Downton Abbey Postmortem: American Wankers

Let’s be honest. Americans have had a love/hate relationship with the Brits from the very start. No matter what we do, we will always be that rebellious young colony that revolted from their sticky hasty pudding grip from across the pond; the prodigal sons and daughters of the U.K. It’s an unbreakable bond.

Still, it wasn’t until the 1970’s that America realized it had feelings for England, or at least BBC programming. Television shows such as The Avengers, Dr. Who, Benny Hill and the beloved Monty Python seduced a less than sophisticated American audience to the clever tastes of our lost relative.

By comparison American TV programming was, let’s be honest, rather simplistic. Just consider Green Acres, I Dream of Genie, The Beverly Hillbillies, The Brady Bunch, Hee Haw, and you catch a foul breath of what passed for American cultural comedy. Newton N. Minow nailed it when he dubbed American television “a vast wasteland” in his famous 1961 speech. With today’s cable sprawl and internet bandwidth we’re now considerably more vast… and certainly more wasted.

The British produced Upstairs Downstairs, and decades later, the Harry Pottery empire of merchandised media. But the English soaps were always a better class of scum.

Which brings us to the cultural obsession that was Downton Abbey: What was it about this show that so enthralled American audiences? Setting Hogwort’s School for Wayward Warlocks aside, we’ve never gone castle-crazy before. Well, maybe Disneyland, but that’s it. Americans famously dislike any sort of class system, even though old money still trumps new, unless your name is Donald or Duck.

So what was it about this particular fairy tale? This sorta/kinda true story based on quasi-factual events from Highclere Castle and stately homes similar? For our wonderfully vulgar American tastes you must admit this British dish is rather on the bland side. During season after season not a single character was shot, stabbed, poisoned, switched at birth or married their cousin. You call this entertainment? Project Runway is more suspense-worthy, especially when Mood Fabrics is having a sale on cotton chintz.

Now with the show finally over, I think I’ve determined why we were so enthralled with the Crawleys and their devoted servants in the first place. And it certainly wasn’t their spontaneity!

My theories…

1. Americans Love To Bitch. Just imagine your daughter running off with the chauffeur. Impossible to imagine, you say? Alright, that’s understandable. Imagine then that all 50 of your children have run off to get Gay married. (Damn you, Delaware– Get back here and change your clothes for tonight’s 10 course dinner!) While the Earl and his lovely wife fretted over what the townspeople would say about their automotive scandal– (Was that chauffeur position ever refilled?)– The United States is in a similar pickle, if I may use the euphemism. America, you see, is terrible with grammar, especially personal pronouns. Yes, your daughter’s wife is your daughter-in-law; your son’s husband is your son-in-law. Deal with it Kansas. Now put on your tuxedo and let’s retire to the Smoking Room.

2. America is Living Cliff-To-Cliff. Just flashback to Downton’s beginnings. Do you remember when things were really bad? The Titanic had just hit an iceberg and the Crawleys now have an extra couple of chairs to fill at Christmas dinner. Now that’s a disaster! The Earl of Grantham is broker than broke; he can barely afford to keep his Footmen in socks. Lady Cora may start taking in laundry. The whole place could turn into an upscale AirB&B by next Summer. Does any of this sound familiar?  Think about it for a depleting minute.

3. America Loves A Good Queen… or Two. Julian Fellowes has said he based some of the series on classic American television, most notably shows like Dynasty. Not that Shirley McClain would ever push Maggie Smith into a carp pond, but that huge staircase looked mighty tempting. Dear Maggie with her near musical intonations of snarky comments was always just a slap away from one of her left-handed compliments. Poor Shirley could barely remember what lifetime/or lifetime movie she was in. At Downton there was always time for tea but little sympathy.

4. America IS Downton Abbey. From that long driveway exterior shot as you approached, the castle looked practically magical, a place beyond belief. But distance, as they say, did them well. Look closer and you’ll find some serious structural issues. Like dowager aunts, Downey Abbey and America are nearly the same age and neither one has held up over time. America’s top floor is nearly unlivable, the roof of dissension coming down all around us. Politically we’re as split as rotted roofing timber. We have water where we don’t want water– and no water where we need water. Same with “the heat” and the fight over global warming. And don’t even look at our plumbing. If America were having a home inspection, we’d be one of those house flipping reality shows where the contractor turns to the camera and mouths the word, “Sucker!”

So my friends, you aren’t looking at television– you’re looking into a mirror. You may have thought you were watching a British soap opera over-traumatizing the daily drama of 100 years ago, but in fact your flat screen is reflecting today. Be it in 3D, 4D or IMAXed out, it’s still right there in your living room. “Isis, bring me my slippers!”

“No offense,” as Archie Bunker would say, “but present company suspected.”

Whether you’re a cook, a ladies’ maid or the overworked/abused Daisy, you best get your head out of the domestic clouds.

Handsome Thomas is never going to give you a second look. He’ll soon be headed to America– Provincetown, specifically. And not just to get his tails pressed.

So to speak.


By Duane Scott Cerny. Copyright 2016.

You’re Getting Busy, Very Busy: Hypnotic House Cleaning (or) 7 Guilt-Free Ways To Tackle Your Messy Life


We all have them. Household projects that never seem to get done no matter how hard we procrastinate with our lazy selves. It’s the curse of the disorganized life.

If wishing your duties away has proven ineffective and your own magical powers are sorely limited to dodging work (at work), it’s time to face the sound of one hand not cleaning.

Barring any job that a contractor, a skilled craftsman or an alien (illegal or otherwise) can perform, the onus remains on you. If you think Angie’s List is a registry for sex offenders, missing children or Miss Dickinson’s greatest roles, you need to turn off Fox News right now. That network has enough of their own problems; they don’t need any of yours.

Yes, you have dozens of things needing to be done. And yes, there are thousands of qualified people out there looking to work. Unfortunately, you just aren’t one of them.

So in order to tackle all the pesky household projects you’ve been putting off since George W. Bush took up painting portraits in his bathroom (don’t ask), I offer a few hypnotic suggestions…

“You’re Getting Busy. Very Busy.”

1. Get a Good Night’s Sleep. Plenty of rest is important if you’re to attack the big day ahead. If you have sex, make sure not to make a mess. You already have enough to do tomorrow– Extra laundry isn’t a problem, it’s a lifestyle choice.

2. Wake Refreshed. Make a huge pot of coffee but be certain not to share. This isn’t Starbucks where most everyone sits about with their smart devices, baby sipping Poutine-infused lattes while awaiting a response to their latest screenplay submission. FYI, #CleanReader101: Your prequel to “Rosemary’s Baby” is not being picked up any time soon. James Franco already has a spoken-word musical pitch in the Dreamworks; he plays both the placenta in the birthing scene at the Dakota and a plate of polenta at a French restaurant in the state of Dakota. While he’s busy covering the convoluted waterfront, you’re still looking for the 2% Coffee-mate. Get moving!

3. Play Some Disco Music. You hate Disco? Even better. Nothing gets people off their feet faster than bad music or the breakfast burrito at Taco Bell. Use the toilet, but don’t clean it. You don’t have time to be a hero today. Besides, “Scrubbing Bubbles” is no longer just a product made by Clorox– she’s also a contestant on this season’s finale of RuPaul’s Drag Race. Try to keep up!

4. Pick A Room (Any Room) &  Lock Yourself In Tight. Now pretend you’re Tippi Hedren when she got trapped in that bedroom full of over-aroused birds. Start pulling the place apart as if a leering fat man with a camera is filming your complete emotional breakdown.  Just go nuts. Have a crazy tear at the entire room, leaving no turn un-stoned. Then step back and admire what a total disaster this room is compared to the rest of your place. Suddenly, perspective is everything.

5. Bitch & Complain. Nothing clears out a room faster than a whiny homeowner who is knee deep in clutter and dust bunnies that have evolved into alternative forms of life. (How does dust grow teeth?) What? You say no one is listening to your cries of woe? And how is today any different than any other? No, the room will not be any cleaner but your head will be. And aren’t YOU more important than a clutter-free kitchen countertop?

6. Drink. A full tilt, alcohol infused cleaning session might not produce the results you want but it sure empties those half used liquor bottles right quick. Recycling? Done!

7. Blame Others. That house guests from a year ago? The neighbor who stopped by to inquire about her lost cat? Your mailman with the limp? All perfectly good individuals to blame for one’s lack of organization. When pressed, blaming others offers a unique opportunity to weasel out of most anything you ever promised to do in life. It isn’t noble, still it’s the closest you’ll get to being efficient. Efficient at blaming others.

“I’d have had the the dining room repainted by now if that telemarketer hadn’t called about some timeshare opportunity in Jersey City. I don’t have 25 hours in my day, you know?”

Yes, you can thank me later. You now have plenty of time.

Duane Scott Cerny. Copyright 2016.



Top 5 Wonders of the World That Never Were… Well, Mostly


Or flop? Most people are content with: “What’s new?” or “What’s different?” Oddly, I am interested in “What isn’t” or more correctly, what hasn’t been realized. Nothing bothers me more than being promised something, then not getting it. Maybe it goes back to some childhood memory of a disappointing Christmas, but don’t tell me I’m getting something and then back out of the deal. You know who you are and you promised.

As the drag actor Divine once screamed, “I wanted Cha-Cha heels!”

The following are my Top 5 Wonders of the World That Never Were: 5 big things on my wish list of wonderful that never came to pass. Personally, I feel cheated… and you should too.


Cancelled skyscrapers are nothing new in America or throughout the world. However, Chicago has a long and famous architectural history with projects that never got off the ground. Literally. Very few “A” list architect become famous without first building something notable in Chicago. This has been true ever since an impatient cow in need of milking kicked Mrs. O’Leary’s flame and fortune into the future. Cleared a lot of land for Frank Gehry.

The Chicago Spire was a dream project. In the end, that’s all it was, but for a brief moment it was a star. Conceived as one of the tallest buildings in America at 2,000 ft./150 floors, the structure had everything going for it. A famous architect: Santiago Calatrava. An incredible location just a few hundred feet from Chicago’s tourist-crazy Navy Pier and lakefront. Plus it was a design worthy of awe. Yes, perhaps, inspired. But best of all, it was in Chicago.

The project was approved by Chicago’s City Counsel in 2007 faster than any proposal in the city’s history. And do you know how many Aldermen have construction companies with their own projects in the works? Plenty. Being an Aldermen is a part time job, so they all have extra time to buy property, run hot dog stands, shake down unlicensed dog walkers. Important things. Still all this was put aside to push through the approval on this massive skyscraper. Back then, what Major Daley wanted, Mayor Daley got. It’s the City of the Big Shoulder Pads, remember?

When the bottom (and in the case, also the top) of the real estate market popped, it was over. Though the Spire’s developers were able to secure leases for the bottom floors of the structure with retail, multiplexes and multi-Starbucks, the condos above remained unsold. Except for the top penthouse (141st & 142nd floors) purchased by Ty Warner inventor (kind word) of the Beanie Baby, the building remained unsold. Warner’s 10,000 duplex was listed at $40 million but the final sales price was never disclosed. Given the building’s ultimate demise, I’m certain his deposit was returned: Seamore the Seal, Hong Kong Bear and Aldi, the Alchohol Alderman Antelope.

After the hotel concept was scrapped, all that was left were the unsold condos between the retail development on the bottom floors and Kingdom of Beanies above. Oh, and lawsuits in between. Lots and lots of lawsuits.

What remains today is a very large hole in the ground. When it rains there’s plenty of room for Seamore Seal and his friends to flounder in the glory of what wasn’t.


There’s bad taste– and then there’s the Titanic Hotel, Las Vegas. This recreation of the fated luxury liner RMS TITANIC was to be a themed resort and hotel boasting some 1,200 rooms. Scale, as you know, is everything in Vegas– be it a cup sized for your quarters or your bosoms– this development was no different. Measuring approximately 400 feet in long it was to be constructed across from the Sahara Hotel and Casino.

Though the entire project was nixed by City Counsel (imagine the sinking ship-themed simulator ride!) surprisingly the web site is still up at Check it out for some amazingly cheesy graphics and every ice reference to be found in your frozen thesaurus. I can’t imagine what the marketing people had in mind: “Gamble with your money, not your life?” This looks worse than a Dead Sea Carnival Cruise.


This is a story that is perhaps more urban myth fiction than reality fact, but I’m telling it anyway.

At the height of Pee-Wee Herman’s fame and fortune, the boy in the ill-fitting suit had the world on it’s knees, a position Miss Yvonne was not always unfamiliar. In addition to the Pee-Wee’s Playhouse franchise and the phenomenal success of a young Tim Burton’s “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure,” this little P.W. was making huge bucks. At the zenith of his frenzy Herman had yearly merchandising sales in excess of $25 million, mostly from toys. Yet in the works were many things, including: a line of kids clothes at J.C. Penney, a breakfast cereal and yes, as mentioned in People Magazine in 1989, his own amusement park. “A warped version of Disneyland,” he predicted/lied(?) at the time.

Though people were throwing land at him like magic words (“bukkake”) the rumor mill whispered Pee-Wee was buying up property in Hollywood under assumed names– (Constance Amnesia, Placenta Flambe’, Chastity Stirrup, etc.) in and around where the Kodak Theatre now stands. I have not been able to locate the photo– I saw it only once and cannot verify its authenticity– but the property had been fenced off and a sign posted, “Coming Soon… Pee-Wee Land!”

Sadly, when Pee-Wee’s little slacks hit the floor, so did Pee-Wee Land. Captain Carl and Cowboy Curtis were replaced by two vice detectives in that now infamous L.A. porn theatre raid. (Yes, Pee-Wee came THIS close to relaunching a West Coast Village People!)

The rest, as they say, is his story. Not that anyone believed it. Did the media, the public and the world overreact? In hindsight, perhaps. He seems a fine man, a funny actor and he created a character that will live forever. Rather like Chaplin’s Little Tramp, except Pee-Wee’s white loafers tended to stick.

The same cannot be said for Pee-Wee Land. Was it just a dream on paper? Just a fib Pee-Wee told?  And could not the psychically disembodied Jambi have given Pee-Wee a heads up? Of course, no one ever wants bad news. Especially on a pink Princess telephone.

Now we can only imagine what wondrous rides would have been inspired by the original Playhouse and the fun we would have had.”Woulda, coulda, shoulda!” Right, Pee-Wee?

4. SUNSET BOULEVARD: THE MOVIE MUSICAL – But wait you say, “This is happening!” Um, perhaps/maybe. This “on again/off again” movie musicalization of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Hollywood opera has been stop-lighted so often, it’s enough to make you want to shoot anyone seeking a midnight swim.

Rumor reads that Glenn Close has snagged the role of the tragic Norma Desmond, but you know Meryl Streep can play anything, including that dead monkey part in cameo. Barbara Streisand’s name was floated about for a time, but then she wants to direct. And Cecil B. DeMille, sorry Lloyd Weber, would never hear of it.

There was an ancient story that Weber offered the part to Madonna, but she wasn’t about to play someone THAT old. Don’t cry for me, Argentina. Or 10086 Sunset Boulevard, for that matter. That’s the downside of creating a Diva: you give and you give, yet still it’s hard to fill those big heels and bigger egos. This is not the first time Sir Andrew has created a monster; the movie version of Phantom made a big PLOP sound in both the river beneath the opera house and at a theatre near you.

My personal casting: Barbara Streisand as Norma Desmond (eccentric/crazy); Tatum Channing as Joe (stud puppet paradise); Patrick Stewart as Max (elegant and faded sexy).


Originally published in Andy Warhol’s Interview Magazine and later in “Music For Chameleons,” Truman Capote’s “Hand-Carved Coffins: A Non Fiction Account of an American Crime” is second only to “In Cold Blood” for the genius of the conceit, if not the writing. Returning to his “non fiction novel” format Capote places himself in this intriguing tale of a serial killer, but with a twist: before their cleverly devised deaths each victim receives an exquisitely made miniature hand carved coffin with their own tiny photo inside. Chills!

A detective investigating the case falls in love (of course) with a soon-to-be victim. He must solve the case before she too is killed in a mostly grizzly way. Capote himself meets with the killer, but he may have met his match. Can he prove the killer’s guilt or innocence? Could you be next? (Hint: Don’t accept any UPS deliveries!)

According to author Steven Bach’s “Final Cut,” the film rights to “Hand-Carved Coffins” were originally secured by United Artists for $250,000 just prior to their corporate sinking by the notorious Michael Cimino’s budget busting “Heaven’s Gate.” Hal Ashby had been slated to direct. Truman took the money and croaked in 1984, though not before United Artist hit the ground first. 20th Century/Fox would later pick the option where the would-be film has about floated for years– most recently to the estate of Dino De Laurentis.

“Hand-Carved Coffins” could very well be the greatest unresolved literary hoax of our time, but that’s just another odd feature to this true(?) crime puzzler. To this day it remains one of the most unusual films never made.

Have a suggestion for more “Wonders of the World That Never Were?” Let me know!

By Duane Scott Cerny.  Copyright 2016.

Cupcake O.D., Magnolia Bakery & Me: Immediate Intervention Needed


The New York Times real estate listing read, “An enchanting Swiss Chalet Penthouse Studio. Imagine waking up to the sweet aroma of Magnolia Bakery…”

Oh, great! A constant smell. Who wouldn’t want that?

The bakery meant little to me. After having spent three years trying to buy an apartment in Manhattan, I had all but given up. What I didn’t purchase in the beginning of my search was now completely out of reach. It was 2005 and I had been outbid, outdone and outwitted by the city’s juggernaut real estate market. Could I possibly make one more run at the co-op windmill?

Did I ever think it might be nice to have real bakery across the street? Was I ever that young, that naive, that smell challenged? Yet Biography Bookstore was just two stores over from the apartment in question, a huge plus– so how bad could it be?

But being true to any long-winded story, it was in the middle of August, a 4th floor walk-up with a dead air conditioner the size of an Easy-Bake Oven, which may have also been used for heat in the winter. This “penthouse” unit was truly up-in-the-rafters small. One doll house size wall comprised the kitchen with ancient cabinets half hanging on, half heading down, gravity bound. Splinters from the original oak floor pulled completely up as I walked across it; they stuck into the cuffs of my jeans like toothpicks on steroids. Built in 1860, badly remodeled in 1960. And did I mention it was a small fortune? Other than these silly details, it was perfect.

Ready for the clincher? The real estate listing finished with the words, “Estate to be sold “as is” within 48 hours. Best and final offer. A fast, clean deal.” Oh, sure.

If the realtor hadn’t liked me– I was on full schmooze– I wouldn’t have had a chance. Three offers were on the table, two were very close. The Seller asked the realtor who wanted the apartment the most? Good question!

Short story: I scored the property. Within days of the closing I was perched 4 floors up and 50 yards away from what I would learn to be one of the most famous culinary sweet-tooth haunts in all of New York City. But I still didn’t have a clue. My only view from the tiny top floor attic windows was the endless line of people standing outside Magnolia Bakery. Every day from mid afternoon to late into the evening, the faithful would arrive in pre-diabetic waves to pay their respects at $1.75 (back then) for a high caloric cupcake blessing.

Our Lady of Lourdes may have pray-answered stacks of obsolete crutches, but they were sorrily outnumbered by the thousands of empty Magnolia cupcake boxes which littered the street, overflowing the garbage cans of Bleecker Park, kitty corner to that sugar fix. My appetite was quick to be spade and/or neutered.

“Never Before Has So Much Meant So Little To So Few…”

Was I the last person on the planet to discover that Magnolia Bakery was a national obsession? When I told friends in other cities (name a city/any city) that I lived across from M.B. they knew my residence immediately; some knew my exact address–and that’s scary. Some could even identify the building: they knew the doorway, the cobblestones on the corner, the smell of burnt sugar. Yes, of course, they also loved Marc Jacobs, Kate Spade, Biography Bookstore, Ralph Lauren, Cynthia Rowley, blah, blah, blah.

This was odd. It wasn’t the infamous Dakota, the iconic 740 Park or the faux glitz of Trump Tower. It wasn’t even architecture which put this vintage slice of the West Village on the map. It was those frickin’ cupcakes.

Magnolia Bakery touted weekly sales of 20,000 cupcakes plus untold other treats. Realize then that on any given weekend thousands of people would descend upon this quaint intersection of Bleecker and 11th: tour buses saddling up on the 9th Avenue side of Bleecker Park, dispensing tourists like a pregnant guppy. In every weather imaginable the line would extend from the door of the bakery in numbers seldom fewer than 50, more often 100+. And though that line moved smoothly, it could remain intact for hours on end, like a favored ride at Disneyland. Or the King Tut tour of tooth decay.

“Famous for Fifteen Thousand Calories…”

Magnolia has morphed into the stuff of legend, famous for being famous. It has been parodied on Saturday Night Live (5 million downloads claims NBC) cementing its cult status like a clogged artery. A Magnolia cupcake with a single birthday candle makes a cameo appearance in the film “The Devil Wears Prada,” just part of the story line which coincidentally includes a $1,900 Marc Jacobs handbag, Magnolia’s neighbor to the north. Of course it was “Sex & The City” which helped turn the bakery into legend. By the time the “Sex & The City” movie franchise was released, those aging ingenues would be using buttercream as facial wraps. Or wheel chair lubricant.

“Never Forget Your First Time, Unless It Was Totally Forgettable…”

On my first visit to Magnolia Bakery, I made a massive cupcake faux pas by allowing two couples to cut ahead of me. Once inside they promptly self-helped themselves to 48 cupcakes (Um, Hello– The sign says: “Limit 1 Dozen Per Person”), emptying all the trays in one swift swoop. For quite some time no more cupcakes materialized from the back of the shop.

I must have looked disappointed. “Where are you from?” asks one of the husbands. “Just moved here from Chicago,” I forlornly respond. “Oh, that explains it,” he chuckles.  “A New Yorker would never have let us cut in.” He pauses. “So what are you going to do now… Now that we’ve taken all the cupcakes?”

“Well”, I say slowly, “if we were in Chicago, I’d stuff your lifeless bodies into the trunk of your car and leave it at the airport. But since you’re true New Yorkers, lets use LaGuardia.”

They promptly put two cupcakes back on the tray.

“It’s Like Living Across the Street From Graceland… Without the Grace.”

The crowds that amass in the West Village are a respectable lot. The daytime throngs are well behaved, clean and happy to be making the scene. Often people stand across the street, cell phones in hand, forwarding digital pics of Magnolia Bakery’s Cracker Barrel-light exterior. Like the photo above depicts (taken from my tiny balcony, M.B.’s blue canopy to the right), there are often traffic jams from the constant parade of town cars and Uber-Lyfts. It is rather a forced destination. The upside, you can always get a cab.

“This is the place I told you about,” shouts a girl into a pink bejeweled phone shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head. “This is where I am.”

Clearly Carrie Bradshaw should have been a Stepford Wife instead of her husband, Matthew Broderick. Like a Stepford-Bradshaw army, thousands of these young women are drawn to Magnolia Bakery like moths to polyester.

Not unpleasant, the corner of Bleecker & 11th usually has a street carnival feel. On any given afternoon an architectural walking tour maneuvers thru the unloading of a bus of Italian tourists while a “Major Motion Picture” is being shot down the street. There are also movie location tours which make this a regular stop. (They were court ordered not to be serving any non M.D. cupcakes on the bus!) Add to this the thousands of cupcake starved patrons and you have all of the ingredients for a sticky city gridlock.

“The Only Thing Better Than Nightfall is Day Fall…”

When darkness descends on Fridays and Saturdays a different kind of sweet decay comes out to prey. It’s a younger, Generation “Y Should I Give Crap?” attitude, fresh from the bars, buzzed and hungry. Sure there are cupcake scuffles– no frosting spilled, but many an angry disagreement will arise among young men when they’ve been over-served, over-sugared and only allowed to buy that lame-ass dozen.

No, “Last Call” at Magnolia has an odd culinary desperation as the patrons roll out onto the sidewalk, laughing, cursing, tossing empty cupcake boxes to the curb. Yet it’s hard to appear bad ass when you’re sucking your fingers.

“This is a True Story. I’m Not Telling It Again.”

It’s 2:00 AM. A jet black town car pulls up to the now darkened Magnolia B. A young woman jumps out, clearly inebriated, and begins pounding on the bakery’s door. “I’ll give you $20.00 for a cupcake,” she yells.

Inside, a young maintenance man with a bucket waives her off. “Come on! $25.00 then…” The man turns away. She begins kicking at the door. “OK, $50.00!  I’ll give you $50.00 for one cupcake!” More unintelligible screaming. “OK, how ’bout I **** you for a cupcake (Insert carnal imagination here.)

The worker scampers to the back of the store and turns off all the lights. The hungry woman returns to her car, sobbing. To the driver she whines, “He won’t even sell me one cupcake…”

“Life Is Not About Frosting: It Only Covers Up What’s Underneath…”

The cupcake-crumb-eating pigeons in Bleecker Park are fat and rush about like public school children on a vending machine buzz. The poor park takes a regular beating from the crowds and their confection wrappers: the City barely keeps up. Still, nearby buildings routinely get ticketed for the trash that clutters the sidewalks, an unfair burden to the homeowners who try to keep this particular bedlam in order.

It’s as if your next door neighbor won the $100 Million Lotto… and you get to hose down his driveway. Not that M.B. doesn’t try to keep its corner tidy, it tries. But even they could not have predicted what fame would bring to this tiny intersection of 18th century streets and 21st century baked goods.

How many more years can this continue?  Limit 1 Dozen, please.

UPDATE: Biography Bookstore was priced out if its old home. It was replaced by Book Marc, Jacob’s foray into reading. Of course, it’s a hit. Lots of oversized books with big pictures and ephemera kitsch; clearly he knows his market. Jimmy Choo opened nearby and shortly closed thereafter with but a sneeze. Michael Kors opened… and Ralph Lauren closed. Coach closed two stores. Christofle Silver opened a dazzling little jewel box. Bleecker Street has evolved into the most expensive game of musical retail chairs ever played. Per square foot, the area has surpassed even the rental rates of Rodeo Drive. (see Wall Street Journal, then turn away.)

And Magnolia Bakery?  Their signature Bleecker store is as crazy/busy as ever. They now have countless locations across the city and throughout country.

“Can I **** you for a cupcake?”  I think you already have.

By Duane Scott Cerny.  Copyright 2016


Hobby Lobby Tightens Knobby Knees of Holly Hobbie (or) There Has To Be A Morning After… Pill

What are we to make of that Supreme Court kerfuffle, Hobby Lobby vs. Your Uterus, et al.?

Should your employer be able to decide and/or influence your reproductive rights? When does an IUD become an IOU? Better still: Do you own the rights to you? Not sure? Better check your gender.

Recent years have been unkind to vaginas and points northward. Forced ultrasounds and unwelcoming probes are the law of the land/wandering hand in many states.  Perhaps soon coming to an opening near you.

Even liberal Madison, Wisconsin now lives under the duress of this physical imposition to personhood. Not the male sex personhood, of course. Lately the penis seems to be winning in the affairs of the Cialis motivated heart.

Holly Hobbie was not party to this lawsuit, but she is alive, well and selling briskly on the store shelves of Hobby Lobby. Her virtues and rights, like that of all women, may be questioned by a puzzled Supreme Court, but her fate is far from irrelevant to the tale being told.

As strange backstory, Holly Hobbie is both a fictional character and a real person, author and illustrator of same changed name (Denise Holly Ulinskas.). Yes, Virginia, there is a Sanity Clause. There are, fact, not one, but two Holly Hobbies. One receives royalties, the other IS royalty, if only in some pastel art circles.

Originally conceived as the “blue girl” of the storybook series (rather like a shabby Blue Bonnet Margarine character) Holly is a cutely lass with bonnet who wears an all rag (yes, rag) dress. Basically, if Raggedy Anne somehow got into Smith or Barnard, you’d have Holly Hobbie. You just wouldn’t have much; she still couldn’t hold an aspirin between her patchwork upholstered knees.

In the classic depiction of Holly, her cat is always loyally nearby– perhaps to screen calls, send a fax or dash off on an errand. Often the cat returns with a mouse when she was supposed to bring back skim lattes. Felines. Silly creatures.

But I digress.

You see, in the late 1960’s Holly Hobby, Inc. was sold to the formidable American Greetings conglomerate. To date, mega licensing deals have generated thousands of mass produced Holly Hobbie products, nearly all of it embracing the vague, homespun aesthetic that is America. Holly may as well have been home schooled at Cracker Barrel. Instead, like many an iconic figure in popular culture, she has been merchandised like an overworked streetwalker. Apparently she still can’t lose the pimp.

Illustrated books begat dolls which begat novels which begat calendars which begat greeting cards which begat movies. Enough! Can a fragrance,  slot machine, reality show, gingham iPad cover or Grand Theft/Holly Hobbie Wheels 6.0 not be in the works? It’s a youth market; tough to stay relevant these days.

Remember Lucy from Peanuts? Where is she now? Living in Santa Cruz as a lesbian acupuncturist, no doubt. Show biz can be that unkind.

But with the kismet of destiny came our missing punchline. Hobby Lobby, Inc. entered, stage far right…. just past the “Jesus Loves Anti-Semites” refrigerator magnets and the “Stop Tickling My Elmo Paper Doll Cut Out Book & Blue-Ray DVD… Now with Interactive Virtual Wetness.” Check Aisle 6. Next to the Goo Gone.

The Hobby Lobby lawsuit was fresh from the Mitt Romney School of “People are Corporations, My Friends.” Right here in River City. Yet the “P” and “C” did not stand for Political Correctness. Not right here. Their hobby WAS their lobby. Beyond coincidence, Washington is packed with really white, fresh-faced lobbyists picked at the very peak of their fanatical conservatism.  Nlame the Farm Bill.

And here is where Holly Hobbie Meets Hobby Lobby, at the apparent mummification of the Supreme Court. If Abbott & Costello had lady parts, they’d have be named as Third Party Plaintiffs, unless already mislabeled as “domestic partners” by the often false, Fox News.

So the question was asked: Can the Supreme Court, these hallowed thinkers, the brightest Breitbarts in the land, lead us through the valley of their own inconsistent insincerity?

And can they activate my new transit card? I need to travel and have stores to boycott. Simply:

1.  It’s hard to forgive Hobby Lobby for the disastrous launch of their Hanukkah cards. The Top 10 Scratch’n Sniff Scents of Israel sold poorly, especially in the humidity of a retiring Florida summer. “We’re shvitzing here something awful, Hyman!” someone coughed.

2.  The employees of Hobby Lobby should not to be subjected to the corporate overreach of management’s aggressive religiosity. I’m sorry, but the hand of God should not be holding an intrauterine device that doubles as a scrapbooking tool.

3. Historically, Holly Hobbie herself is an idealized representation of the purist feminine form, an illustrative Barbie, a virginal (not vaginal) Holly Golightly. Her image should not be reduced, disrespected or diminished by corporate manhandling. The dignity of all women suffer when privacy and personhood can be taken away with the swipe of a pricing gun.

4. And finally: All men must ultimately act as Gentlemen, a word seldom seen except on Men’s room doors or gender neutral Thursdays in Indiana. They must accept that women were created equal to men in the eyes of God— A God who, ironically enough, turned out to be one helluva arts ‘n crafter.

By Duane Scott Cerny. Copyright 2016.




Crop Circle Simultaneously Reveals DNA Strand & Winning Lotto Numbers

In a startling find that has confounded both the brilliant and the ignorant, an English Crop Circle has heads–and balls–turning.

While scientists debate the relevance of this recent conflagration, other less educated folk are flocking to their local 7-Elevens and Quickie Marts to play the numbers designated by the descending balls.

Said a local farmer, “It’s like turning your head and coughing money!”

For the first time in the history of crop circle research a double prediction has been made on a most perplexing level. Located in an obscure part of the English countryside called “Abbey Normal-on-the-Spanx,” the circle simultaneously details the DNA sequencing of Rupert Murdoch’s left testicle AND next week’s winning lotto numbers.

“It’s an incredible discovery!” says British physicist Sir Lord Buckingham of Fulton-Charlie Sheen. “I’ve seen DNA strands before. I’ve also pulled down a few numbers off the National Lottery. But never before have I seen a combining of the two. It’s either the foretelling of a coming apocalypse or a great opportunity to make a buck. Personally I’m betting on the latter but preparing for neither. After all, I’m a scientist, damn it!”

But American experts see it differently– mostly because they visit their eye doctor as often as they see a dentist, a fact that decays international relations and whatever affixed British teeth remain intact.

Professor G. Whizzer-Guilt of the University of Phoenix recently cited, “I can categorically state that the newly discovered English Crop Circles are as authentic as my degree from the University of Phoenix. In fact, not only is my online degree as legitimate, I can also download my diploma and print copies of it at home. I doubt the English can beat this level of integrity– even while wearing snow shoes and a tracking device in a corn field of hoax!”

To date, no one has come forward to deny that the DNA sequencing is anything other than Rupert Murdoch’s naughty (and tiny) bits. Concurrently, multiple wives have come forward to identify the withered sequence, often while wearing gloves or poking at it with a rolled pre-nup.

Murdoch’s first wife, Lady McMuffin McMurdoch of the M.C. Hamburglousters-On-Toast testified in an unrelated sperm/egg paternity suit that the strand was, quote, “the shriveled strand of her late husband.”

(Author’s Note: Rupert Murdoch IS NOT dead yet, but in the interest of internet accuracy, this article and his first wife are simply planning ahead. See Roger Ailes, Media Stud of Trump TV.)

Back across the murky pond the controversy continues. As 43 of the 50 American states have a lottery,  it is debatable in which state these numbered balls will drop. This confounds true believers and those living with aluminum siding or wheels under their living rooms.

Said a local yokel from a decidedly red state, “Do I believe in aliens?  Yup!  And that’s why we need a wall keeping the Canadians out!”

That attitude appears to be growing. A recent USA/CNN/DNA/NRA poll of lottery players echoes the sentiment. While only 2% of those surveyed believed in extra-terrestrials, 15% believed in the existence of extra testicles, while a shocking 85% believed these crop circles are, in fact, predicting winning lotto numbers. Most also believe Ann Coulter is actually an elderly man who went missing after hooking up with the Loch Ness Monster on the Scottish version of Tinder.

Even more disturbing is that all of this adds up to 102%, defying both the odds of logic and the abacus on my smartphone. Like the upcoming presidential election there is a 5% margin for air– most of it coming out of suicidal members of the RNC.

But the questions remain: Are beings from another planet messing with the very structure of human DNA? Or did Murdoch’s media empire phone-hack into the cosmos and piss off an intelligence greater than Robert Snowden during an NSA leak?

Are aliens accurately predicting winning lotto numbers to bring down the world economy?  Or will Park-All-Day-Twelve-Bucks succeed Kim Jong Un as the president of an unstable North Korea?  Call out the horses!

The answers to these and other questions can be found in my new book, “Answers to These and Other Questions” published by You’re So Vanity Press.


Winchester Mystery House: Sarah, The Ghost of a Souvenir

In life, Sarah Winchester couldn’t scare a ghost– or be scared by one.

Sarah Winchester was the original ghost hunter. Widowed and childless at the age of 42, she moved to San Jose, California on the advise of an East Coast psychic who claimed she’d be forever haunted by the deaths brought about by her Winchester Rifle inheritance.

In 1884, Sarah bought an 8 room farm house on 161 acres, drew up her renovation plans… and then spent the next 38 years arguing with building contractors. And that’s the scariest story I think I’ve ever heard. Stephen King at his best/worst couldn’t conjure up anything more terrifying.

By sheer force of will, Sarah who was barely 4’8″, almost always got her way, prodding those in her employ to build, 24/7, (yes, you read that correctly) non-stop until her death in 1922. Under that amount of rehabbing, how could this place NOT be haunted. It should also be noted that Sarah paid very well, so her employees hung around, some apparently long after their carpentry work was needed… and into the afterlife.

160 rooms exist today, though the mansion had once been larger (and taller, as seen in the photo above), but the tower and other parts of the house collapsed in the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Sarah also kept an “Ark” in the San Francisco Bay due to her fear of an impending “great flood,” but that’s another crazy Sarah story.

I confess this is one of my favorite haunts (sorry), having been there many times. The tiny photos you see below are part of an old souvenir album I stumbled upon many years ago. Most of these images are no longer used in the souvenirs sold at the Winchester Mansion, even though it’s the largest souvenir store I have ever seen for a single attraction– We’re talking Disney-scale merchandising. The new Japanese owners  really know how to take this ghost house to market.

I have always been fascinated by the transition between the death of Sarah Winchester and her metamorphosis as the late/great owner of the world’s most famous haunted house. Talk about a White Elephant. Stairways that lead nowhere. Second story doorways that open to a death fall. Windows in the floor. This is one tough residential sell even in an up market.

Of course for years the ghost angle was actually played down, even though there have been hundreds of sightings by many a non-believer over the years. Here is one of my favorite stories…

One day a local news crew was filming at the house, wandering the grounds, trying to get unusual angles on a story too often told, when they inevitably ended up in Sarah’s bedroom. As the camera scanned the room, it caught a workman outside of Sarah’s window, thus ruining the shot. When the newsman complained to the cameraman that the scene would have to be redone, they both realized that the workman had simply been floating outside the window. They were on the second floor; there was no window balcony or ledge on which to stand. This footage was broadcast only once on local television and never shown again. Apparently sometimes even the news can get too real.

And so the myth around grows. Sarah was only photographed once in her life– and  it was done by surprise, without her consent. In the picture she has an odd smirk on her face, as if the joke is on everyone but her. See: You.

Beyond building and living in the largest home in California, Sarah’s personal worth in 1880’s was an estimated $20 million dollars from her 50% ownership of the Winchester Rifle Company. Or to put it in today’s value, Oprah money.

Still, in the end, are we not all just ghosts-in-the-making?

Northwestern University: Sex Demo, Nude Modeling Or Just An Excuse To Get Naked?

A few years back, the brewhaha on Northwestern University Campus blew a hole into Evanston, Illinois as old as titillation itself. Maybe you were hiding in an adult bookstore at the time and didn’t hear about the “power tool sex toy” that was demonstrated in an optional after-class session on “Human Sexuality” conducted by Professor Michael Bailey.

100 students “opted in” to the demonstration and the reviews were, well, mixed. Some female students complained, some male students asked if there would be further study required at their local Home Depot. (No homework or extra credit?)

Professor Bailey did offer an apology, insisting that “no live sex acts” were ever performed. At least he didn’t have to claim, “I did not have sex with that woman, Miss Ace Hardware.”

Some alumni, of course, were shocked. In their day seeing a tight sweater lean over a petri dish was about as hot as their college days ever got. Others alums were disappointed that the demonstration was only available to students currently enrolled. Many people asked if there was a home school option.

Over the course of the fracas, Professor Bailey and the University released a total of five different statements ranging from research to apology, from foreplay to full penetration “oops”… but only after smoking a cigarette or two.

But the best response was from University President Morton Shapiro whose comments reinforced the University’s commitment to research in many fields, especially Alzheimer’s disease.

WTF?  Something tells me this is one course that Grandpa WILL NOT be forgetting to attend. And if there ever is a “next time,” perhaps the University can be certain there’s enough handicapped seating for the entire nursing home: that’s where all the Cialis-induced action is happening these days, right? Or so I’m old… er told.

Clearly this is the 21st Century scenario of the Nude Modeling session gone bad. But power tools?  Seriously? Even “This Old House” hasn’t stooped this low… and they remodel stoops all the time.

Still I must give credit to those responsible Northwestern students who sat there with pencils in hand, eager to learn. That no one took out their cell phone to capture this lusty lesson plan speaks to the dedication of these students and the seriousness of their studies. Or perhaps the University just has really lousy WIFI.

Back From The Dead: Vintage Technology

So now we’ve all seen those JITTERBUG commercials, the cell phone with the oversized numbers and 24-hour support. Clearly marketed to your parents and/or grandparents, their ads are near camp infomercials for the elderly and/or technologically challenged. Every generation laughs at the generation before. Media gives us an even greater stage to make fun of that which we will all inevitably become.

But can a JITTERBUG IPAD be far behind? With a DEPENDS APP.

For the younger reader, the JITTERBUG was a dance popular in the 1930’s. For this lame tradename to resonate with it’s intended audience, one would need to be between 80 to 100 years of age. So if you’re waiting for old friends to call, don’t plan on buying any additional minutes.

I mention this example because it’s easy to laugh at the old—and old technology. Trust me, I am both. So the following is meant merely to reflect the humor of reverse ageism.

But I digress. There are no stupid questions, right? Yet many times I have been asked to demonstrate, for some a fresh-faced collector, the art of using a Rotary Telephone. Yes, you heard that correctly. Rotary.

Let’s be blunt: “You stick your finger in the hole.” Explanation explained.

ME: This is a rotary phone. You rotate the dial.


ME: No! Dial… Dial!

CUSTOMER: So how does it work?

ME: You dial the number and it makes your call.

CUSTOMER: But how does it work?

ME: How does your cell phone work?

CUSTOMER: I don’t know.

ME: It’s the same technology, except it’s on a landline and you can’t text.

CUSTOMER: You’re kidding! Why would anyone want that?

ME: When it was invented it was the Verizon Upgrade from Two Tin Cans and a String. And I still can’t get out of that plan.

Of course, dead technology is not limited to the rotary phone. Portable typewriters also seem to confound many a new collector. The QWERTY keyboard and the texting explosion of recent years would makes vintage typewriter a kissing cousin to today’s cell technology. Kiss, but no tongue.

Perhaps the sheer size and weight of old typewriters spooks youthful fingers. Certainly the earlier the typewriter, the larger and more unwieldy they seem. Most resemble some sort of painful torture and/or medical device that transcribes blood clots into ink spots. Rorschach, not the musical group.

Apparently our strong-fingered ancestors were better suited to kick QWERTY butt, as PC/MAC-era soft touch users so often seem shocked at the force required to strike key to ribbon to paper. I myself am exhausted by the effort of the thought. But even Generation X, Y & Z need to buy an occasional vowel.

JITTERBUG, anyone?

Vintage telephones and typewriters are more than just shelf-sitters. These undead pieces of technology scream out a certain retro charm even when silent. There is something comforting about gently pressing a vintage telephone handset to the side of your face and not having to raise your voice to be heard. (Unless arguing with a pesky telemarketer.)

“Can you hear me? Wow! You actually can?

Stop calling me!”

And the typewriter? The touch, feel and machine-gun clatter are irreplaceable. (And so are most of the ribbons.)

No, gone are the days of distant pen pals dashing madcap correspondence on some rickety, spider-like behemoth. No more trips to the post office. No more anxious moments as the postman climbs your stairs. No more “real” hate mail. No more. Now a terse email does the trick.

And I fear something greater than mere technology has somehow passed.

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