A Very Katelyn Kristmas Mix

(At first I was going to call this Katelyn's Kickass Kristmas Mix but then I realized how, ya know, supremacist that looked.)

So because the economy is in the crapper I'm creating a songlist this season instead of a wishlist. For, instead of receiving material goods from kith and kin, I'd rather bestow the joy of song to those whom I love. Obviously that's laughably untrue but regardless I've listed the yuletide tunes you should seriously consider buying on iTunes (ordownloadingofflimewire). A lot of them are covers, which means yes, I think my generation is better than yours, Gramps. Suck it. Merry Chrismukkah!

1. "So this is Christmas" by Acceptance
• If John Lennon punted a baby from the top of a car I still wouldn't have anything bad to say about him, but this treatment of his idealistic holiday message simply sounds like what Lennon wanted it to be. Acoustic, simple, and honest.
2. "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses
• It saddens me that as I get older my life starts to resemble the story in this song more and more.
• Also, the Spice Girls did a cover of this song. I loves me some zigaziga but zigazigBARF.
3. "The Little Drummer Boy" by Lou Rawls
• Whenever I see Lou Rawls' name I sort of imagine that he's a lolcat, like his name is "LAWLZ." Anyway, he has a tasty crooney voice that makes me want to drink bourbon.
4. "Christmastime is Here" by the Peanuts
• When I think of real Christmas, like back in the years when I wasn't burdened fiscally, and erego drinking my face off, this song was the epitome of Christmas at the Lahr house. Vince Guaraldi truly was an amazing composer, and so emblematic of that early 60s jazzy thought tank. Ann Reilly was never happy unless she had the entire house decorated, her dogs reluctantly dressed as reindeer, and this song playing in the background.
5. "Little Drummer Boy/ Peace on Earth" by David Bowie and Bing Crosby
• Nothing says the birth of our lord like an effeminate British cross dresser collaborating with an old white man that speaks to his kids with his belt.
6. "Last Christmas" by Wham
• Those of you close enough to know some of my more intimate escapades know that there's a special spot in my heart for George Michael. There always will be because there are memories I just can't seem to burn (much as I try). But even setting the Father Figure aside, it's just a catchy song - Jimmy Eat World has a great version, too.
7. "Nutmeg" by John Legend
• Although A Colbert Christmas wasn't scathingly hilarious, I did appreciate this sultry number from John Legend. It kinda was the story of my Thanksgiving this year, when I realized I suck at every domestic task except getting people drunk. I made these killer eggnogs, and as Legend declares, while some spiced rum (I say brandy) is vital, it's the seasoning that gets you screaming during drunk Scattergories.
8. "Merry Fucking Christmas" by Mr. Garrison
• If someone ever wishes you a "happy holiday," you should punch them right in their fucking non-American face.
9. "Feed the World" by Far with Chino Moreno
• Everyone loves a chorus of 80s recording artists here and there singin out to stop AIDS or whatever, but, yeah, I'd like my PSAs withOUT Dionne Warwick, thankyouverymuch.
10. "Christmas Canon" by Trans-Siberian Orchestra
• There are few things that inspire my ire more than TSO (this awful video is one of them), but I can't help but like a little choir of English kids singing about Haysoos.
11. "Jingle Bell Rock" by the Plastics
• They do it every year.
12. "Christmas is all Around" by Billy Mack
• Love Actually is one of the top 5 greatest holiday movies ever created. For seriously. I probably wouldn't say that if I didn't have a set of ovaries, but it's hard for me to watch it and NOT want to immediately board a plane to London and shack up with a gorgeous British man. "Christmas is all Around" is the perfect anthem for such shameless intercontinental propaganda.
13. "What's This" by Jack Skellington
• Danny Elfman truly is a master at his craft, and this movie blows my mind even when I look at it OUTSIDE 1993 standards.
14. "I Wish it was Christmas Today" by Horatio Sanz
• A few years back, Horatio Sanz performed one of the most adorable little tunes I have ever heard on SNL and rarely performed it afterward, citing Lorne Michael's distaste for the song as the reason he hardly got to do it live. Unfortunately, the clip is fucking near IMPOSSIBLE to find online, but the hyperlink above leads to the best recreation I came across. First, picture all those dudes in Christmas sweaters, on the SNL stage, with fake snow falling. The guy with the guitar is really Horatio, in black horn-rimmed glasses, and the guitar is really a ukulele. The guy playing the keyboard is Jimmy Fallon, making dinosaur sound effects. The guy holding the keyboard is Chris Kattan (dancing just so). The guy on the far right in the bonnet is Tracy Morgan, dancing like that but just more Tracy Morgany, and with lipgloss. Ugh. SOMEONE PLEASE FIND THE REAL CLIP. I will give you my first born child.
15. "Fairytale of New York" by the Pogues with Kristy MacColl
• Bar none my favorite Christmas song of all time. It's Irish, it's drunken, it's New Yorky, and even though its singers are ugly as sin the song itself is beautiful. Not enough people know this song.

Quantumz lolz

Since I am very late to embrace cultural phenomena, I decided on Friday to go see Quantum of Solace, the latest Austin Powers installment. It was a little adventurous on my part, namely because I sort of eschew both the Bond franchise and Daniel Craig. I'm dodging stones here, but I had a very low opinion of them as overrated, boring, and pretentious.

That is, until I saw Quantum. I think it should speak to how good a movie really is when I didn't understand 70% of the plot but still loved the film itself (that should also speak to how much the movie might, like, suck). A: Daniel Craig looks damn fine in a tux. And he doesn't resemble the jacked-up five-year-old British bloke that he seemed to play in Casino Royale. B: I kinda like stiff drinks, fast women, and shiny cars... I guess I need to reconsider my opinion of Ian Flemming when his stories are an orgy of all of those things. C: the best part of the movie, in my opinion, was the title track "Another Way to Die" by Jack White and Alicia Keys. Of all the Bond songs, I think it's the bondiest. It reminds me of going to a high-profile cocktail party in a sexy rexy dress, drinking fancy cocktails while my studly date kills druglords on the terrace with his bare hands, and then getting away with him in an Alpha Romeo. That is probably stolen. And then doin it on 5000-count Egyptian cotton. And then dying a stylish death by getting soaked in liquid gold. Mmmm I want to go to there.

For the Record

Sunday night was MTV's début of Britney Spears tell-all documentary by... some director whose name I can't remember called Britney: For the Record. Not-so-coincidentally, it aired commercial free (with a brief pause to plug her fragrances Curious and Fantasy) just two days shy of Britney's birthday(record release). Happy belated birthday, girlfriend. The film was a somber, silent affair, revealing shots of Britney being ushered from Escalades and make-up stations, while she talked over a faint piano sonata in the background (one of those effects that goes really well with like, candid slo-mo camera work).

Anyway, despite the fact that this entire feature was presented in full monopoly by the Britney Spears empire, I actually found it exceedingly poignant and one of the most objective, clear perspectives on a life that really is such a vicious circle of public exposure. Even though Britney herself isn't, like, y'know, totally articulate about her situation and stuff, her truly sorrowful loss for words is kind of heartbreaking. Here is a girl who has so much to be grateful for, but is so burdened and overwhelmed by the "control" and monotony in her life that she doesn't even know how to express herself or where to start. As many reviews will reveal, Britney seriously shied away from talking about her frappuccino-y barefoot-y days of head-shaving meltdowns, but the honest and silent awkward pauses she took in her responses, and the exhaustion that was evident in her breath reveals serious hurt. Listen guys. This woman is not going to look into the camera with a sober smile and say "yeah I fucked up and married a deadbeat and went on a bender - oops!" She's like, 27. Just because she has two children and a grillion dollars and went to rehab doesn't mean she's going to be the comeback story on the cover of MarieClaire. Shit, most people don't fix their lives even by the time they're 40. The main conundrum for this lady, and her public, is that Britney has become an idea... a mere presence or existence... rather than an individual. We call it "superstardom," and I can't imagine living through it during your formative years like she has done. You know, in lieu of actually growing up.

There were some high notes: I was especially delighted to see that Brit Brit is hanging out with people she genuinely seems to admire and trust (which she herself claims is a step in the right direction). Except for one scene in which entourage members laughed off her emotional frustration, Britney never once seemed upset or impatient with anyone. Her home life seemed happy and sedate: her two FADORABLE kids were waddling around in silly Halloween costumes, and her father seemed to be dutifully protective and proactive about Britney's career and homelife. And Britney herself, as a parent, seemed sincerely aware of "her babies" which "get her up in the morning." I still think she has a long way to go in her relationship with Sean P and JJ, and I hope she crosses it fast, because they are growing up rightquick. It seems as if her desire to regain the 20-something freedom she lost as public prey overshadows the irrational, unconditional love she should have as a mother. If you have a 2-year-old and a 3-year-old, your fucking sun and moon should rise and set around those kids. I don't think it does for Britney.

But, when all's said and done, as Chris Crocker has so ebulliently pleaded, Leave Britney Alone. At least she isn't lookin like this crazy mess anymore. Dang, yall!

True story

Last night's episode of VH1's latest circus of morals and honesty, Real Chance of Love, was sponsored by Plan B Emergency Contraceptive. Billboards, slogan copy, et al. Which leads me to believe that a) pharmaceutical companies truly are targeting their demographics through shamelessly brilliant avenues, and b) that... oh wait... well... OK. Yeah marketing wizards, you pretty much nailed it.





In other news: I need to go jump off a goddam bridge. Later.

Hey economy: STFU and put on a scarf.

OMJ you guys, have you seen the new Gap ads? The holiday ones always make my heart a little more toasty, and this year they're inundated with celebrities that simply make me giggle. In a year when Wall Street almost canceled Christmas, Gap makes me wanna spend my American money! For one, Jennifer Hudson greenlit her own shots despite the wretchedness in her life, and for that my heart really goes out to her. Also, the SOS Dreamboat comes sailing into the Gap in a button-collared beige sweater: Jon Hamm (swoon!). To top it off, as I noticed gliding up Third Avenue on an MTA bus, the dudes of the finally-funny-again Saturday Night Live faux-male-model some striped crew necks and look pretty fuckin loveable doing it. Ohmigawd. Also. Jason Bateman + adorbz daughter. Also. Dwight Schrute. Ohmigawd. Cool celebrity overload.

Also. Has anyone noticed how SNL has once again become hilarious? I actually would no longer be ashamed to forego a night out on Saturdays just to stay in and watch. Naturally the most interesting and bizarre election in history lent a lot to the show's boost in ratings and credit, but I'm both impressed and pleased that this show can hold its own and entertain without making a satire of the political circus we call American government. I can't really do it justice in words, other than to say the rotational skits (Surprise Lady, Two A-Holes, etc) are pretty damn funny, but even the new randoms carry enough novelty. This one is my latest fave.

I could lose this lemon in return for a rad trike.

You wanna know why I voted Obama two weeks ago? It's not because I was voting for terrorism and ACORN, and it certainly wasn't because I wanted my overmedicated grouchy Pop Pop telling me whether to watch MacGuiver or 60 Minutes, it's because of johnmccainisyourjalopy.com and barackobamaisyournewbicylce.com - two websites that bear more truth than an EPT. If you don't get either of them, well, then I guess you voted for the apropos man.

Two things I'm obsessed with but shouldn't be:

ONE. Kanye West. I'm sorry. I cannot ignore this man. And much as I try to dislike him, he just keeps pleasing and wowing me more and more (TWSS). I tried to dismiss his new album as a shitty rehash of Chris Brown/ Akon electric-esque sound flows, but it's so innovative. And even Gawker loves his new ideas. WTF, mate??? Anyway, I just redownloaded some of my faves from the College Dropout, and here's what I consider the best, catchiest vid from Kanye. It reminds me of Paris and spending 35 euro on a concert to get faced on kir and party in a shady part of the City of Lights and hitchhike home during a transit strike. Vive la France, mesdames et messieurs.



TWO. Bandit wine. I stopped by The Bottle Shoppe on Sunday and dropped $30. $20 was on a pretentious, shitty zinfandel that tasted like fermented syrup before it had the chance to make it to a priest's communion inventory. $9, however, was on my new best friend, the undiscovered grail of happiness, Bandit. It comes in a BOX (not like Franzia though - shit son, this aint your mother's basement!) and leads you to believe that you can and should be able to drink it in like 3 minutes. Well, you can. But you shouldn't (well, on a week night by yourself). Welcome to the adult's answer to Juicy Juice. Apparently these little wonders hold 133% the amount of vino an average bottle of wine can. And therefore get you tanked. Also, they're delicious (another bonus: they're totally green!). Buy it. Makes for a right class Thanksgiving. And guess what the first thing is that I'm bringing to the opening of HBO's 2009 Bryant Park Film Festival. YUM.

East v. West: a case study

Remember a few whiles back when I posted that video for the Virgins' single "Rich Girls"? It got me thinking. It's such a quintessentially "New York" video. It's in a dingy underground bar. Practically everything from the walls to the table tops to people's skin to the camera lens is coated in this film of sweat, condensation, and booze. The only light comes from overhead UVs and red bulbs. Everyone's wearing black. Everyone is completely, lethargically housed. No one really gives a shit because, like, you have to be sober to give a shit. Basically every person is going to die in 4 years even though no one's over the age of 26. It's basically supposed to take place from 2-5am. Save people falling over each other in a drunken stupor, no one's dancing (they jes' sittin around!).



Now. Compare with what I call the quintessentially "SoCal" video, from Rooney's "When did your Heart go Missing?" It's on a sunny, happy beach and down the Malibu strip. Everything looks like it tastes like a cool, fresh margarita or something. It's so fucking bright out them kids are wearing shades till 7pm. Everyone is wearing some form of pastel or white or gold (either in their hair or in their Hollister costume). Everyone is so naturally pepped that they can still toss a beach ball around while sipping 80,000 red plastic cups and not get pulled over for DUI in their vintage convertible. Everyone's so healthy you wonder if its their vocal cords they're singing from or their numerous, big healthy red blood cells and happy little liver. It's basically supposed to take place between 2pm-12am. Everyone dances and claps in unison.



We both may have voted Obama, but my what distances stand between New York and California...

(PS: My fave part of that Rooney video is "Why don't you wake him up and get a job?" Ha, spoken like a true McCain.)

Heart-Dick Productions

Last night I had the utter pleasure to experience the awkward, embarrassing, and ugly sexhound of a movie, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, with an awkward, embarrassing and ugly sexhound of my own. In case you haven't heard about it, it's the latest "let's make lots of jokes about weewees and poopoo but still make it endearing" flick from Seth Rogen, of frat pack fame. You know, call me crazy, but as redundant as this series is, and debase as they may be, I will never grow tired of these movies. And my hat's really off to Seth Rogen for winning fame by being normally funny. A lot of people may say, "Oh my friends and I same the same shit but we're not getting paid millions of dollars for it..." Yeah, true. You're NOT getting paid millions of dollars for it. You're sitting on your ass playing Xbox Live and drinking your Natty Light and he made an effort to work hard and crank out a grazillion movies a year, just bein himself. So, you know, shaddap.I really have come to admire Seth Rogen (along with the rest of the Farty boys that have dominated the American comedy scene since about 2004). A few months back he was actually in the Hitchcock-attributed Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair, recreating Cary Grant's iconic scene from North by Northwest, and later this summer he graced the cover of GQ's comedy issue. In his GQ feature, he described his school of comedy as "heart-dick production," since his films consist of a lot of heart, but simultaneously, a lot of dick. Not too far off the mark, wouldn't you say? Look at what he's been in: The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, Superbad... (no, I didn't see Pineapple Express). Most of those movies tie directly back to Judd Apatow, but I still contest that the uncomfortable, chubby, jewfro lovability of Rogen is largely responsible for this whole phenomenon.

Also, I must contest that he's started a new misplaced romantic lead phenomenon, akin to Tom Hanks in the 80s and Woody Allan in the 70s... Last night, as I squinted through Rogen and Elizabeth Banks' silent explosion of a sex scene (yeah... spoiler alert... they do it, since duh they made a porno!), I actually found myself, kind of um, turned on. It was this strange alloy of arousal, confusion, discomfort, and sheer endearment. Yes, frankly, watching Seth Rogen even make OUT with a girl is weird, and watching him "make love" (as his character Zack actually declared it) is sheerly mind-bending and existential. But the truth is, he created a scenario that was both emotional and real, and yeah, really fucking awkward. But that, I think, is what made it so hot. Oh Seth Rogen, you slick-talkin fly-walkin panty dropper.

PS: For those of you who are attune to viral videos, check this noise out, which was shot on the set of Zack and Miri and I discovered a few months ago! Wee!

Hellobama

I would be remiss as an adult functioning person if tonight I didn't give my nods to the man who had single-handedly (question mark if you count the internet as an entity in and of itself, I guess) changed the face of American campaigning ( youth culture/ redistribution of wealth/ ideological priority/ racial question/ economical reality/ physical health/ campaign finance reform/White House puppies aside from Miss Beazley) in only two short years. Congratulations, Mr. Obama, in finally sealing the title that you have not only stridently labored to earn, but that we have so desperately been seeking to place. I am confident in your abilities.

So uh, puppies?

Aint no love if you don't use a glove (and tell mom)

Finally, MTV has added to its repertoire a program of moral fiber and cultural recognition. The show which is aptly (albeit disturbingly) dubbed "Sex... with Mom and Dad" gains little publicity while quietly reminding kids that, hey, your parents probably know you're bumpin uglies with your boyfriend/ that kid who blindly took you to homecoming/ that person who maybe served you a double chalupe at 2am at Taco Bell... and it's OKAY.

I only caught one episode of the show tonight, and honestly, I don't know when it's regular airtime is, but I strongly petition for this stroke (hehe) of genius to garner a "10 Spot" slot in a Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday night rotation, because it delivers such a well-aimed, pivotally relevant, and seriously important message. Guess what. Kids that watch MTV fuck. And they don't tell mom and dad about it. Hence, there are SHITLOADS of 17-year-olds that can't get birth control (or testing for STDs) without their parents knowing. And this thoughtful, brilliant idea shows these little "sluts" that your parents would so much rather be enlightened, and take the precaution, than have an unpleasant surprise a few weeks down the line.

I'm going to open up now, which is something I've never really done in this blog as far as my personal life goes, but I have a really, really kick-ass mother. She is bar none my best friend, and probably one of the most amazing ladies I've ever been aware of God creating. As part of the "I'm your friend and we're both humans" mantra she espoused while I was growing up, she and I made a pact to be clear with each other about my sex life (because I was at least realistically aware of hers). We agreed that as soon as I started having it, I would be honest, at least so she could get birth control for me? Why? Because she's my mom. She has a moral obligation to look out for me. She's not going to let me run into on-coming traffic, and she would be flippantly remiss to let me dive into Man York without being aware of the repercussions. I admit it. I'm not a virgin (and I've sweat through the crises that such indiscretion can introduce), and I'm not the pristine, pure white female for which my Catholic schooling preened me. But neither is my mom. She's a realistic woman who, with 30 years experience over me, can guide me (as a parent is SUPPOSED to do).

On the other hand, I have friends who are adults. They are not sluts, but they certainly and clearly been sexually active recently and have decidedly NOT been open with their parents (who, by the way, largely spearhead their health insurance) about it. Why? Oh, I've heard a plethora of reasons: I've only slept with 1/2/3 people, and I know they're clean... We used protection... I wouldn't want my parents to know... Blah blah bullshit. This just in - you live in a sexually liberated yet unsound world. Sex is fun and free and encouraged, but just like EVERYTHING ELSE in the world (apartments, bills, drinking, eating good food), it comes with risks and the demand for precaution. Your parents (and you) would be negligent not to have an open dialog about it. And just as an aside, if I had a 20-year-old child who hadn't mentioned a breath about sex to me I would feel one (or more) of three things: a) that I wasn't his or her friend/ that I was unapproachable, b) that I went wrong somewhere in his or her upbringing that he or she can't communicate this sort of thing, or c) that she is ultimately a pariah who cannot get laid.

And, as a good friend of mine declares, universal care starts with the 'rents.

So thank you, MTV, for shedding light on not just a sexual dilemma American families face, but a social one. Parents are obligated to groom their offspring for the adult world. And yes, penises and vaginas are WEIRD - no one wants to talk about em! But when your child finds themselves in trouble, what kind of parent will you consider yourself?

"Life's no fun without a good scare"

Sigh. Isn't it strange how every few weeks we're struck, either by some unforeseeable catastrophe or stricken by an impromptu private sorrow, by that overwhelming reality of, you know like, grown-upness? With everything going on around us - with this nation on what I truly feel is a generational revolution, I can't help but feel half privileged and half indignant that fate chose to bring me to fruition at such a turbulent time. At the same time though (and this is why I feel "privileged"), I think it's almost inevitable that every culture at its heyday realizes its hubris at some humiliating and crippling moment, and it happens every thirty or so years, or basically third-centennially. Our parents saw the socioeconomic makeup completely make over itself in the 70s; their parents saw America lose half its workforce (but come out a superpower) in the 40s. There seems to be some inherent difference though that is SO hard to put my finger on (TWSS*). Is it that America is finally getting its wrist slapped in the most translatable sector (the economy)? Is it because the war's on our turf now? Is it because, with the thoughtfully ruthless noise of interwebs and blogs and Blackberries (thanks McCain!), we can hardly ignore each other? I dunno. What is going on?

Anyway. Times, they are a-changing, that's for certain. I was just perusing YouTube and for only YouTube explicable reasons I ended up serenading myself on Danny Elfman's masterpiece, The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't know why (maybe it's because I had already drank some vino, which by the way I indulge in only when there's too much oxygen in the air), but this little diddy rings as aesthetically valid and inspirational as it did when I was seven. Fear... awe... some sort of compulsion to march around in blind obedience to the Pumpkin Throne? How many things can you say make you think THE SAME EXACT THING you thought when you were 15 years younger? Touché. American apocalypse may be upon us, but so are the holidays. And I sure as hell would rather watch a flaming Jack Skellington than another minute of that Pitbull in Lipstick!



* That's what she said.

Isn't it the worst????!!!!

... when you "discovered" some magical, wonderful, insatiable artist like, eight years ago, and then suddenly they're famous. No, seriously, Lady GaGa, I'm happy for you. But A) release your fucking soon to be fawesome album already, and B) play the shit you played at the club and stop letting the record bitches over process it. You know what, I'm not even like a "music aficionado" or anything --- I HEARD YOUR SONG ON MYSPACE --- but I'm mad that the economy chooses to favor you in a well-deserved limelight that's two minutes too late. And when I can barely afford to buy shit from the breakfast cart on 47th and Lex in the morning.

You know what, whatever. Here's the source of my wrath: the recent, toned-down-yet-still-pleasant sounds of the Virgins, and their "latest"....

PS: I still love you, Virgins...

PPS: Love the Robyn Bird shout-out for the "Private Affair" video. (Yes, I know who Robin Byrd is. Don't pretend like you don't.)

When men was men and dames was dames

I haven't paid any heed to this blog in so long - I'm a terrible parent. And then I choose to steal away to it during work. Shame on me!

But. Speaking of mixing leisure with work, I have a new obsession. And it doesn't come from a bar well or the Gawker media network! No, lately I have been fully ensconced in AMC's beautiful confection Mad Men, an ode to the sexist, elitist, Kennedy-era executive kingdom of skirt chasers and four-martini lunches. (As per usual, I am once again slow on the latest brilliant pop culture uptake, as Mad Men has already been lauded by publications like Vanity Fair and graced the cover of Entertainment Weekly.) It's funny, because as misogynistic and philosophically concrete as the time was, there's something still so appealing and captivating about the gloss of it all: the economic optimism, the epicurian habbits of wining(scotching) and dining(smoking), and the impeccable approach to sex and how to sell it. I remember stories of my grandfather (though not in advertising, a thirsty member of Washington's lawyer crowd after he was swiftly ushered out of Kennedy's State Department) spending more time guzzling down lunch than inquiring about his wife and four children. Sure, it sounds a little irresponsible, but as the alpha female of Mad Men, Joan Holloway, says of the behavior, "isn't it the best?"

To sum up the mantra in one scene, here's SterlingCooper's resident slimeball, Pete Campbell, musing for the non-con, ambitious secretary Peggy Olson his idyllic vision for existence:



Fucking hurrah for chauvenism.

I'll have what she's having.

Here's hoping that my substance abuse impediments never find this sort of affect on my social skills.

After catching up on the last few episodes of Project Runway on YouTube, one of the thumbnails under the "project runway" search list really caught my eye. Here it is for your viewing pleasure - I hope you start to feel as uncomfortable as I was watching it. Luckily Tim Gunn shatters the icy wall of "WTF"ness by declaring a most decidedly out-of-character exclamation that puts his "holla atcha boy" moment with "that little gay grommet" Blayne to shame. Never have I loved the man more. Enjoy:

SUCKS FOR YOU!

(... that's what they should've called it.)

Tonight marked a few firsts for me:

1. The first time I ate at least a quarter pound of bucheron all on my lonesome (thanks, FRIENDS, for being ladies and not helping me polish it off).


2. The first time I came home to find my roommate there before me AND asleep.


3. The first time I threw away not only a food stuff, but an alcoholic stuff! I cannot believe I tossed at least a quarter bottle of my $13.95 bottle of Placido pino grigio. Perish the thought!


4. The first time I sat up straight and paid legitimate attention to an old, black-and-white, mid-century-accented Bryant Park lawn movie. You know, until I got back from a trip to the bathroom and fell asleep.


5. And tying in with such rapt curiosity, the first time I had ever consumed a full Alfred Hitchcock feature. Considering my twisted, dark, and absolutely unforgiving penchant for the "what-if?", I find this simply appalling and unacceptable.
   

Such were my musings after my viewing of the movie Lifeboat. 'Twas a propagandist(?) WWII cross of and Survivor, Titanic, and Lord of the Flies wherein the folks left to their own devices in the middle of Fucked Avenue and Screwed Boulevard must decide what truly matters in this world we call HUMAN life. Do we work in the interest of MEMEMEMEMEMEME or do we put in (or out) for the greater of the common good? Do we sacrifice our most prized possessions, our own body parts, our loyalty, our kin, or (horror of horrors) our own selves for the pure understanding that the survival of just six living bodies is better than that of just our own?

As Hitchcock virgin, I felt that this little project he pinched out for Twentieth Century Fox c/o John Steinbeck (in 1944 - before the landlord of the Twilight Zone became a mainstream icon in pop culture - but wholly private - mental terrorism) was an apt introduction. It has enough psychological mindfuckery to make you wonder why the bosses of HBO's Bryant Park Summer Film Festival would sick it on a group of after-5 drunken 20-somethings looking for a summer Monday release, but not enough evil perversion to trump other, more perverted films. Because really, can you get any saner with this man? My roommate, a true old-timey movie afficianado (her dad can name ever Oscar winner since like 1325) insists that Lifeboat isn't as an appropriate first film as Rear Window, but I aint complainin. Lo, my Hitchcock naïvété welcomes the enlightened insight of those better versed in the man's portfolio.

Eye candy

If I blogged about my more personal life, then I would blog about this, which really did happen, and really did happen because - in a nutshell - I'm an alcoholic and INSANELY STUPID.

What I really want to share with the world is my newfound fascination with this chick, Marilyn Minter, whose work graces the cover of the latest edition of Time Out New York. She also has a featurette as part of their "Success" profile, and TONY was decidedly NOT shy about showing some of her more... exotic pieces. Regardless, I've looked this lady up and can say that I absolutely floves her eye for pure, unadulterated glamour trash. I also admire her embrace of the pornographic, and her emphasis of its truly bizarre aesthetic. As TONY points out, homegirl really does deliver in the same mode of a man. You know, like, a man with a raging, unforgiving hard-on.

Also, during my interwebz cruise for Minter, I came across CoolHunting.com and this other photographer who is totally awesometown. And makes me want to nom.

Dance across the Rio Grande

Last night, as I was drunkenly responding to one of those soul-searching surveys people propagate across the ethers of the interwebz, I was caught up in a storm of cheesy 80s music videos while I cruised YouTube.  I must say that the most arresting and captivating piece of work was the video for Duran Duran's "Rio":

Yes, this video is truly bizarre, and full of that essential, let's-pour-some-mysterious-fluid-on-a-hot-chick, unashamed sexual innuendo.  But at the end of the day, you really have to appreciate this 1982 number as a grandfather to the neon bubble pop avant-gardeness of the 80's.  Plus, doesn't it just make you want to slam back Miami Vices while you get a killer tan in Belize?

What would life be without prepubescent surveys circulating on Facebook?

To whom did you last give the finger to?
A priest.


If you had one thousand dollars, what would you buy?
150 12-packs of either Diet Coke or Bud Light.


What was the last beverage you spilled on yourself?
Rum and diet. Or Christian Bale. I can't remember.


Where were you last night around 9:30?
Your mother's Hyundai Elantra.


How was the last egg you prepared?
Fertilized. ZING. (actually - that's gross)


Last song you listened to?
"Lovestoned"


Are you a forgiving person?
Yes. Provided there's a monetary supplement involved.


Last thing you drank?
The sweet nectar of the fountain of youth.


What is your current mood?
Drunky Malunkies.


What do you hear right now?
"Summer Love" (an ode to the only acquaintance of mine for whom I'd switch teams: AMYTANG)


Are you sarcastic?
....


Do you think relationships are ever really worth it?
Hellz yeah. How else would we learn? I mean get laid?


What do you do when you have a bad day?
A case, all by myself.


Pick a word that begins with the first letter of your first name?
Kangaroo bop.


How many states have you lived in?
Two. Unless you count the state of misunderstanding


Have you ever caught anything on fire?

My house maybe?
(I think this question means to ask have you ever SET anything else on fire, to which my answer would be "half the panties in Manhattan")


How long is your hair when it's wet?
That's what she said.


How many bathrooms are in your house?
Porto potties all the way, m'friend.


What was the last thing you took a bite of?
How wrong would it be to make two "your mom" jokes in one survey?


Do you drink soda?
Only if it's chased by a hearty glass of Bacardi.


What are you thinking about right now?
Dollas.


Have you ever been on an airplane?
A what?


Marriage in your future?
Who's askin?


Do you like your life?
Considering I was just violently ejected from from Slackoffwhileyourparentspay University. No, not at the moment.


Do you know anyone whose name starts with a Z?
Only this Mayor of Fox City.


Have you kissed in the rain?
Yeah, but I was compensated handsomely for it.


What are you doing tomorrow?
Tons of hot women. And maybe some Text Twist.


When is your birthday?
TODAY. Plz 2 hav caek?


Whats your favorite drink?
I could no sooner choose a favorite star in the heavens.


Do you have a job?
I don't want no scrubs. But seriously, only until I find a nice manz to pay for my addictions.


Do you like to read?
I read women like I read books.


Are you a nerd at heart?
Maybe in bed because I can never seem to stop giggling nervously.


What music do you listen to?
Same shit as the stuff to which I was conceived, I'm sure.

EI! EI! Oh.

I'd like to congratulate my roommate for starting a blog today. It looks great, particularly for something that was just started. You know how I know? Because she embedded a YouTube video and threw in a lot of hyperlinks!

Also she's a smart cookie and has meaningful things to say.

Holy Singing Old Ladies, Batman!

This weekend I had the immense pleasure of being one of the many Americans that bolstered BOTH of the top two movies at the box office above their competition. Friday night, my friends and I got straight up hammered and saw that film about a crazy psychopath with a painted face who runs around cackling maniacally and torturing people. Obviously I'm talking about Christine Baranski in Mamma Mia!.Not much to note about Mamma Mia! beyond what's expected (guilty pleasure plus Pierce Brosnan's GOD AWFUL singing voice), but I must say I'm a little disappointed with the audience at the 19th Street Regal Cinemas. Granted we were like two giant margaritas and two Bud Lights ahead of everyone else, but we were also the ONLY bitches singin in that theater! Seriously, we brought it on home. I know it's not the Broadway production or anything, but I sort of expected all the memaws to get up and shake it like there's no tomorrow. I dunno - just sayin. And to the two gay guys I sat in front of, I'm sorry for ruining the movie for you. I mean like, ruining whatever Pierce Brosnan didn't. And if anyone's interested, coming home to a drunken screening of Grease 2 makes the perfect double feature experience.

Saturday I had the cosmic luck of catching what seemed to be the only showing left in Manhattan to The Dark Knight. I was so in awe of what Christopher Nolan did to the Batman franchise. I remember when I was in, like, third grade, and my babysitter brought over a VHS of Batman Forever - the one where Val Kilmer was oversexed Batman. It was like, my first "adult" movie and I cannot tell you how differently people approached a superhero flick back then. In 1995 Batman was smothered in color, comedy, and sounds, and no one thought twice about what he really stood for (although there ain't NOTHIN wrong with watching Chris O'Donnell run around in a wife beater... mmm). The Dark Knight was so politically fueled and sociologically charged that it actually incited a conversation about religion between my friends on the N train.

It's such a cartoony question but really - who is Batman? Someone insisted that Batman was Jesus, which I totally disagree with but I can see where she was coming from. Really, why do we need superheros? Is the Christian reverence for Jesus the same admiration we feel for Superman? In this conversation, I mentioned that when comic books became popular (1930s and 40s), DC Comic books in particular, Americans thrived on that morally upright, wholly capitalist, polarized theater of good versus evil. That's the formula for the perfect superhero breeding ground. Unlike in the Marvel Comic books (and before you think I'm turning into the Comic Book Guy here bear with me), DC Comic superheros lived in allegorical fantasy worlds (consider the fact that these men live in places like Gotham and Metropolis, unlike Spiderman's actual New York). Their adventures did sort of emulate the Bible: they were escapist reflections of an ideal society.

Right? Can I get a "hey ya?"

But seriously, Batman ≠ Jesus.

Also, inspired by how hard Heath Ledger rocked our world in that powerhouse of a movie (as Kevin Smith puts it, he "disappeared completely into that role") and rolling along the same history-of-comics train, here's a time line that the LA Times put together documenting the evolution of the Joker - a character that Ledger proved is much more complex than what we've come to envision.

Austin Scarlett is in the mothereffin house, bitches.

The demise of Project Runway is such a sorry loss to good television. The fifth season aired on Wednesday and, thanks to numerous and correct theories that it is being quietly put out of its misery by Bravo (to spite that bitch network Lifetime for stealing PR from them - ugh! dumb whores), I didn't even feel buzzed enough to catch the first airing of the premiere. With nothing better to do, I tuned into a repeat to gauge whether or not I would be paying this program any attention this season. Good news is, I think I will (either through repeats or online or some shiiiit). Bad news is it does NOT look like this season will hold a fucking CANDLE to the previous four. And I mean like one of those shitty birthday cake candles that are an inch and a half long and half a centimeter in girth. But I digress.

Although watching these designs unfold, and seeing people in really challenging situations that force them to be innovative is always fun, the cast of this season is just so blaaaaaaaaa. They are either COMPLETELY vanilla (or "silent fashion assassins," as one boring ass Pollyanna defined herself) or totally cliché. Wow, you're a twinky gay guy with crazy hair and a cutesy lexicon? I don't know if you'll stand out next to that girl who ironically dresses up like a 40's pinup and wears red lipstick everywhere. Just to prove that they weren't above keeping contestants around for the pure sake of color and conflict, the folks of PR decided to keep Stella (a 40-something woman who dresses like a hell's angel and seems to have missed the fact that 1988 has come and gone - she was wearing wool long johns with a leather bikini bottom on top), even though she sent something that wasn't even a definable outfit down the runway:


Thank god this adorable number took the cake.

The challenge, by the way, was "taking it all back to where it began," which I think is a whopping harbinger from the PR producers themselves. They're sayin: "This is it yall, because once this mofo moseys on over to the Uterine Broadcasting System you can kiss our popularity wave goodbye." Just as in the first challenge on the first season of Project Runway, the designers were made to pick out materials from Gristedes, a New York grocery store, and make some sort of wearable, innovative costume out of it. AKA yall race in there and whoever buys the most table cloths and shower curtains wins. Yawn. BUT - ZOMG - look who came out to say hello!!!!

AUSTIN MOTHERFUCKING SCARLETT. The REAL winner of season one. Seriously, where has this bitch BEEN? Homegirl also got to be the guest judge for the challenge. Needless to say, Austin was the saving grace for this episode. If only this season's roster were as magically gay as he, maybe Project Runway would have a fighting chance. Sigh. Anyway, here's most of the rest of the designs (and more shots of Austin looking sheerly divine and kick all our asses with his fabulosity):

Apocalypto

I think one of my greatest fascinations in this lifetime has been... the end. What will it be? Where will it happen? Will I be there - or worse yet - will my kids be there?  Hopefully le fin is very, very far off in the distant future, because even with things standing as shittily as they do, I think the world's alright.

My aim in this post is not to divulge into an entire existential inquiry.  'Tis to note that (Babylink) Gawker has compiled a collection of fifteen cinematic demises to our fair city New York.  That's right - New York gets her fucking ass whooped, baby.  It's funny - why is it that in most sci-fi or horror movies, when some natural or extraterrestrial disaster (be it global warming, epidemic, or creature) ALWAYS strikes New York the hardest?  I'll tell you why.  Because, as Gawker puts it, "it looks awesome!"  Or, more specifically, it's New York: it's the epicenter of American awareness, and, in a sense, our cultural diplomat.  When the yeomen of the future look back upon the great states of the third millennium, they will look to the super powers (America and Russia and the diametric battle between tradition and progression, I think), and the metropoles that have the best sampling of mass opinion.  Where else would you look?  Kalamazoo, Michigan?  I don't think so, sister.

Curiosity is such a powerful thing.  Everyone wants to know how it's all going to flicker out.  And if anything can stand up to the forces, it's New York.  If New York can't rough it in the face of a threat, who can?  It's strange how fun it is to watch something be defeated, and it's even stranger that we all want to watch our own existence be defeated.  Nothing is more awe-inspiring than witnessing the very nerve center of our world be crushed by an imaginary monster.

In the case of I Am Legend and Planet of the Apes, it's watching the post ass-kicking that's so eerie.  In the case of Gangs of New York , it's actually watching Manhattan kick Brooklyn's ass (we all know that New York and Brooklyn were the original twin cities), and realizing what was buried forever to make way for the life we live now that's so enlightening.  We see buildings engulfed by 50 stories of element, or the Statue of Liberty raped by Michael Bay.  But anyway you watch New York falter, it's still a little captivating.

And here's my most burning question of all: why is it so?  Especially after only seven years ago, we saw the most prominent piece of Manhattan's skyline crumble in a matter of minutes and realized how vulnerable we REALLY are?

PS: Not so burning question: In I Am Legend, if Will Smith is the only bro left on that island, where did he get the gas to power that sports car?  Oooooooh - think about that!

PPS: This has also encouraged me to recommend the few minutes of apocalyptic movies

 that all should watch: def recommend Deep Impact and The Day After Tomorrow.  You can totes skip I Am Legend and 28 Days Later (coincidentally, both apocalyptic zombie movies!), but ONLY AFTER the first fifteen minutes of each - which will blow your mind, son.

The Toast(ed) of New York

I was a little insulted when my friend Caroline (for whose blog I'd make a hyperlink except she abandoned it five months ago) sent me a link to this article that ran in the New York Times regarding New Yorkers being total boozehounds in the summer. My immediate response was, "well, as for me, I liquor it up pretty much all 13 months out of the year." And then it was, "how dare you imply that I'm an alocoholic." Caroline noted that she was only concerned that I was drinking just as much as the rest of 'em.

Yet it all rings true... the article notes how, in the summer, NYC heavily resembles a carefree college campus: girls walk around without bras, casual flings seem to be so in vogue, there is never an inch of available grass on which to sit or play in the parks, weekends are typically three days long, and the alcohol flows in bachae-ic abundance. BYOB events are EVERYWHERE, particularly (and funnily enough) in open, public spaces where liquor isn't really allowed. When I think about my own alcoholic track record for this past season, I consider the fact that each week I have been drunk about three nights out of the seven, and have imbibed at least some sort of alcoholic unit on SIX of those nights. Isn't that, like, excessive? Shouldn't my liver be turning in a resignation notice? I just recently "won" my first open bar party of the season (thank you Porky's for adopting Snitch's tired but gracious old tradition), which I'm having serious misgivings about. Mainly because these past few weeks I have also been spending a collective 3 days a week in my own apartment. By that I mean spending 4 nights a week OUTSIDE of it. Seriously kids, I have a duffel bag in my office. This past Monday I went to see the Philharmonic and fireworks in Central Park, and after I polished off (more than) a whole bottle of wine, I actually let my friend drunk dial my parents. I've never had so many hangovers in one month.

.... and now this post is no longer about New Yorkers' seasonal alcohol consumption and more about my growing addiction. Aces, Katelyn, you keep livin the dream.

PS: Regardless of my shameless indulgence, I will never be as big of a tool as this douche who monopolizes the middle of the lawn and runs a friggin daquiri stand for his friends at the Bryant Park film festival:

Arthur Golden served up his signature frozen strawberry daiquiris in the center of the lawn, where 20-odd blankets were spread out for his friends.

“I always bring 12 bags of frozen mix, because that’s the capacity of my freezer,” said Mr. Golden, who is 41 and works in real estate development.

There was an array of rums to choose from, too: light, dark and coconut. Mr. Golden mixed the daiquiris using a potato masher, churning the strawberry slush with rum in a plastic container, and offered the end product to all takers.

Mr. Golden and his friends have been going to movie nights in Bryant Park since he was in his late 20s and have the sequencing of the night’s cocktails down to a science.

“Elisha brings sangria, Ian brings margaritas and David brings prosecco,” he said.

...? Whatever dude. Just get hammered on your fruity drinks and watch another episode of Frasier.

Finally this blog has some effin relevance in the world.

Holy shet!

My favorite VH1 commentator - or maybe the best talking head in the history of anything in the universe - Michael Ian Black, has challenged Tucker Max to a deathmatch. And in true (drunken) alpha male form, Tucker has heartily risen to the bait. Hurrah. My money's on Tucker, because he is like five times the size of Black with ten times the wired adrenaline, but Michael Ian Black does have that advantage of, you know, fully functional nerve endings and is like, a whole immune system ahead.

Michael Ian Black, by the by, is some hot ass shit right now. Not only because he's the only one worth watching on VH1's new nostalgia fest I Love the New Millennium, but also because he's June's Hot Slut of the Month on Dlisted. I'd post a video of him being filarious on VH1, but that's tired. Here he is in the greatest cinematic tour de force that God ever had the mercy to bestow upon mankind, Wet Hot American Summer:



UPDATE: Michael Ian Black roars with excitement! Tucker responds, "I assume that he is kidding about this. I am not at all. Once he realizes I am completely serious and that this means he is going to get punched in the face, I doubt he'll be as eager as he is now."

Dick Lit

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New Favorites! Or, longest post ever.

1. NOT eating avocado roll every day. For srsly. I love buying my groceries, making dinners and packing lunches (even if it's just sandwiches since we never called the gas company) and saving myself that $10/day. The economy is wack, yall. Your girl can't be wastin G's on anything other than hooch.

2. Summer film festival in Bryant Park. There's nothing like getting off work, heading straight to (probably) my favorite place in Manhattan - Bryant Park, eating cheese, getting wasted on the lawn, and waiting to watch a dumb old-timey movie. The past few times I've gone the films have been boring as H-E-double hockey sticks, but being able to lie back and stare at the tips of sky scrapers under a totally open sky, hearing the far-off sounds of cosmopolitanism, and listening to the crackly mid-century voices of Turner Classic movie stars is really surreal. I tend to get a little TOO drunkies, and once all the wine's done I decide to sing theme songs or mock people on neighboring blankets loudly, and that spending 45 minutes on a train rather than finishing a story I haven't paid attention to is more important, but regardless, the two hours prior are golden summer moments. (Also, props to NYC Parks Commission for making the bathrooms there literally look like bathrooms at the fucking Rainbow Room. Yes. I've tried them. Two toilet paper rolls up!)

3. Going home. I used to come down on myself for being too much of a baby to not stay in the city for more than a month or two at a time, but fuck that. My family rocks hardcore, my mom's a hot ass bitch, and we threw a fucking kick-ass party at our joint this weekend. I come from one hot brood, yall.

4. Being employed. Duh.

5. VH1's new dark horse I Love Money. I know I said I was so disappointed in VH1 in my last post, and to be truthful, I am. The way they pinch off no-fuss reality shit shows, recycling tired old characters who we can all clock in at 15:01, really bastardizes the great channel I grew up with. And the title? "I Love Money"? Holy shit, VH1, you never cease to astound us with the things you come up with. Especially because 75% of your programming now starts with "I Love ___" or is book-ended as "Best ___ Ever."

But I digress. The title of this post is "New Favorites," and I must admit that since I try everything once (thatswhatshesaid) I HAVE lent VH1's new craptacular experiment the privilege of my attention. And - oh shit - I'm hooked. Natch. It's like MTV's Real World/ Road Rules Challenge, except everyone comes in already being hilarious - ain't no semblance of dignity here. What's more, it actually looks like (despite their ruthless efforts to become real actors) people actually seem to get along! Here's a video of the first contestant to get the boot talkin some sexist STD smack. Oh, Midget Mac you will (not) be missed, you bite-size little nugget of douche.

VH1 TV Shows

Music Videos

Celebrity Photos

News & Gossip

6. My neighborhood. For the longest time I thought that I had rushed into settling into anapartment in which I'd never be fully content, mainly because it was like eons from the L (or the G) train and way too close to the BQE. I thought the only thing that surrounded me was a Staples, a McDonalds, and really really shitty fall-out shelter type delis that were only good for selling candy bars and mediocre Boar's Head. But tis not so. Recent excursions have brought me around greater Greenpoint (which really is only in the opposite direction of the L - shame on my nonadventurous self!), and I've discovered it's actually SO lovely. And I actually CAN access a grocery store and laundry place. I've been running (yeah you heard me!) around McGolrick Park, which is flanked by two very pretty churches, a 19th-century public school, and tons of trees. Inside the park are really gorgeous paths littered with benches, some gorgeous statues, a neoclassical pavillion, a dog run, and billions of kids riding bikes and catching fireflies. Sound fruity? It totally is. But it's so much better than the situation I thought I was in. Brooklyn, I actually DO heart you. And if you need any more evidence that Greenpoint does not equal shithole, then check out this dude's little vignettes on the hood in Lost City, which include two McGolrick park inhabitants: the "Luncheonette/Fountain" corpse and the Palace Cafe. Which I have yet to try.

7. Speaking of - Lost City! Loves how this guy unearths the past of some facades of what we'd typically refer to as tack city - or look past all together. I'm puttin this bitch in Babylinks.

8. Boys you can find state side. Take it from Estelle, Kanye, and my new favorite jam:

Oh hell naw.

Oh no she dih-ent.

Thanks to Dlisted, I can access the baser forum of current events without shame - you know, without feeling guilty for not reading the feminist-inspired Jezebel, keeping tabs in the New Yorker, or starting my day with a financially jargoned episode of "Squawk Box." (A happy medium = just going to Whole Foods or the nearest news kiosk and getting a TONY - fawesome!)

Anyway. I was relaxing my eyes this afternoon from the harsh love of Microsoft Excel when I happened upon this travesty posted by favorite Perez Hilton wannabe sight.

I whole heartedly support New York and all - in ALL her nationally televised faux romantic/ authentic promiscuous endeavors, but homegirl (read: Vh1) needs to realize when enough is S.R.S.L.Y. ee-nuff. We don't need a third I Love New York, nor do we need a shittier version of Lohan's shitty Monroe photographic "tribute." This is downright lazy and overconfident. Vh1 has mastered the celebrity-for-the-sake-of-celebrity genre, and the understanding that their audience is similar to that of a blog: urban, (completely) self-centered, thriving purely on its circumspection of every other social class via the interwebz, and ironically "normal," for which I applaud them. But honestly, is THIS what it has come to?

P.S.: Loves how the good stoner lackies over at my favorite network DON'T EVEN BOTHER to AIRBRUSH those pics. Aces!

If you love me (and margaritas)

Since I'm pretty sure my readership for this blog counts to about three, I'm going to go ahead and post this in the good faith that random creepers aint gunna show up at my house.

On the weekend of July 4th, if you have one point or another in my life or yours called me "friend," you are cordially invited to the Lahr/Reilly/Whiteside/Zaret graduation party at my parent's non-burnt-down house in Potomac, Maryland. Party is on July 5th, pre-gaming starts on the Fourth. What's in it for you? Free food, margarita machines, rad jams, and watching me + every other female in my family embarrass herself via alcohol. Call me for details, because this party is going to be off the hizzy, and you are going to look this happy at the end of the night:

Just to say you heard it from me!

So. I'm writing two posts in one night. On a Friday night, no less, on a blog I hardly ever touch. Get over it, sucka. Sometimes a girl just needs some time with her shitty Little Warsaw A.P.T. Uhkay?

Anyway, I really can't hold my affection for this little trollop in any longer. About a year ago, I went on (I guess what you call) an accidental date with this dude who brought me to some hole-in-the-wall music joint in the LES. It was on Orchard or Ludlow Street... or some other one of those ambiguous little graffiti meccas, home to hipsters and a new Whole Foods. The venue was what I like(d) to call a total L Party*, where not more than 20 or so (and that's being generous) came to watch this little chick, probably only a few months older than I, named Lady GaGa, perform. For the record, I tried to remembs the name of the place but I couldn't, and even CitySearch couldn't throw me a bone! But there were peeps (include fathers with toddlers on their shoulders) watching her flashy bikini-clad self from the STREET PEERING THROUGH THE WINDOW that night. She was only accompanied with background music, a disco ball, and her friend - aptly named Lady Starlight - but shit, did she rock my world somethin FIERCE.

At the time she was fresh off signing with Interscope Records (I think), and now I am thrilled to say that she is on the brink of releasing her freshman album, "The Fame." Not only do I want to embody her physical petite cuteness, but something about her "retrosexual" sensuality is contagious and just makes me want to consume sequins, lightening bolts, and shoulder pads. I highly recommend that yall watch her new video for "Just Dance," on which she has collaborated with Colby O'Donis (who fortunately is tight with Akon and thereby ensures a quick rise to mass hysteria for GaGa) - but yall can find that ANYWHERE (yeah srsly YouTube). Since I saw her in person she has exchanged her dark brunette locks for a more marketable platinum coif, I guess since it's less New-Yorky and more translatable to the masses, but she has still retained the same bubble pop energy with that fresh, young independent edginess she exuded. Unfortunately I can't find my favorite song of hers ("Boys Boys Boys") anywhere, so hopefully it's on her album, which HOPEFULLY is comin out soon! Anyway, I'd post the norm (her video for "Just Dance") but I thought instead I'd post a video I found of her that instead expresses her candid fun-ness. Here she is in the stude with Noize, bein cute and dancing to what I guess is called "Retrophysical." Isn't she delish?



*L Party: A function in which American-Apparel-donning Christian Siriano lookalikes come to revel and drink PBR and rock out to a band that's only cool if you've never heard of them. Popular at venues such as the Knitting Factory and Arlene's Basement, these twenty-first century neo avant garde folk are most habitually comfortable nesting themselves in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York. Once mocked by one Katelyn Reilly Lahr, they are named for their primary mode of communication into the conventional world of Manhattan: NYC MTA's L train. They have forthwith been pardoned from their intolerable douchey-ness as Katelyn herself has signed a lease in Greenpoint and currently rides the L train to access the life she once loved.

Die kuute fuuken shiest

I've been a fan of the simple posts lately - whatevs! Here for your cuteness daily intake (and then some) is a baby polar bear. I was inspired to YouTube some more of them after Jezebel's ridiculously fadorable post on the talking polar bear cub today.

The vid's naturally precious, but what's really the draw of the piece is the AWESOME German diddy that accompanies it. I swear to have it memorized in two days. SWEAR.

Guess what I had for lunch today. And yesterday.

...and the day before that and the day before that and the day before that and also probably tomorrow.


Avocado roll!!!

Feeling revirginized? Trashy Lingerie's got just the thing for you.

I know I haven't updated this in like three centuries, and for that I apologize. But trust me, the joys of funemployment (namely the grossly disgusting amount of free time) will allow me to come back in full force in a day or two.

For now, I just HAD to share this video I came across of the late great Anna Nicole Smith, and her of her glorious televised ode to American decay: The Anna Nicole Smith Show. This series delivered 23-minute installments, reminders of the basal barnacle of society that brought us such phenomena as Bobby Trendy and "Howard, get me a pickle!" You don't have to watch the whole thing (though I highly recommend it unless you really can't stand listening to someone high on a whole bottle of Percoset and half a handle of Captain's). At least forward to about 1:45 in, when Anna utters probably one of the greatest self-assertions I've ever heard:

Just because I haven't had sex in two years doesn't mean that I don't wanna feel sexy. So, me and Kimmy went to Trashy Lingerie [yes that's actually the name of the establishment - take a wild shot in the dark as to what their inventory consists of] to get me some really sexy clothes.

Enjoy, yall:

It's my birthday!

Happy birthday TAH ME.


(Yes. I'm 22 and old balls. Get over it.)

No really you look incredible.

I know you offer peppermint patties on the towel, cold minty face cloths, and eight channels of music to listen to. But shame on you, City Sun, for charging me $20 to get a mediocre tan that makes me look like this:


I'll see you tomorrow. Naturally.