Godammit, I’m Mad!

I was up late watching TV with my husband when I learned that Chrissie Hynde has formed a new band.  To my horror, she was playing second fiddle, so to speak, to her new beloved, JP Jones, an annoying Welshman half her age.

In case anyone failed to notice the age difference, she warbles it in the song “Perfect Lover.” (I found my perfect lover, but he’s only half my age…) In fact, she and this guy have released an entire album of songs about their doomed relationship. Evidently, Jones wants to raise a family and at 58, Chrissie has hung up her childbearing spurs.

My husband brought home the new CD the other day, and our son asked about it. I explained, “It’s Chrissie Hynde and some douche in a hat.” My husband begged to differ, in a sharp tone. He had seen them perform that afternoon and Chrissie had autographed his CD.

Still, it’s awful. Not just awful, but so awful that I longed to jump out of the car when we had to listen to it on a ninety minute road trip. All the songs are “nakedly” autobiographical, with lyrics like “I’m old, you’re not” ” you surprised me in the bar when I decided to take you home.” It’s like reading the diary of someone you admire and finding a bunch of LOL’s and smiley face thingies.

Poor Chrissie. She is so besotted with this douche that she’s lost all judgment. These songs prove beyond a doubt that a little ambiguity is vital where pop songs are concerned, unless you’re a poet like Hank Williams Sr. It was so embarrassing to listen to this shit, I had to cover my face to endure it.

Patti Smith got herself a cute young guy and let him play in her band, in the background. Not only that, he was a babe. Chrissie, call Patti to find out how it’s done, before that douche empties your bank account!

Last night, my husband expressed his disappreciation of the acting on True Blood. I agree that the acting is terrible. But I suggested to him that it might be worthwhile to see Anna Paquin and Stephen Moyer having sex, given their hotness.

My husband claimed to have no interest at all in a sex tape with Bill and Sookie. Upon reflection, I wondered if I wanted to see any celebrities having sex. If you’ve seen the Pam and Tommy opus, you know exactly what I mean, right? It’s just tragic and disgusting.

Are there any celebrities whose sex tapes would appeal to you? Angie and Brad, maybe? Or is it all just awful?

If you haven’t heard this recording of Dr. Laura yelling “Nigger nigger nigger!” to a caller who asked for advice on dealing with racism, turn up your speakers.

This bitch is clearly out of her fucking mind and needs to be fired. There is no excuse for her, unless she can prove she was off her medication.  Her “apology” the next day is fatuous posturing.

Please join me in bestowing upon dumb bitch Dr. Laura Schlessinger her richly deserved Cunt of the Week™ award!

Ooooooooooh!

This lipstick is the business. That kid knows his red, doesn’t he??

I’m like watching the Kardashian girls on TV and it’s like so full of drama! Kourtney is like so mad at that douche who knocked her up and like Kim wants her to like face reality? And like Kourt’s baby is more important to her than like anything?

I haven’t seen this show in ages but I must admit it has a soothing effect on my brain. The two of them look more piggish than I remember and Kim’s lips seem ready to burst.

I like love reality TV and here’s why:  It’s like so sickening, but in the end, it’s like not your problem.

Max loved Laetitia Casta and considered her his ideal of female beauty (after Brigitte Bardo.) Seeing these pictures yesterday, I had to agree.

I’m posting these photos for you, Max.  You always had such great taste! You know how much I valued your opinions on music, writing, movies, art, philosophy, people, politics, everything.  Remember when you were a boy and fell in love with Marilyn Monroe? When you explained that it was her vulnerability that attracted you most, I was so proud of you. I still am. You are one of a kind. You are my angel.

I just want to keep sharing things with you! So here’s Laetitia. xoxo

Today, I came across the term “achingly cool” three times. The first time, it was applied to these striped shoes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before, but like “effortlessly chic” I think it’s a description that label’s the user an idiot.

Why “achingly?” It never hurts me when something is cool. Is it supposed to connote yearning? Do you yearn so much to own these shoes that it causes an ache?

What about “traumatizingly cool?” Or “gut-wrenchingly cool?” I don’t like these fucking adverbs! Make them go away! I was looking for a photo of the grotesquely stylish™ Daphne Guinness wearing her spiked Gareth Pugh outfit when I found it at Grazia. Sure enough, she was described as achingly cool.

This photo makes me want to kill someone. It is everything I hate about hipster fashion and the cult of celebrity.  This woman could wrap herself in toilet paper and everyone would fall over screaming in envy. Ten years ago she was just a normal billionaire’s wife.  She is the Lady Gaga of socialites.

There must be someone else in the public eye who is more insanely rad than Daphne! Whose style do you admire, and what term would best describe it?

Tonight, my sisters and I had dinner at a neighborhood Indian restaurant when suddenly, a gorgeous couple walked toward the door. My eyes bugged and out and I squealed excitedly, “Oh look, it’s Sookie and Bill!”

Anna Paquin and Stephen Moyer must be accustomed to stares and squeals. They never turned their heads. But that was okay, because I got to see how fucking stunning they are in real life. She wore shorts and high heels, and he wore a suit and an open collared shirt. They were holding hands and looked madly in love. I hope they’re both bisexual and not just Anna. I hope they’re home thinking about the gaping woman at the Indian restaurant and wondering how to get in touch with me for hot sex!

I must say that my thrill was somewhat dampened by having to explain to my sisters that Sookie and Bill are the stars of True Blood. Clearly, they won’t be invited to the hot sex.

Why can’t I feel bad for poor Lindsay?

I think it’s the duck lips. They just make me mad. Who asked her to get these lips? She messed up her face out of sheer greed! She had nice lips, but were they enough for her? No.

If a jail sentence prevents her from starring in a movie about poor Linda Lovelace, so be it. Maybe she can even get sober.

I didn’t watch The L Word, but The Real L Word, a new show about Real Lesbians, is providing plenty of excitement at my house. My husband finds it for me on the Showtime channel, and I sit back and talk to the TV for the whole 30 minutes.

My favorite Real Lesbian so far is Whitney, a tough white girl with dreadlocks who acts just like a horny stud. She insists that she’s a slave to her “chemistry” with nearly every woman she meets. She keeps saying “chemistry” like it’s a scientific fact and an iron clad excuse for making out with someone. “I have to admit there is chemistry,” she confesses to a needy girl in a bar who wants to know where they stand. In short, Whitney is just a dude whose balls will explode if you deny him sex.

I also like Mikey, a swaggering blond hipster who can’t get over her own awesomeness. She revels in telling us how stressful her high-powered job is. She loves to boss people around and flaunt her tattoos.

The only time I’ve had to scream out loud was when Tracy revealed the names of her girlfriend’s three children: Nickos, Daughtry and Jagger.

Why isn’t there a fine for saddling your children with awful names? I don’t think I could even be friends with someone who would name their kid ‘Daughtry’. Some things are unforgivable.

As long as the Real Lesbians don’t make me watch them have sex, I’m in. I don’t plan to follow their blogs or tweets, or to buy their special Lesbian iPhone App, but I like all the posturing and soul-searching and unusual facial piercings. I’m also convinced that if Whitney met me, she’d feel the chemistry.