My Summer Horribilus

By the time you read this, I will be far, far away.

For verification, feel free to Google Earth me. Do it right now. Buon giorno! Yes, that’s me in the gaudy, age-inappropriate Etro swim shorts and oversize Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. There I am, splashing around in the Med in front of a little eaterie named Da Giorgio on the island of Capri. Ciao, suckers!

Don’t be jealous. Be glad. Be relieved that I am far, far away and out of earshot. Why? Because before leaving on vacation, I had turned into a rant-spewing lunatic. It was not my fault. The events of the previous month had driven me completely and utterly postal. June 2009 will, as far as I am concerned, go down in history as the most annoying month EVER!

Let’s start with the unremitting deluge-athon that was the weather. By the second week of June, I was so grumpy and rained-out that I was starting to wonder if I might not be suffering from Schwarzwald syndrome, that mood disorder that afflicts those unfortunates living perpetually in the moist gloom of the Black Forest.

On June 15, at the rain-lashed CFDA awards, things really took a nose dive when, during the mingling portion of the evening, one of the servers wiggled purposefully through the crowd and asked, “Don’t I know you?”

“You’ve probably seen me on VH1,” I said, preening and batting my lashes. “I’m a regular talking head.”

“No. No. Now where was it? I’ve got it! Will and Grace! You’re little the guy who hates Karen. … BEVERLY LESLIE!!!!”

Grrrrr! (For those not familiar: This diminutive character, played with great panache by actor Leslie Jordan, is the ne plus ultra of undersize geriatric nelly-dom. Coincidentally, Mr. Jordan’s memoir, My Trip Down the Pink Carpet, hit the bookstores at the beginning of June.)

During the awards ceremony, I was further provoked by all the fidgety BlackBerry-ing as the fashion glitterati diligently tweeted to their “followers.” It makes sense for the revolutionaries in Iran, but fashion awards show attendees? What could they possibly be tweeting? Anna Wintour just coughed; Daphne Guinness is playing with the ring on her left index finger; the Rodarte girls are still not wearing garments of their own design; Simon Doonan–slash–Beverly Leslie is grinding his teeth. Grrr!

As the month unfolded, my antipathy towards all aspects of the Internet increased. Web sites are killing newspapers. The Kindle is killing bookstores. Maybe somebody should kill the Internet.

Fuel was added to my fire when, on June 18, NPR broadcast a program called Open Mike that featured me and my Jonny yakking heartwarmingly about our relationships with our dads, just in time for Father’s Day. Innocuous enough, you would think. Check out all the anti-gay, anti-Semitic comments pertaining to our broadcast on the NPR Web site and then get back to me. Thanks Mr. Internet, for providing a forum for all the hating turds in the World. Grrr!

Adding to my homicidal meltdown was the fact that June is also intern month! This is traditionally the time when young people abandon their studies in order to come and kiss my ring. All that has changed. The ring-kissing is now on the other foot. (Whenever I get truly irate, the mixed metaphors start flying.)

The main goal of this year’s New York intern is to attend as many parties as possible, all in the name of networking. At one such fete, a young gal approached me and asked me for advice on entering the dwindling fashion job market.

Having also left college during a dire recession (decades after Beverly Leslie), I consider myself uniquely qualified to respond to these kinds of requests with both empathy and insight.

“Do what I did,” I said, without hesitation

“What’s that?” she said eagerly.

“I went to a local department store and begged my way into an entry-level job.”

“I couldn’t really see myself doing that,” she replied, with a flick of her ironed hair.

“Well, then, I can’t really see you getting a job,” I snapped.

Purleeeze! If you aren’t prepared, in these recessionary times, to go to Macy’s like Auntie Mame and beg for a job selling roller skates, then you really only have one alternative: hooking. Can you see yourself doing that, darlin’?

Back to Google Earth. Yes, that’s me stomping on an innocent tourist’s Kindle and getting arrested. I guess it will take a few more days to properly unwind.

sdoonan@observer.com