Untitled | A Damsel in Distress

Thursday, September 18, 2008


Posted By on Thu, Sep 18, 2008 at 11:40 AM


I couldn’t BE more thrilled and goose-pimply from Max Brantley’s invitation to let him host my blog!


But you want the truth, so let’s get down to business.

This post is a lengthy maiden voyage and it isn’t pretty. You’ll find out why when we dock (below).

I received an email from Max Brantley about my blogging under his banner, so to speak. I feigned polite interest because I already have a fabulous blog posted elsewhere.

Then he mentioned: “No remuneration.” Now, I don’t blog under ANY man’s banner for nothing.

So I emailed back: “Two words, Max; one’s a verb, the other’s a pronoun.”

And promptly canceled that email account to cut off further contact.

I didn’t earn this lovely home in a Chenal cul-de-sac (or “Circle,” as chic Chenalians prefer) and offshore accounts in the Caymans by GIVING it away, Hog fans.

(Houston? Text me. Time to settle up.)


Imagine my shock when, in under an hour, I received an email at the VERY EMAIL ADDRESS I JUST CANCELED . . . with an attached PDF on official stationery from one, “The Honorable Ellen B. Brantley, Circuit Judge, 16th Division.”

Suspicious because her last name was the same as Max’s, I Googled her and – who knew? The Judge is Max’s WIFE!

An “Uh-Oh” Moment.

I mean, her letter was nice and everything, but The Honorable Judge Brantley vaguely hinted that certain, um, past “issues” from my sealed records might mysteriously become “unsealed” were I to, you know, refuse to blog under her husband’s banner, as it were.

Frankly, I was stunned that she or her I-T staff hacked my ISP and ressurected my dead email account on government time just so she could contact me.

A Born Again moment.

Then I read her PDF sentence about “obtained a court order” and was suddenly and truly thunderstruck with honor and humility to be invited to blog here.

One serves when called, pretty much. Especially when under judicial scrutiny.

Call it my Palin Epiphany.

I responded carefully, adopting what I hoped was a gracious yet folksy southern tone, to reply to, “The Honorable Ellen B. Brantley, Circuit Judge, 16th Division.”

“Listen, hon,” I began. (You know; cute yet still respectful.) “I shut down ‘Chenal Escorts’ several years ago, paid my fine and did my time.”

The rest of my email reply to Judge Brantley was courteous, I hoped.

I proudly informed her that my girls had all gone on to become neurosurgeons and gynecologists and theoretical physicists and were saving the world except for "Mindy," who'd moved to pre-Katrina New Orleans and was working as a pole dancer on Bourbon Street only she'd always made kind of bad choices so that wasn't my fault and besides since the Big Blow she's working graveyard at the Waffle House in Butte and couldn't be happier going by the name of Opal.

So I hit “Send/Receive.”

Promptly popped a Paxil, Osterized a pitcher of double-tequila frozen margaritas and slid into the Jacuzzi to ponder my options. Yes, nude. Why do you ask?


My options were nil, so here I am. I mean, the woman’s a JUDGE. And Max is BIG. An Escalade among men, if you will, only without the bling plus better fuel economy and a lighter green footprint.

You DO NOT block a moving judge. You DO NOT block a moving Escalade.

That’s Idiocy in IMAX.

After three margaritas under the stars, and the Paxil kicking in, a feeling of universal bliss for all things blogful and Brantley washed over me and all I could think was, “You like me. You really like me!”

So I couldn’t BE more thrilled to be here. Really.

(Plus I haven’t heard back from Judge Brantley, which I’m thinking is good.)


“Que sera, sera.” This blog will be . . .

. . . family friendly (Bates family friendly), the anti-“Soiree” and anti-“Inviting Arkansas” (can’t WAIT till online advertisers pummel Max to drop their ads from this blog and he realizes the enormous mistake he’s made) . . .

. . . fashion tips and makeover hookups . . .

. . . “Sex Secrets for Sensual Seniors,” “Sex Secrets for Randy Republicans,” “Sex Secrets for Depraved Democrats,” “Sex Secrets for Amorous Amish,” “NEVER Sign Pre-Nups: Secrets of Successful Trophy-Wives,” stuff like that (the book proposals are already in my agent’s hands) . . .

. . . insider dish on politicians and scoundrels (with incriminating photos) . . .

. . . and, of course, live blogging from the world’s most glamorous social and political hotspots.

The Republican National Convention in St. Paul wasn’t one of them, but hey: I got comped every inch of the way. And they liked me. They really liked me.

I’ll be in New York election night attending Barbara Walters’ party with the cast of “The View” and other assorted power-femmes. Live blogging? Of course. Why do you ask?


I’m going all Stella McCartney and Louis Vuitton this trip, I’m thinking. Mainly because NONE of these women can carry off Stella McCartney except maybe Elizabeth Hasselbeck who’ll be there with her fourth-rate quarterback husband, Tim, who’s nice enough exthept he hath thith thligt lithp we’re not thuppothed to notith and I keep thinking, “Why does she talk like a little girl?” but the image of the two of them making love ith too dithturbing.

So that’ll be fun.

My “little black book,” which the courts never discovered during my “Chenal Escorts” franchise, remains the nexus of my global network of high-echelon Alpha Male “former” clients and, of course, their younger second wives who will NEVER leave them.

My “little black book” is also the nexus of this blog. All the dirt, dish and derision just a phone call away, pour moi. Posted directly to vous.


Cindy McCain’s an anomaly. The exception that proves the rule. Not a friend. More an acquaintance because I know Carly Fiorina, and Cindy and I air-kissed uncomfortably in Carly’s skybox at the RNC.

Cindy scoped my Armani two-piece up and down. “Armani?” she asked. I was in heaven. She KNEW!

“Yes!” I gleamed.

“Ever since I bought that suit four years ago I’ve gotten more compliments on it,” hissed Cindy, steely-eyed.

I had a retort, but it was Carly’s skybox and I figured our troops are stretched thin enough so I took the High Road.

CINDY’S the one with the money and the properties. HE will never leave HER. Except, you know, through Natural Attrition.

Or, since I eschew euphemisms, Death.

And I LOVE Cindy for it! Because if McCain wins he will be the first Kept Man in the White House and you really can’t get more feminist than that!

Plus Sarah Palin will be running the country and I couldn’t BE more . . . DISTRESSED. Damsel-wise.

Shooting Alaskan moose? Shooting Al Quaeda? Apples and oranges, Sarah.

Yet I SO admire Cindy for breaking with feminist tradition. Usually, when women are richer than their husbands, they understandably choose younger men. Think Joan Collins, a mentor and dear chum though I could be her daughter. “JC” to intimates.


John, 72, and Cindy, 54. Both of whom lied about their ages when they met and haven’t stopped lying about everything else ever since. Joan and Percy Gibson, 75 and 43, who’ve never lied about anything. They’re not politicians. TRIVIA QUESTION: Is it true what they say about the size of men’s noses? TRIVIA ANSWER: Absolutely.

My little black book verifies “Six Degrees of Separation.” How do you think I moled my way into Carly Fiorina’s skybox at the Xcel Center in St. Paul with the RNC?

It’s actually a mere THREE steps from Rupert Murdoch to Carly, if you know what you’re doing. And I do.


Mae West famously said, "Keep a diary and someday it will keep you."

So this blog comes directly from the bottom of my bosom and the black-book pages of my Past / Present / Future. It’s all the things I love to share with the little people of the world who pay taxes and Dare to Dream Big.

All the things that make my life the pinnacle of panache, the epitome of elegant extravagance, and the tumultuous thrill-ride that it is, bless my heart.


Yes, it’s been a lengthy first post. Here’s why.

Comment fast, Big Dreamers.

I give this blog about three days before it’s pulled.

If in fact it’s not already DOA.




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