Here is a model named Jazzma who’s been hanging out with a billionaire whose longtime girlfriend is Naomi Campbell. I snickered at the deforming photoshopped picture of Jazzma, and googled to see what she really looks like.
Wow, right? Look at that midsection. It’s like she’s a LIVING photoshop creation!
If I could photoshop my body, I’d give myself big boobs and toned thighs, and I’d stay away from Naomi Campbell’s boyfriend.
What about you?
I was excited to see this competitor of Tragic Fashion Boy on Disney Rollergirl’s blog tonight. He’s as thin and miserable looking as anyone could ask for, isn’t he? I need to name him. Suggestions?
So I looked around for more pictures and discovered that this fancy embroidered jacket from the new Saint Laurent Fall/Winter collection is priced at $62,000. But obviously it’s worth every penny.
Now I need to know how much they want for this fancy cape. Which is beyond perfect with the ingeniously ripped jeans. Who will curate these items, do you think?
While I tried to adjust to all of this decadence and starvation, I stumbled across a “pop star and fashion icon” called G-Dragon who is like a Korean punk Barbie only male, but just barely. I won’t spoil the excitement by posting any photos of G-Dragon. Google him and feel the joy.
I know it’s not very interesting to hate Gwyneth, but how can one ignore her this week? It’s like she WILL NOT REST until every single person on earth detests her. Is her work done yet? If not, we’re getting very, very close.
Today’s revelation (for me, anyway) is that she advises women in troubled relationships to stop fighting and give their man a blowjob instead. Really, Einstein? You think that might work?
What a fucking imbecile. I love the pictures of her feigned embarrassment even more than I love that awful see-through dress she wore recently. But not as much as I love the time she tweeted something like “niggas all in Paris!” to indicate her down-ness.
There is so much to love, i.e. hate, that it’s almost redundant, like denouncing Hitler. Wait. Am I comparing Gwyneth to Hitler?! Sure, see Godwin’s Law. But if you need to catch the latest Iron Man movie and your revulsion for Gwyneth is getting in the way, here’s a guide to putting things in perspective.
I don’t need to see Iron Man, so I’m good.
If you believe you were at the forefront of the anti- Gwyneth movement, let’s hear about it! (If you don’t hate Gwyneth, you shouldn’t be here at all, just leave quietly.)
This year, I can honestly say that I got what I wanted. My choice for best picture, best actor and best actress came through, somebody fell, Adele was a goddess, and David O. Russell didn’t get to gloat over his importance.
Let’s review the fashions. Halle Berry wore a hideous striped dress from Ross 4 Less and her hair was dreadful. In the bad hair category, she was outdone by Jen Aniston, whose short broken ends stood up in the light, guaranteeing the death of Chris McMillan. Jane Fonda looked hideous in a yellow gown from “Dallas“, and Shirley Bassey, at 100 years old, was majestic in gold sequins as she belted out the theme to “Goldfinger“. I tried to remember an old scandal about her involving one of the British Royals but failed to retrieve it.
Seth MacFarlane was alternately funny and crass, but who could resist his crack about Kardashian facial hair?
Barbara Streisand looked like an old wizard from Harry Potter, Anne Hathaway overdid her boy-in-a-dress schtick, and Jessica Chastain, as always, was a flawless porcelain doll. Several older men had long silky white hair, outclassing the clean-cut youngsters.
Reese Witherspoon wore an ugly blue thing and grew her chin since last year. Renee Zellweger reappeared out of retirement with the exact same grimace we know and love her for.
Christopher Waltz was a charming Oscar winner, generously quoting Quentin Tarantino, who exuded coke from every pore as he manically thanked the Academy.
Daniel Day Lewis was a witty dreamboat, revealing that he was originally signed to portray Margaret Thatcher. Ben Affleck was emotionally affecting as he alluded to some grudge he had given up but clearly hadn’t, and I still managed to watch “Shameless” even though I missed the first 8 minutes.
What did I forget?
For the last two nights, we have been watching a new documentary about the Eagles. I have tested my husband’s patience by repeatedly asking “Which one is that?” I still can’t tell them apart. I always thought Don Henley was the other guy, Glen Frey.
The sound of the Eagles triggers a cascade of uncomfortable emotions. As an entity, they make me sick. The “laid-back” sound, ugh, awful. The song “Tequila Sunrise” represents everything painful about the 70′s. The mustaches and bad hair, the bandannas, the glowering expressions, the very idea of the Eagles is just lame. The 70′s marked a divisive era in rock music and I was repelled by the “Southern California Sound.” I recall being contemptuous of my upstairs neighbors who loved The Doobie Brothers.
Remember being young and taking music so seriously that it could be a deal-breaker if a new person in your life turned out to have bad taste? An awful record collection was nearly impossible to forgive. If someone owned an obscure record that I loved, I probably slept with them. Actually, I slept with them, regardless, but that’s a whole other topic.
The Eagles wrote such catchy songs that when I hear them I can’t help singing along. But familiarity is no measure of quality. The Eagles evoke nostalgia without being exciting or satisfying. It’s just elevator music. I don’t care if they’ve sold a billion records. I wouldn’t take one to a desert island even if was my only choice.
The 70′s were the decade of my young adulthood. I had a baby, in the happiest moment of my life. I also had a bad marriage, a two-pack a day cigarette habit, and little capacity for self-examination. Music was the background for everything. Elvis Costello, Patti Smith, and Townes Van Zandt were the rays of light in the bleak cloud of my domestic life. Bands like the Eagles remind me of anomie and macrame.
Some punk band wrote a song called “Don Henley Must Die” and I still admire the sentiment. even if I can’t tell him apart from Glen Frey or those other guys. Now that I’ve seen the documentary, I hate the Eagles with a deeper sense of their awfulness as people who can’t stop arguing about money and their own importance.
Eagles fans or detractors, jump in!
What a boring and lamentable gathering of untalented performers! Katy Perry‘s boobs were a magnificent distraction.
The show’s most exciting moments were the arguments between me and my husband over Taylor Swift. He continues to defend her, which is obviously maddening. I was so worried that she might win the award presented by Prince and thus get the chance to kiss Him that I shouted out the oath: “If Taylor Swift wins this, I will stab myself in the heart!” Every time I see her I think ”STD.”
The bands ‘Fun‘ and ‘The Lumineers‘ were particularly egregious. Young people, what the hell is wrong with you?!? Thank god the Black Keys were recognized for their work after a million years. A cute little guy called Miguel was a great Soul singer whose dynamic performance was spoiled by a rapper whose name I forgot. Rap isn’t music. Take it away.
Frank Ocean glared when he didn’t win and went on to sing the worst song of the evening, something about Forrest Gump. Ellen Degeneris ogled Beyonce, while I ogled Rihanna, whose red lipstick was perfection. Chris Brown was her date, no doubt proud of himself for not slugging her.
Adele chewed gum throughout the show and looked like a massive floral couch. I wondered what she thought of Kelly Clarkson. Jack White easily outclassed the homeless-looking Johnny Depp in a resplendent Nudie’s suit. His set was a welcome blast of real Rock music.
Prince looked suitably mysterious and intimidating in a black hoodie and sunglasses, wisely refraining from participating in a gratingly awful version of The Weight. Prince is nobody’s fool.
In an evening of horrifying missteps, Elton John took the prize by giving a non sequitur shout-out to the Sandy Hook victims. What an imbecile. Mumford and Sons won a lot of awards and were less repugnant than Fun. Justin Timberlake’s comeback was an over-hyped bore but his seasoned charisma underscored how lacking it was in nearly every other ‘artist.’
There it is. Remember, I did this for you, just like Christ on the cross.
I’ve finally caught up with Homeland, after skipping the first season in a private protest against Claire Danes as a CIA agent. Now I’m cool with Claire, but Brody’s wife is a major irritant.
Whenever the wife is onscreen, I find it hard to stop critiquing her face. Her acting is awful, too, don’t get me wrong. She’s incapable of portraying any emotion with conviction. Her character is badly underwritten but a decent actress could still bring something to suggest a life form. Instead, she just strikes a pose and raises or lowers her voice.
Her head is too small for her body, making her look life a dinosaur of maybe a giraffe. But in profile, she looks like a duckling, thanks to that augmented top lip. Stop it with the lips, actresses! Remember Meg Ryan! In fact, I’m going to name Meg Ryan ‘The Alamo’ just to help keep the memory alive.
While looking at pictures of this actress (Morena Baccarin, who I see is considered a super-hot hottie) I learned from an observant stranger that she has the same nosejob as Ashley Greene. I don’t know who Ashley Greene is but let’s compare noses.
Ashley above, Morena below. I wouldn’t want this nose, although you could probably use it as a can opener.
Obviously, I’m feeling cranky and shallow but facts are facts. I love Homeland for its suspense and the tension of the thwarted love story, but that fucking wife is a pain in the ass.
Opinions or objections?
I just had an exclusive interview with myself and here’s what I learned:
Everything you read about Katie and Tom‘s divorce is coming directly to you out of someone’s ass! That’s right, and not long ago, it came from mine, too.
As a journalist for several glossy supermarket tabloids, I was able to deliver scoops about Tom and Katie’s personal lives nearly every week, simply by sitting quitely and channeling the two celebrities until I saw the exciting details in my mind’s eye.
I wrote exclusive scoops about Katie’s struggle for autonomy, Tom’s obsession with Brad Pitt, Suri’s nursery, and so much more. If you were a tabloid reader, you accepted these stoires as God’s truth because otherwise it wouldn’t be printed in a magazine! If you are a tabloid reader, or a consumer of celebrity gossip on any level, you are walking around thinking you know something about Brad and Angie, Jennifer Aniston, Madonna, or whoever, but you’re wrong. Nobody knows anything, but we keep making it up until it is common knowledge.
Whenever you see the words “According to a source,” replace them with “I am making this up.” Same with “An insider says,” “A close pal divulges,” and “A member of his/her inner circle reports.”
Of course, some of us journalists are better channelers than others. Once, when I channeled Janet Jackson, it made the crawl on CNN! Another time, I was able to divine what Katie gave Tom for Christmas: He had just completed work on that awful movie about the German war hero, so I thought she should get him “the complete leather-bound works of his favorite author, Goethe.”
Voila! Tom got the Goethe, to the delight of my friend Wendy and my Inner Circle. I had giddy fantasies of linking Jessica Simpson with Schopenhauer. I believe I, I mean Katie, also gave Tom a custom-made iPhone with his name engraved on it. Which is still nothing compared to the custom-made Chanel evening bag I once gave to Victoria Beckham, I mean David gave to her of course.
You can say I was a liar but you can’t fault my generosity.
I can’t take much more of Madge’s provocations. Obviously the UN is helpless, just like with Syria.
Who would think that she’d still be so insistent about bothering us! Has the competition from Lady Gaga driven her out of her mind? Has she forgotten that she’s already showed us everything in that book “Sex?” Does she have any sympathy for her children? Does she even remember that little baby she bought in Malawi?
I need her to go away. I’ve needed this for so many years. There is no escape from her. I thought I had transferred my hatred to Ms. Gaga but no, now she will have to flash her 53 year old nipple if she wants my attention.
It seems like people are going out of their way just to make me mad! That fucking Gwyneth has been working overtime on twitter to get me going. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of responding.
Gwyneth, go ahead and call people Niggas! Keep working on Goop! Make as many country records as you want. I am focusing my wrath on Madge only, and hoping I can manifest a little “accident” for her if I concentrate hard enough.
All other irritants pale next to Madonna but here are some you can add to if you like.
Pierce Piers Morgan
Lana Del Rey
Kristen Stewart
pictures of cats, pizza, and hippies cavorting in the woods
Snow White movies
people who say “Rye rye rye” in agreement, instead of just saying “right,”
diminutive names for Justin Bieber
ostentatious neck tattoos
band names like “Foster the People.”
Mitt and Anne Romney
Th other day, my nephew R was visiting and I asked him if he’d seen or heard about Beyonce‘s wacky Met Gala dress. Since R is one of the most culturally literate people I’ve ever met, it was a reasonable question.
His response was to shake his head in dismay and express contempt for the idea that anyone gave a shit about Beyonce’s dress. Why should anyone care about this, he exclaimed.
I considered his question and asked, Why should anyone care about anything?
This is the type of conversation I live for. And R is always up for it.
I asked him if anyone should care about the recent auction of “The Scream,” which set a world record by selling for $119.9 million. He said, Yes, because it reflects the state of the current art market and blah blah blah.
Why is “The Scream” more important to know about than Beyonce’s dress? This is a real question. I think that everything we “care” about is just a distraction from the horror of existence. Any time you find yourself in a life or death situation, you realize the fatuousness of all your preoccupations, of everything going on around you. Your choice of car, your shoes, your blue-ray TV, your favorite band, it’s all a distraction.
Moving away from existentialism, I wonder why The Scream is worth $119.9 million. It’s obviously one of the few paintings that is instantly recognizable by any imbecile. The Scream, the Mona Lisa, and Sunflowers are probably the big three, in terms of iconic paintings, right? And I love The Scream, but only because I know it’s an expression of unversal anguish. If it was called “The Toothache”, would it still be worth all that money?
We like The Scream because our taste is a consequence of our social class. Beyonce’s dress probably strikes my nephew as too crass and lowbrow to merit his interest. He may not know that you can take a course in Beyonce Studies at Rutgers.
I am comfortable with the idea that it’s all bullshit, but it’s my nature to wonder about human behavior, even my own. As I continue to waste my time with Tumblr, I’ve been wondering how I make the distinction between real art and kitsch. I tend to disdain the latter, but I wonder if Kitsch is in the eye of the beholder. I also wonder when I’ll be able to stop distracting myself with Tumblr and TV and start experiencing my actual self again.
Meanwhile, where do you stand on Beyonce’s dress, The Scream, and whether you should give a shit? Thoughts, arguments, insults?
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