Broker power suits converge
Jacks be aware: The Jills are alive with the sound of lawsuits.
According to lawyers that already filed lawsuits for rape victims there are droves more out there. One sued saying she was drugged and raped by twin brothers Alon and Oren Alexander.
Partners in their business, they’re reputedly the most successful real estate brokers ever. Each has sold billions.
Now off their websites and both newly made their Instagram accounts private as the articles keep rolling in.
Claiming that they are being shaken down for money and denying all they cannot explain why one victim pledged every penny of a verdict will go to sexual assault victims.
Traumatized with the memory of her rape, the victim came forward to warn others. Now the word is out.
Will the business shutter? Will the wives divorce? Will there be criminal prosecutions? One victim hired lawyer Stuart Slotnick to present evidence to state and local prosecutors.
Final act for Sutherland
We just lost Donald Sutherland. His schoolmate became Canadian Ambassador to Iran Ken Taylor who saved me when the Iranian revolution began and I was spirited out of the country.
Then came the American hostages, others Ken saved in his embassy in Tehran. The story became Ben Affleck’s Oscar-winning “Argo.”
I knew Sutherland well. One night, on the dais at a black-tie event honoring Ken, Donald’s upset. “My tuxedo pants don’t match the jacket,” he whispered to me. “The pants black, the jacket midnight blue. My valet put wrong things together.”
Killer designs
Designer Nicole Miller’s praising Marianne Thompson’s debut novel “Seventh Avenue Undressed: A Bare All on New York’s Mob Controlled Fashion Industry.”
It’s a story of organized crime’s grip on the industry. A bare-all on NYC’s mob-controlled scenarios between the manufacturers and the Mafia. Struggles, style and organized crime.
Hey, it’s New York.
Sheer lunacy
Speaking of clothes, whatever happened to them? Creatures like that Ratasskowski who’d maybe flash the inside of her hoo-ha even to a 1935 dusty Polaroid.
Today’s desperate nobodies wear borrowed shmattas with open behinds, boobs bobbling and visible remnants of those scaled-down veal chop-size thighs.
Forget the miseries on Pennsylvania Avenue — how about the ones on Seventh Avenue?
Should any wearer need the can, it would be easier for a truck to navigate that busted bridge the boat crashed into.
Not only in New York, kids, not only in New York.