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Ask Miss Wendy -  Miss Wendy's Texas Love Advice to New York's Sexually Challenged

Miss Wendy's Texas Love Advice
Plus Some Occasional Comments on the
State of the Popular Culture

Ask Miss Wendy
L-R: Michael Mazocco, Wendy R. Williams, Armistead Johnson
Photo Credit: Stephen Mosher

Click here for Miss Wendy's Latest Column

Dear Miss Wendy, is reporting that former Baywatch beauty Pamela Anderson (who was previously married to Tommy Lee and Kid Rock) is about to marry Rick Salomon (who was previously married to Shannon Doherty and who also starred with Paris Hilton in an underground porn movie, “One Night in Paris”). And they are planning to get married at the Little White Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas!!!

Is this woman deaf and dumb; has bleach seeped into her brain? Why can’t she see that she is about to be run over by a dump truck - AGAIN?


Internet Addict

Dear Addict,

The real question should be are they both deaf and dumb? But if you believe in magnetic theory, they are simply attracting their own kind (they both have starred in supposedly pirated porn movies, etc. etc.). Romance follows the same set of rules that are used to select fishing lures. Here is a quote from “Many fishing lures are made in bright, almost obnoxious colors, while others are muted and more natural. Again, making the right choice is largely based on the type of fish you are trying to catch and the fishing conditions.”

So as long as Pamela Anderson (who is actually a beautiful woman) lives her life looking like a Amanda Lepore prototype, she will continue to attract carnival men.

Dear Miss Wendy,

The woman who lives in the building directly across from me puts on a nightly show, dancing in front of the window in various stages of undress. Depending on the lighting, sometimes “her show” is as explicit as anything I could see in Times Square. Should I be complaining?



Dear Peep,

That depends: are you able to enjoy the show using your present telescope? If not, either take it in for repair or buy a new one (perhaps with some infrared options to compensate for the bad lighting).

One of the dirty little secrets (benefits ) about living in New York City are the complicit arrangements between peeping Toms and the exhibitionists who “put on a show” by seemingly forgetting to close their curtains. This is very similar to the complicit arrangement between the Hollywood starlets who “forget to wear panties” and then “forget to close their legs,” the photographers who hang out in parking lots all night long in the hopes of aiming their cameras up these “forgetful” starlets' dresses (making them wait around in the parking lot all night does have an S & M feel to it) and the peeping-Tom-public who franticly surf the net in hopes of seeing the latest up-the-skirt footage . (Just where was that link?) It is a fragile eco-system that would quickly dry up without the willing participation of the other parties.

But if you can’t see enough, you only need to aim your (new?) telescope at another window. This is New York; most of your neighbors have theater and/or film degrees so our illicit window shows can rival Lord & Taylor's Christmas windows in production values.

Dear Miss Wendy,

I am a single woman in my forties and I recently traveled alone to Jamaica to join my family for a vacation. Everywhere I went I got “knowing” looks from the local men. Then I found out that ever since the movie 1998 movie How Stella Got Her Groove Back, middle aged women have been traveling to Jamaica so they can hook up with the local “locks” men.


Middle-aged Beach Baby

Dear Baby,

Oh yes, Jamaica rent-a-dreads, the hot young men who “hang around” the resorts offering their services as a (wink-wink) tour guide. But since their all-inclusive-package quite possible includes STD’s, you need to ignore Bob Marley's "Don't worry about a thing" advice and instead conjure up the spirit of Nancy Reagan (or Amy Winehouse’s reaction to rehab) and “Just say no.” And I am sure you won’t be missing out on much. There is so much ganga (Jamaican marijuana) smoking in Negril, nothing would ever happen until tomorrow and as we all know, tomorrow never comes.

Dear Miss Wendy,

What is this fascination that New Yorkers have with everything Australian: Australian beer; Australian bars; Tribeca Film Festival’s Australian import Tropfest; and New York’s fashion week is filled with Australian designers like Sass and Bide and Aurelia Costarella (squiring porn-star-turned-gal-around-town Jenna Jameson). We are a little too cool to embrace the Outback Steak House, but it too has invaded Manhattan.


Crocodile Me

Dear Croc,

Miss Wendy is fascinated with our recent Australian obsession. New Yorkers who would not deign-to-feign interest in the goings-on in say Atlanta, are going ga-ga about Australia. My theory is that it started with the 1986 film Crocodile Dundee, when Paul Hogan (playing Crocodile Dundee) disarmed some New York City street thugs and then turned to Linda Kozlowski (who was playing his love interest Sue) and off-handedly said, “Kids.” We all sighed and collectively became obsessed with the image of a man who was so sure of himself sexually that he could wear an Australian outback "costume" on the streets of New York without fretting that he would be mistaken for member of the Village People and asked to sing "YMCA".

And just look at the other male movie/tv stars we have imported from Australia: Russell Crowe; the late great Steve Irwin; Mel Gibson; Guy Pearce; and Hugh Jackman. Okay, so Hugh Jackman does not have that “I’m dangerously sexy because my great grandpa was a British convict and I can wrestle crocodiles” veneer, but you cannot deny he’s sexy, just watch Woody Allen’s film Scoop. And conversely Australia has produced a bumper crop of hot-looking-but-also-really-smart-and-ethereal-looking female movie stars like Nicole Kidman, Cate Blanchett and Naomi Watts.

Hey, it’s a brave new world out there. Excessively polite customer service representatvies are sitting in cubicles in India and unlocking our car doors, “This is OnStar and your car is now unlocked.” So why not outsource our sexual fantasies and dream about getting a little down-under for our down-unders?

Dear Miss Wendy,

Would investing in Porthault sheets (prices start at $2000) make my bedroom more erotic?

Sleeping Beauty

Dear Beauty,

Miss Wendy always approves of wretched exceess if you have the wretch to excess. But, while buying Porthault sheets would certainly make your bedroom more comfortable (and prestigious), if your question is which sheets see the most action (a sort of bang-for-your-buck rating) the hands-down winner would be the cheap Target and Ikea sets purchased by college students.

Dear Miss Wendy,

What do you think about what happened when OJ recently got juiced in Las Vegas? But maybe this has nothing to do with sex, hmm?


Rockingham Roxie

Dear Roxie,

Actually I bet that gang-who-couldn’t-shoot-straight-that-looks-right-out-of -an-Elmore-Leonard-novel was entirely motivated by sex. No, not sex with OJ, silly. But this little group of sad-sack-used-car-salesmen-looking-hangers-on were most likely in the game in the hope of getting second helpings from the cocktail-waitresses-and/or-real-estate-saleswomen-from-Tulsa-on-holiday who might be attracted to a what-happens-in-Vegas-stays-in-Vegas romp-in-the-sack with OJ. So there those middle-aged-loser-wing-men are, getting soused in a second rate hotel bar while they wait around to get laid, when they hear a bugle call to help fellow-good-old-boy OJ “move some stuff” (like the guy needed to pick up a couch). And the rest is tabloid history.

Dear Miss Wendy,

I recently attended a wedding and when the bride and groom cut the cake the quickly proceeded to smash cake all over each others faces (like they always do). I thought they looked silly and immature (like they always do) – getting icing all over the brides's veil and the groom’s cummerbund. Does this practice harken back to some ancient fertility rite?


Feeling Crumby

Dear Crumb,

Miss Wendy does not know the entire story behind this apparent silliness but I do have inkling that there is an underlying perversion driving this overwhelming desire by otherwise sensible brides and grooms to rub wedding cake all over each other.

Here is how I came upon this inkling. In one of Miss Wendy’s many other roles, she occasionally writes plays. And once upon a time she gave one of her characters a foot fetish. Miss Wendy (having just arrived in New York from Texas) was a little naïve at the time and assumed that this was a perfectly safe comedic choice as how could anyone actually have a foot fetish?

Well, was Miss Wendy in for a surprise! There is a whole subset of humanity out there that is totally turned on by feet – they have their own clubs, message boards and websites. They even have underground establishments that cater to their ever ring-toed desire.

After Miss Wendy’s play was produced, some of these practitioners decided to get in touch with Miss Wendy assuming that she shared their peccadillo. And one of Miss Wendy’s new-found acquaintances (one who worked for one of those escort services that they talk about on Law and Order, you know the ones where the proprietors are always insisting that his girls are only hired for their high-class companioinship and conversational skills) told Miss Wendy that in addition to being hired by men who pay to rub her feet, she is occasionally hired to do a cake-in.

Here is how it (a cake-in) works: The customer rents a space and covers all the walls and floors with plastic. The customer also supplies every kind of cake imaginable. My new friend would then chase her customer around the room and smash cakes all over his body. And these were not day-old store cakes, but really nice bakery-made birthday cakes. And by being covered in cake the customer was so turned on…………

So there you have it, a wonderful new (sticky) visual to have in your mind at your next wedding reception.

Dear Miss Wendy,

Would Miss Wendy like to comment on Miss Brittney Spears latest woes and I don’t mean that horrid weave? What about her being charged with hit-and-run – see

I know this has nothing to do with sex, but maybe it’s sexy?????


TMZ Tuna

Dear Tuna,

Dear Miss Wendy is from Texas, the home of tall tales and whoppers, where as a precocious little girl she was taught to apply the shit test to everything she heard.

So Brittney hit another car as she was pulling into a parking lot and did not stop to look at the other car and leave a note and the whole thing was caught on tape. HMMMMMM!

Well, does anyone stop to wonder just how many paparazzi were in the parking lot with her and just how many flash bulbs were going off as she got out of her car? Could she have even seen the other car after being blinded by so many flash bulbs? And why didn’t any of the paparazzi in the parking lot holler, “Hey Brittney, I think you dinged a car” and/or if they had, could it have been heard through that horrid cacophony of snapping flash bulbs and "Here Brittneys"? But surely they did not want Brittney to be arrested for hit-and-run so they would have yet another story to cover? And if she had had her wits about her (which was obviously not the case) and had attempted to leave a note with her phone number and insurance information, just what do you think would have happend to that note and just how much would it be worth on EBAY?

And why when the owner of the car found out (supposedly through Youtube) that Brittney had damaged her car did she not just try to contact Brittney instead of going to the police? Could it be that the newshounds looked up her license plate and “pushed their story along” by notifying the car owner and encouraging her to go to the police. It wouldn’t have taken much to rile the car owner up, after all it is LA and people get mad if you leave your nasty fingerprints on their cars.

And about the no California drivers license, could it be that Miss Brittney is a Louisiana resident (she has a huge house there) for tax reasons and one of the things any good tax accountant will tell you is that you must have your drivers license show your primary residence (and have your bills delivered to the same) if you want to prove it is your primary residence if you are audited.

And while Miss Wendy totally disapproves of drinking and driving (I am in LA all the time and do not to die on the freeway after being hit by a drunken artificial celebrity), I am certain that Miss Paris Hilton and Miss Nicole Ritchie were high on the radar of the local constabulary and were driving easily recognizable cars. After all, they normally drive through LA followed by a motorcade of paparazzi that rivals the one that President Bush uses when he invades New York City, thus greatly increasing the probablity that they will be pulled over anytime they are out in "that car".

Dear Miss Wendy,

Would Miss Wendy like to comment on the recent bad-behavior-in-the-airport-bathroom scandal involving Republican Senator Larry Craig?


Neat Nelly

Dear Neat,

I most certainly would. It is incredibly sad that anyone should lose their job over such silliness or that anyone should have to repress their sexuality so much that they are reduced to making obscure gestures in a public bathroom.

See this quote from my What's Up Today column: has this description of the lewd conduct: "According to Roll Call, the arresting officer alleged that Craig lingered outside a restroom stall where the officer was sitting, then entered the stall next door and blocked the door with his luggage. According to the arrest report cited by Roll Call, Craig tapped his right foot, which the officer said he recognized "as a signal used by persons wishing to engage in lewd conduct." The report alleges Craig then touched the officer's foot with his foot and the senator "proceeded to swipe his hand under the stall divider several times," according to Roll Call."

HMMM! Well, I guess we all need to be extra careful about our public restroom behavior from now on because this is exactly how women act in a public bathroom: we wait forever peering under the stalls to see if they are occupied, finally get a stall and sit down then immediately start fidgeting when we realize that there is no toilet paper and then try to get the person "next stall" to give us some by sticking our hands under the stall."

Perhaps we should all get a card that says, "I'm not gay, I just need some toilet paper" that we can pass back under the stall when an arresting office (who obviously has too much time on his hands) passes his badge under the stall.

And why are the Republicans so upset about this anyway? It's not like he asked that cop to marry him. And is there so little real crime in Minneapolis that the local police are reduced to such nonesense?

Update: It seems that Senator Craig has decided to appeal his disorderly conduct guilty plea. And the DA is going to oppose it because Senator Craig's conduct of
peering into a stall (through the gaps between the door and the stall structure) was a gross invasion of restroom privacy. Well, excuse me. This supposed invasion of privacy happened in a men's room and THERE ARE URINALS IN THERE. How can any man expect privacy in place with URINALS?

If the Minneapolis police are really so concerned with maintaining orderly conduct in the men's room, they should just do what we used to do in Texas when we found some unfixed dogs carrying on in the front yard just as the parson was pulling up in his Chevy. We'd just grab a bucket of water and pour it on the varmints. That way there would be no need to arrest anyone or kick anyone out of the Senate for playing footsie with the wrong man.

Dear Miss Wendy,

It is Fashion Week! Please tell us: Is there sex during fashion week?


Longing Fashionista

Dear Long,

Absolutely not. Everyone involved in Fashion Week is entirely too hungry and bitchy to be interested in sex.

See this quote from my February 2007 Column: "Well there will be a lot of pretty little things walking down the runway (see through blouses with no bra, thongs peeping through voile for both men and women) but realistically, there will be no sex. The female models have not eaten in about a month and if propositioned would probably say something like, “Not now sweetie, but why don’t you just talk dirty to me while I do this line?” The male models have had a little more to eat and might be a little more interested, but are still likely to say something like, “Oh that’s nice, but why don’t you just get up and act as my spotter while I lift these weights?” And the designers will brush away any amorous efforts with a, “For heavens sake, darlings! If you really want to be useful, get off your knees and make a Starbucks run! Someone is going to trip over you and break a heel!” You see, everyone at Fashion Week is an ascetic, asexual alien; things are different in their world."

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