing that the frame is over. The curtain is up. We've run out of carved wood, filials, fancy mattes and museum lighting. Maybe we haven't done everything possible to get our reader into the book as quickly as possible. That long acknowledgement to the dozens of folks who helped us write our masterpiece, those caring mates who fed us while we groused over a parenthetical digression, should all be thanked in due time. But not now! Put it in the back. Is there an Introduction, a Preface, or a Foreword (and no, it's not a "Forward!")? If so, they must service the reader's needs, not our own. Don't waste time on "How to Use This Book," or why I came to this knowledge. Tell enough about yourself to make certain your reader knows where you're coming from, and then get out of the way. You have precious seconds to involve your reader. Do it with humor, do it with emotion, do it by showing you understand what powerful need the reader has that you're going to solve. And then get right to value.

The sad truth is that the framer's art, like the embalmer's, no matter how brilliantly practiced, can only set the viewer's expectations. The job of bringing your ideas to life will be yours.

Alex Henry: The Sea as Sanatorium

2009-07-08T18:14:28Z

I will probably alienate myself from most of humanity by saying that the beach has never really been my thing. On my first visit to one, I am told, my ten-month-old toes recoiled from the sand at first touch, as if in shock at this unnatural substance.

Though we spent time in later summers on Block Island and Cape Cod, my activities tended toward the inland: bicycling, tennis, some sailing--but this was done on an enclosed salt pond. The thought of sitting on the sand, or, stranger still, swimming in seawater, hardly occurred to me.

This lack of interest probably disheartened my mother, as coastally-inclined a person as I have met, but she must have accepted it as a residue of my father's gene pool. For his people, summers meant tennis, golf, and club sandwiches on the porch, followed by more tennis and more golf, with a week taken out for hiking in the woods. For my mother, my willingness to spend the summer in Block Island was enough; I didn't have to love and breathe the sea as she did.

So I have been surprised in recent years to find myself actually enjoying the beach, quite spontaneously and unreservedly. I had occasion to reflect on this change last week, thanks to a few days on the Cape and an unexpected work assignment in the Hamptons, which, tough job that it was, allowed for a few spare hours on an uncrowded Southampton beach.

As I sat watching the very regular waves, feeling the din of New York recede slightly with each one, a passage from Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks came to mind. It is near the end of the novel, when the spirits and finances of the once-prosperous Buddenbrook family are looking decidedly dismal. Thomas Buddenbrook, the ailing patriarch, is spending a few days at a North Sea resort--the scene of happier, youthful summers--in the off-season. He says to his sister, Antonie, as they stand on a pier and gaze at the waves:

I've learned to love the sea more and more--perhaps I preferred the mountains at one time only because they were so much farther away. I wouldn't want to go there now...What sort of people prefer the monotony of the sea, do you suppose? It seems to me it's those who have gazed too long and too deeply into the complexity at the heart of things and so have no choice but to demand one thing from external reality: simplicity...A man climbs jauntily up into the wonderful variety of jagged, towering, fissured forms to test his vital energies, because he has never had to spend them. But a man chooses to rest beside the wide simplicity of external things, because he is weary from the chaos within.

Without subscribing to quite as gloomy an outlook as Thomas Buddenbrooks's, or Thomas Mann's for that matter, I recognized something familiar in this thought. What once bored me about the beach--its uneventfulness--is now the source of its appeal. For a child used to the easy rhythms of suburbia, early nights and abundant vacation time, summers were a time for activity and exertion. But for an adult feeling even the mildest version of Buddenbrook syndrome, wearied by city life, work, lack of sleep, the internet, or some other modern affliction undreamed-of by Thomas Mann, the beach can be a powerful antidote.

Kate Kelly: "Make Next Left Turn..."

2009-07-08T17:19:11Z

Over the July Fourth weekend, my husband and I traveled to the West to visit friends. As we navigated parts of southern Montana in our rental car equipped with a GPS unit, we were deftly guided to our various destinations by the soothing tones of a voice programmed into the Garmin navigation system--a lovely woman whose only comment when my husband would go his own way was to calmly note, "Need to recalculate...make next left turn..."

Among our destinations was Pompys Pillar, a 150-foot high mesa that overlooks the Yellowstone River east of Billings. The butte is the only tall outcropping for several miles, so climbing it permits one to survey a very broad area. It is an important landmark for the Lewis and Clark Expedition as it is the only spot in the West that has physical evidence of the explorers' travels.

William Clark (1770-1838) and Meriwether Lewis (1774-1809) opted to take two different routes back from the Pacific in order to expand their explorations and map as much of the west as they could. Clark took the route along the Yellowstone, and in an effort to continue his mapping, he climbed up the rock the Crow Indian Nation called iish-biiaa-ah-naac 'he' ("Where the Mountain Lion Sits") and noted the direction of the Yellowstone River and its relation to other mountain peaks that were visible from the mesa top. He called it "Pompys Tower" after Sacagewea's young son, Baptiste Charbonneau, whom Clark affectionately called Pomp or Pompy, which means little chief in the Shoshoni language. Before Clark left, he signed his name and the date (1806) in the sandstone, and it is still visible today.

Lewis and Clark's expedition was a remarkable success. They mapped territory that had never been explored, and they discovered 178 new plant species and 122 animal species and subspecies. However, they did not accomplish one of the central missions established--to be able to navigate through the area. President Thomas Jefferson had sent them out to find the "most direct and practicable water communication across the continent for the purposes of commerce." Though they had made it all the way to the Pacific Ocean, no wagon train could follow their route west--it was too arduous.

Other explorers verified this understanding. Army Lieutenant Zebulon Montgomery Pike (1779-1813) was commissioned to explore the headwaters of the Mississippi (1805-1806), and he did the same for the Arkansas and Red rivers (1806-07). When he returned to civilization, he reported that the plains were nothing more than a "great American desert." In 1819 Major Steven Long explored a more southerly route through what is now Oklahoma, Nebraska, Colorado, and Kansas. He, too, sent back word that the West was unfit for human habitation. The image of having to travel through dunes with no water kept other adventurers from following.

So when did serious navigation of the West begin? Actually it occurred just a few years after Lewis and Clark, but it took businessmen to drive the hunt for routes. John Jacob Astor felt there was money to be made in the West (little could he have imagined in what way his family fortune would grab headlines in 2009). In 1811 Astor funded one group to travel west via water by sailing around Cape Horn, and another to travel overland. Both groups had a very difficult time, but a year later one of the land travelers, Robert Stuart, turned around to go back for help, and he came upon an amazing discovery--a 20-mile wide pass in southwestern Wyoming that provided a shortcut of sorts through the Rockies. Now known as South Pass, the new route reduced the time it took to travel west. When Astor was told of the discovery, he ordered his men to remain mum; he considered the discovery proprietary. For 15 years Astor's men came and went using their newly discovered shortcut and bringing back pelts from the far West. Only later would more people learn of it, and the South Pass was to become the single most important route for emigrants traveling west.

The discovery of gold coupled with better reports from other travelers finally led to an increase in westward travel in the 1840s. John Charles Fremont, a Civil War hero and eventually a candidate for president, and his wife Jessie, the daughter of Missouri senator Thomas Hart Benton, were destined to eventually turn the tide on the bad press the West was receiving. Fremont led many expeditions throughout the western territory, and he and his wife Jessie traveled the Oregon Trail in 1842 and 1843. Jessie wrote about what they saw, and her intelligent descriptions helped create an interest in people coming to the West.

As Americans adjust their GPS systems in their cars--or now on their smartphones http://http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/08/technology/08gps.html?_r=1&ref=business--for travel in various parts of America this summer, we should give a tip of our hats to those explorers like William Clark, who thought little of scrambling up Pompys Tower or traveling at a fearsome pace down a never-before-navigated river, in order to map new territory. These adventurers' notes and reports led to road-making, which has given us safe and secure navigation throughout our beautiful land.

http://www.americacomesalive.com

Dr. Irene S. Levine: Who is Kristan Cole? Sarah Palin's BFF

2009-07-08T16:45:47Z

They both grew up in Wasilla and they've known each other for some 40 years since they attended the same elementary school. Each is an ambitious, outspoken, competitive, conservative, God-fearing, married, working mom with five kids. They live seven miles apart in a state whose area is so vast that it exceeds that of Texas, California and Wyoming combined.

Both are former beauty pageant contestants. Sarah won the Miss Wasilla contest and finished second in Miss Alaska; Kristan (whom Sarah calls "Krissy") was Miss Alaska and then Mrs. Alaska a few years later. In the more-than-you-want-to-know category, according to one hairstylist I know, they both wear as-seen-on-TV "Bumpits" hair lifts. When two women have so much in common and such a long shared history, it lays the foundation for a strong friendship.

But most female friendships, even the best of them, don't last forever---so the two best friends could have easily drifted apart as their lives and career paths diverged. Sarah, 45, pursued a career in politics, first as a mayor and then as a governor and a vice-presidential candidate while Kristan, 47, built a small but successful real estate business, heading up a team of 15 people. On her Facebook profile, Kristan "only shares certain information with everyone," including the names of her friends; Sarah has more than 620,000 "supporters." Kristan has remained intimately involved in Palin's affairs as a supporter, campaign donor, and spokesperson. She is a trustee of The Alaska Fund Trust, Sarah and Todd Palin's legal defense fund.

As Governor, Sarah (never daunted by controversy) named her BFF to the Alaska Board of Agriculture and Conservation, an appointed regulatory position that serves at the pleasure of the Governor. In September 2008, when the McCain-Palin campaign launched a "Truth Squad" to combat the liberal media and dirty Democrats, Kristan was named to the Squad. Recently, Kristan assumed the awkward role of interpreting her pal's bewildering resignation speech to the national press.

It's hard to understand what makes some friendships stick while others fall apart. For better or worse, Sarah and Kristin remain BFFs. Shared history? Shared values? Loyalty? Trust? Maybe all of the above.

Irene S. Levine, PhD is a freelance journalist and author. She holds an appointment as a professor of psychiatry at the New York University School of Medicine and her book about female friendships, Best Friends Forever: Surviving A Breakup With Your Best Friend, will be published by Overlook Press in September, 2009. She recently co-authored Schizophrenia for Dummies (Wiley, 2008). She also blogs about female friendships at The Friendship Blog.

Jeff Schweitzer: Misplaced Priorities: The Dangers of Celebrity Worship in a Dangerous World

2009-07-08T16:23:10Z

From the past eight years of mismanagement, we have inherited a series of crises. We are fighting two wars. The economy is weak and vulnerable. Unemployment numbers are in double digits. Our debt and deficit is climbing. Social security and Medicare are bankrupting our government. The financial markets remain shaky. Our health care system is broken. The environment is under assault as we alter the chemistry of our atmosphere. The unstable and unpredictable regime in North Korea is now a nuclear power. Iran soon will be, potentially destabilizing the entire Middle East. We remain reliant upon oil from the world's most volatile region. The Taliban and al Qaeda continue to threaten our safety.

So with those clear and present dangers at the forefront, the news this week has been focused exclusively on...Michael Jackson. Wall-to-wall coverage 24/7 on every major broadcast and cable channel. CNN even went through some creepy navel gazing asking if such coverage might be "excessive." By posing that absurd question, implying that the answer might be and probably is "no" CNN took us all over the brink into the realm of insanity. That is like CNN asking "is liquid water wet?" and expecting the answer to be no. Our society has gone over the deep end, losing any reasonable sense of perspective.

If you do not believe that the enormous attention given to the death of this singer is inappropriate, ask yourself how we will respond upon the death of Neal Armstrong, the first human to ever set foot on another world? Or James Watson, co-discoverer of the genetic code? Or Nelson Mandela, an icon of human courage and integrity, who sat in prison for 27 years without compromise? Or the firemen lost on 9/11, bravely entering a building knowing they were certainly going to die in order to help others? Will you mourn their deaths like you do Jacksons?

Do we feel dirty yet? Do we feel ridiculous? We should if we give Michael Jackson more than five minutes of our time. He was an entertainer. His personal life offered no examples to emulate. He was a deeply troubled court jester, a distraction from daily life, nothing more. Of course he was immensely talented as a singer and a dancer. But that does not come close to justifying the breathless non-stop news coverage and unyielding focus of attention given to his death.

We have lost perspective. We have lost our sense of balance. You simply cannot compare the contributions of a profile in courage like Nelson Mandela to Michael Jackson and call one remotely equivalent to the other; yet the lesser of the two garners the outpouring of emotion. I can say with certainty that Mandela's death will not lead to a memorial service in a sports stadium in Los Angeles.

Modern media have created the false impression that we know our celebrities, but all we really know is an image that corresponds little to the human being. We are reacting to a mirage, a ghost; we mourn a creation of our own imagination.

What we are witnessing in our excess is pathological, a sign that we as a people are not healthy. The reaction is so grossly disproportionate to the event that we have revealed a sick underbelly, a deep hole in our collective psyche that leaves us empty and craving for anything to fill the void.

The unceasing news coverage of Jackson is obscene given the news that should be capturing our attention, and given the many other people who are clearly more deserving of our adulation. Five years from now we will look back at this excess in shame, heads hung and faces red. We are drunk on celebrity. We have embarrassed ourselves but are too wasted at the moment to realize our dilemma. But morning will come, and the dawn will bring with the rising sun a terrible and nauseating hangover. Start purging now and get it over with.

Barry Michael Cooper: Michael Jackson Agonistes: Act II of an American Pop'era

2009-07-08T16:11:09Z

Prologue to Act II:

"...The black man should no longer be confronted by the dilemma, turn white or disappear...if society makes difficulties for him because of his color, if in his dreams I establish the expression of an unconscious desire to change color, my objective will not be that of dissuading him from it by advising him to "keep his place"; on the contrary, my objective, once his motivations have brought him into consciousness, will be to put him in a position to choose action (or passivity) with respect to the real source of the conflict-that is, toward the social structures."

--Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks

Act II: Mask In The Mirror

"I'm hearing rumors that his coffin is coming, and that would be insane if it happened!"
--A giddy mourner/fan, talking to an MSNBC reporter, outside of the Staples Center, 7 July 2009.

Tuesday, 7 June 2009, 9:05 am, PST, and I'm tuned into MSNBC, watching the throngs of fans on the periphery of Los Angeles freeways and side streets cheering the quiet luxury armada of the Michael Jackson funerary motorcade. Minutes later, members of the Jackson family and other mourners file out of the Hall Of Liberty, on the grounds of Forest Lawn Cemetery. Funerals are the closest thing to slow motion in real-time; like falling through a bottle of invisible embalming fluid. We talk slow and move slower, as the life of the decedent scrolls across the reels of our revisionist recollection. Give your roses to the living y'all, because they can't smell them at the graveyard, or when the cremated ashes walk hand in hand with the wind.

On a split screen, Los Angeles councilwoman Jan Perry, is telling an MSNBC reporter that she won't speculate on the actual dollar amount Los Angeles County will be saddled with, for the manpower needed for the memorial service at the Staples Center. California is in a financial crisis, and though the King Of Pop is dead, the business of California needs to continue.

In another segment, entertainment reporter Nancy O'Dell wonders if the pomp and circumstance of Michael Jackson's memorial service is akin to the Oscars. Noted author and cultural observer Toure' has questioned the use of the terminology of "winning" a ticket to the memorial observance.

The talking heads on all of the networks have been parsing the Michael Jackson chatter with both scalpel and machete, in regards to carving out a thirty-second-soundbite-of-a-meaning to his life. Hyperventilating Republican New York Congressman Peter King posited that Michael Jackson was a low life, a pervert, and a pedophile. CNBC host and mega wealthy ad maven Donny Deutch remembered Michael Jackson being a good dancer. Music industry insiders have crassly speculated that Michael Jackson died to save a flat-lined record business, because sales of his records have rocketed into the millions, since the fortnight of his death. Still others wondered if Michael Jackson was drugged? How did he get Diprivan? Who gave it to him? Will that person be charged? Will they go to jail? And what about that will; who is getting what and when?

The other discussions have focused on Michael's appearance. I guess it's their clumsy attempt at separating the delicate, oily, and sometimes disfigured layers of The American Skin Game.

"It is only in his music, which Americans are able to admire because a protective sentimentality limits their understanding of it, that the Negro in America has been able to tell his story. It is a story which otherwise has yet to be told and which no American is prepared to hear...The ways in which the Negro has affected the American psychology are betrayed in our popular culture and in our morality; in our estrangement of him is the depth of our estrangement from ourselves...What we really feel about him is involved with all that we feel about everything, about everyone, about ourselves."

--James Baldwin, "Many Thousands Gone" from the book,Notes Of A Native Son

Becoming increasingly overwhelmed by his growing mega-stardom, the libretto and musical score of Michael Jackson's life went from the happy bel canto of Off The Wall, to the gloomy gotterdammerung of Thriller.

Michael's attire during this time looked military, almost like a Commander-In-G-Clef: epaulets, metallic shirts which resembled a breast plate with spaulders, steel knee and shin guards, and a glittery glove that replicated a medieval gauntlet. Was this a Michael Magnus ready for battle? Was this Michael Jackson's--raised as a Jehovah's Witness, and a student of the Bible, the Koran, and other religions-- interpretation of what the Apostle Paul talked about in Ephesians 6 of the New Testament, putting on the whole armor of GOD? Was Michael's soldierly clothing, his way of protecting himself against the dark forces trying to aggressively invade his life?

Thriller was indeed, a dark masterpiece; Michael Jackson's declaration of war against his loss of childhood, the towering heights of insurmountable fame, the hordes of nobody's who clamored to become MJ yes-men (and women), the crowded grief of unfathomable loneliness, and the zombie-like corpus of emotional scars. Emotional scars he ripped opened with tunes like Billie Jean, Beat It, Human Nature, and the title track.

I often wondered--watching the ground-breaking long form video for Thriller, directed by John Landis--if Michael Jackson's portrayal of a werewolf, was his Freudian response to the psychic bruising at the hands of his father, Joe Jackson? A monster created by a monster? Watching Michael painfully describe his childhood travails to British journalist Martin Bashir in the controversial 2003 documentary, Living With Michael Jackson, is truly unsettling. Michael Jackson described a dysfunctional man who would beat him (and his brothers) with belts and ironing cords when dance steps were fumbled. A cruel man who ridiculed Michael's "fat nose"; a nose from "Kate's side of the family". "You didn't get it from me," Michael told Bashir in a trembling voice.

The Joseph Jackson Michael described sounded almost like Joseph Stalin. The Koba The Dread of 2300 Jackson Street, whose mere presence could send Michael into a convulsive wretch. Was Michael Jackson's self-imposed facial perestroika--his restructuring by way of cosmetic surgery--a way to never remind him of the dictator with whom he shared an undeniable DNA?

As Michael Jackson looked at his reflection in the mirror in the 1980's--during the Reagan Epoch, that Mourning In America for African-Americans, minorities, and yes, even poor whites who would never be rich, white, and Republican--and when Thriller was selling a million copies a week (and going on to rack up almost 20 million copies in less than a year, outdistancing Sinatra, Elvis, and The Beatles combined), was it then he decided to convert to Caucasianity?

An apt student of cultural history, Michael Jackson knew that Sammy Davis--Mr. Entertainment--was the Original Greatest Entertainer Of All Time. Sammy--or "Mr. D" as Michael humbly referred to him, as he asked him for tapes of his Vegas shows to study for his own extravaganzas--had big dreams of the Crossover, too. Sammy Davis was more than just a one-eyed schvartze to Milton Berle, or a waiter in a rib joint to Ol' Blue Eyes. Berle and Sinatra thought these remarks were terms of endearment to Sammy, who would smile and grin in their presence, but seethe with hatred and frustration in his solitude.

Quite possibly, Sammy marrying Mai Britt and his conversion to Judaism was both personal and business. Sammy loved Mai, but it was also the move to get him inside with the insiders, not unlike what Michael did with the daughter of the King Of Rock, two generations later. I truly believe Michael Jackson loved Lisa Marie Presley. This was a woman he poured his heart out to, when the pressure of the business boiled over onto the floor of paranoia. Michael knew the daughter of Elvis could relate. But Michael--like Sammy--wasn't stupid, either. Ambition doesn't discriminate in The American Skin Game. However, Sammy's ambition was still shackled by Jim Crow. The laws of the land were way behind the curve of Sammy's drive to the top; he crashed into the guard-rails of racism.

Michael on the other hand, was the beneficiary of the forced beneficence of LBJ's Great Society, and Dr. Martin Luther King's dreamy march to the mountaintop of a color blind America. Or at the very least, a more racially tolerant America. The laws had changed, but our finite vision had remained the same: race matters. Raised by a man who was brutally razed in an era that cut black men's virility with the razor-sharp fear of prejudice--literally and figuratively--I'm sure Michael was hit with the race issue from all sides, every single day, figuratively and literally.

You're big Mike, but you'll never be Elvis. Or The Beatles. You can sing and dance, you have the number one album in on the planet, but you're still a...well, you know

You didn't get that nose from me. That's Kate's side of the family.

Michael's 1980's Man In The Mirror saw a rising entertainment supernova staring right back at him, but a supernova who was...black. His buddy, the legendary Paul McCartney, was white. So was Elvis. Sinatra, too. White was not better, just as black was not inferior. Michael loved his blackness, but in the Eighties, white was-access. Decisions, decisions, pressure like you wouldn't believe. Stress that might've indeed triggered a minor case of real vitiligo. Did Michael Jackson view this vitiligo as a divine sign? Or would his adoring fans look at him as if he was cursed; like a leper? The mad fame of Thriller was already making him a pariah of sorts, but Michael Jackson, the super-competitor wanted more. And once Michael saw that lightening of the skin, well...who knows? He needed that edge over the Beatles, and Elvis, and Sinatra, and McCartney. And only one color--in the 1980's--could break through the glass ceiling, into the platinum skies of Pop Icon Everlasting.

Would an America of the 1980's accept a African-American King Of Pop?
Could the vitiligo be a heavenly door to a whiter shade of pale?
Hmmm...
Maybe all of this played out in Michael Jackson's interior dialogue, and maybe he felt he had to make that change.

Of course, all of this is pure supposition. And as of 7 July 2009, this hypothesis is moot. The issue of race became a non-issue the moment a little girl named Paris Katherine Jackson walked onstage at the Staples Center, and took a look at the casket a few feet away from her. A casket which was the symbol of the only parent she had ever known. Wrapped in the loving embrace of the Jackson clan, it didn't matter that she didn't look African-American. She was black, she was white, she was Latino, she was Asian. And when Paris broke down and tearfully said: "I just want to say, ever since I was born, Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine. And I just want to say, I love him-so much," her tears were the color of U.S. all.

(Next, the Fini of Act III: Happy Days Will Drown The Pain)

Michelle Madhok: Weird Summer Fashion Advice You Might Actually Want To Take

2009-07-07T23:36:05Z

Cotton dresses, sunscreen and bra-cup bathing suits for big busts: this we know. But we think some less-often-touted summer fashion advice is even more useful. Or, at the very least, entertaining.

We'd encourage you to try white denim, even if you're not a size 0. We promise it's not that tough to pull off paired with roomier tops.

So now what to wear under white denim and summer dresses? Luckily we've found a strapless g-string so you can be seamless and angst-free.

Harem pants are a fun, relatively unexpected way to dress up for breezy evenings -- find out how to wear them without looking like MC Hammer.

We've also found all the best innovative contraptions to make your butt look Brazilian (and therefore better, we guess?) in the aforementioned pants.

If there's another detail you'd like to add to those newly improved outfits, browse our summer guides for inspiration.