.

Yay.

2011-06-24T22:52:00.004-04:00

This. This is why I love the state I live in. I'm not a very political person, but I am socially conscious enough to recognize a grave injustice against civil rights when I see it. Just because you were born after the 60s and you live in America doesn't mean you're not surrounded by institutionalized prejudice. I'm so glad we fixed it, and I'm so glad I saw it. I <3 NY.

PS favorite tweet of the evening:

In defense of Mama Monster

2011-02-15T01:03:00.002-05:00

It is an occasion few and far between when I come back to this blog, but when I do, it's to say something I mean. I was going to come back to speak up for Sammi, then Ronnie, and then I dove off the GW bridge because of both of them and an NYC fireboat rescued me.

But this is to speak out for "Born This Way," Lady Gaga's triumphant, flamboyant, and unabashed return to the airwaves.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4a8QtvOkBQ

Gaga hyped up "Born This Way" so much that I was sick of it before it came out. I thought her countdown on Facebook was pretentious and stupid, and I wanted little to do with the single. But it's kind of like Gaga's my long lost cousin. I met her once and briefly long ago on the Lower East Side outside Rockwood Music Hall, shaking her hand as she stood with brunette hair, in a sequined bikini and a hair band t-shirt, holding a cigarette in her other hand, and now I feel an obligation to lovingly watch and adore her. So I listened to "Born This Way" while simultaneously nodding during an unrelated conversation with my boyfriend. I was bored by the song, but I bought it out of duty.

Then I listened to it at the gym. I was motivated to stay on the elliptical for another 20 minutes. And I listened to it on the way home, and I listened to it on the way to dinner.

"Born This Way" is, like so many media outlets are wont to claim, exactly like "Express Yourself."* It's empowering and adrenaline-pumping. It makes me feel like I am the most precious person in the room, and that's OK by me. It actually reminds me of Michael Jackson's "Black or White," or like George Michael's "Freedom '90," but who gives a shit? It's a good. fucking. song.

Forget the unsightly horns and the disturbing facial prosthetics. Forget her self-righteous presence. Forget the cringe-worthy latex costumes. Gaga is an artist and she writes songs you can't help but celebrate. Are they the best songs I've ever heard? No. They won't beat "Like a Rolling Stone" in a genius competition. But god damn if they don't make me feel positively amazing about myself.

Paws up, Mama Monster. I'm pre-ordering the new album.

*When I YouTubed this, there was a sidebar ad for "Born This Way." Coincidence?

Babe

2010-10-18T00:10:00.009-04:00

The billionth revival of my blog, and yes, it's another Mad Men post. I just want to say: the finale tonight was ah. may. zeeng. Smart, beautifully paced, and didn't leave me destructively sad. But best of all, it ended on easily one of the most endearing and wonderful songs ever written:

I Got You Babe by Sonny & Cher

More Sonny & Cher music on iLike

What I said to my step father, with whom I was watching this with, is this: I always love being surprised by Mad Men's soundtrack. This season, when both "Satisfaction" and "Do You Want to Know a Secret" played, I thought they were anomalies. You know, because I was alive and culturally aware in the 60's and I know these things. But when I begin to hear songs like that - modern songs that my parents grew up with - it turns this masterpiece of a show into the organic story that it is. It isn't stuck in one year, with one problem. It grows and evolves, and it acknowledges that there's a world outside itself that is changing with it. I thoroughly enjoy those delightful reminders. Because you think you know Don and the world of Sterling Cooper - this buttoned-up, slicked-hair utopia, filled with 1950s optimism - but then you see (nay, hear), what they're surrounded by. Young girls screaming at boybands. Stupid kids watching Bandstand. A hippie culture that's really just a pill all too easily swallowed.

Silver Fox

2010-10-13T21:19:00.003-04:00

Roger Sterling could sell a ketchup popsicle to a lady in white gloves. And I'm buying.

Read it!

2009-11-09T16:11:00.001-05:00

You guys! Today I started my Project Fattylegs. Please follow it on Parvin's blog!

I love you. :)

Biggest Loser

2009-11-05T01:14:00.002-05:00

Parvin and I have joined awesome forces, and by that I mean the awesome force of Parvin has asked me to write an entry for her awesome force of a blog. It's actually going to be the greatest column in the world, wherein I document a rigorous and committed weight-loss regimen. Please follow it, because this time I intend to take it incredibly seriously (which means you need to stop expecting me to get drunk with you... MOM!) and your attention and enthusiasm is 80% of my motivation. Also, Parvin is the best blogger ever, so there's even more in it for you when you read her endearing posts.

Do it, fucker, or monsters will eat your brains.

Dear Robert Pattinson,

2009-11-03T01:12:00.006-05:00

I have made many concessions to this whole Twilight franchise of yours. I devoted my attention to an admittedly entertaining but mostly ludicrous four-book saga. I sat and suffered through 120 minutes of your sparkletwink and sequoia trees. I am giving your cinematic sequel the benefit of the doubt, and have reluctantly vocalized my interest in seeing it. I even professed out loud my belief that you were hot - despite the ever-growing wave of dubious sentiment concerning the matter. But this - this I cannot take, Mr. Pattinwhoey. You simply lose all credibility when you show up in Vanity Fair, trying to look sexy and smoldering, when clearly the wind has just knocked you out from under your piano bench. Not even Edward Cullen looks good when a boatload of Jäger drives him to play the Moonlight Sonata with his god damned feet.

Game. Over.

Respectfully,

Katelyn Reilly Lahr

WHAT! IS! THIS!

2009-11-01T01:43:00.003-04:00

It's the holiday spirit, I tell ya! Living in New York is supreme, in my opinion, because every holiday feels like a thousand million appeals for celebration. Or maybe it's just that Ann Reilly is my mother and I feel like EVERY DAY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THEMED DAY EVER OMG when a holiday strikes. Anyways. I cuddled down tonight around 2/3/4/7pm/daylight endings time whatever! tonight to watch a true masterpiece, The Nightmare Before Christmas. To those idiots of you not in the know, it's on YouTube, and it's great! And I just. Sigh. I just want to applaud humanity - - - for having enough holidays to fulfill a HOLIDAY LAND. Seriously! We have THAT MUCH to celebrate. That's all.

What's more than all is I love this time of year. Let's gets effin CHRISTMASY.

Mwah

2009-10-17T18:52:00.002-04:00

Red lips. Are one of my new favorite things. They make lips look young and sweet and classic and lusty! Having red lips makes me want to walk around and act like Katherine Hepburn and be all breathy and indignant. And talk in a WASPy New England accent! The one I'm wearing now is Kat Von D's "Underage Red." (By the way ladies, yes, it's Kat Von D, but lipstick is lipstick!) Online it looks kinda dumb and bland, but swatched on (at least my) skin, it looks so thick and poppy and perf! Get thee to a Sephora and buy one! And plant a big wet one on your man.

You're welcome. ~BL

Cross Country, Part II

2009-10-11T21:38:00.027-04:00

Readers, herein lies Part II of ~~Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure~~ Brendan and Katelyn's Cross Country trip, Part Deux. As you will recall, Brendan and I embarked on a five-day journey from Washington, DC, to Los Angeles, California. This is the second chapter of my account of the experience.

August 28th, 2009 Oxford, Ohio to St. Louis, Missouri
States crossed: Illinois, Indiana, Missouri
We woke up in an upperclassman house on the campus of Miami of Ohio, just outside Cincinnati.* As previously mentioned, Brenny, my sweet little baby bro, woke up on the porch. Piece of work he is.

We had a nice hungover, salty, and yummola breakfast at a diner on campus. Miami of Ohio is exactly what you'd picture a regular college to be like - you NYU/Columbia/BU/Georgetown/community college alums, you. It's roll-y poll-y and surrounded by nothing (slash, hicks) and has a bunch of really specific in-jokes.
Once Bren and I said good bye to Awesome Jillian, we drove through sunny, sunny fields, all the way to Indiana. This was when I truly felt like I was driving cross country. I was in a state that was obscure enough not to have a sitcom based in it! (Sorry, Parks and Recreation, you're too recent.)
I have to say that one thing, among many, that I'm proud of from this trip was the fact that we got out of the car in almost every state - the one exception being West Virginia, if you discount Maryland being the state we started in. We got out immediately after we crossed into corn-fed Indiana. To say that the gas station there was one of three attractions in Indiana would not be an exaggeration, considering the most urban spots we witnessed were this:and this:
THUG LYFE.

We crossed into Illinois as the rain was falling and Brendan's own spirits were getting cloudier and cloudier. (This was my attempt at the Illinois state sign.)
... So I took over the wheel! Sitting on a phone book and box of CDs, since the seat broke.
Illinois was very non-particular. Unlike Indiana, it wasn't just acres and acres of corn, and local CVS's did not dictate the cosmopolitan centers of life. Illinois, on the other hand, pretty much looked like the New Jersey Turnpike for miles and miles, until right outside St. Louis, where it started to look like rural America, and JESUS, all over again. Hallelujah.I drove all the way into St. Louis, and therefore, Missouri! Our seventh out of twelfth state.St. Louis is in fact a very kind city. I could never imagine living there, because it seems to hold true to its nickname, "Gateway to the West." The highway seems to almost intersect downtown, and the whole layout just makes St. Louis seem like you're supposed to leave tomorrow. There are really only ten blocks of action. People from St. Louis, prove me wrong here!Or I'll have your bear eat you.

What I can say is that the Cards game made me warm to St. Louis, as it was filled with good-natured, beer-loving families and engaged couples that had SWARMED there - just for a game against an indubitably young and mediocre team (The Nats? Really, St. Louis? You care that much?). It was pretty ironic for me and Bren since the Nationals were in town, and pretty fortuitous, because they actually played the best game I've ever seen them play. However, it didn't do anything for the very obvious fact that Brendan and I were the only ones dressed in Nats gear...
... or that Pujols hit an incredible, game-winning homer in the bottom of the ninth.
Anyway, after the game, Brendan and I trekked (on foot, this time) once more through the delightful Midwestern Mecca of St. Louis, and to bed, to bed... to wake up, step through the Gateway, and start on our way to the West.
*Would you know how to spell "Cincinnati" if not for seeing it in text? I bet you a zillion dollars no.

Why I let this person crash on my couch.

2009-10-08T19:22:00.002-04:00

G-Chat. Thursday, October 8th, 2009.

Amy: hahaha

a nj court says it's legal to sodomize a cow

me: agh, are you kidding?

there goes my weekend

Amy: *LEGAL

not illegal

me: oh

well then

party's back on

Amy: are you calling me a cow?

Cross Country, Part I

2009-10-04T20:24:00.010-04:00

This summer I drove across the Home of the Brave. I was ordered to do it per my mother/ boss's request, but eventually I came to see the responsibility as something that I would potentially put on my bucket list. Brendan, my 21-year-old mostly rad brother, took an internship at Emerson's Los Angeles campus this fall. Since LA (which is the Seventh Circle of Hell, I must remit as a NYC resident) is completely auto-dependent (no Subway? pft), he needed his car. Shipping it + flying out there is WAY expensive, so we decided to take a route a hair less back-breaking. And we drove! DC to LA. We left on Thursday, August 27th and arrived in LA on Monday, August 31st. The trip was about 3,300 miles plus change and was supremely inspirational. Although Brendan and I were kind of at each other's throats, for a girl who's never been in a land-locked state I had a lot to see and digest.

This adventure is going to be visited in five parts on my blog - mostly because that's how I set it up in Facebook albums. There were five legs of the trip, which encompassed 12 states. The legs:

DC to Cincinnati
Cincinnati to St. Louis
St. Louis to Denver (the most desolate road in America)
Denver to Kayenta, AZ (the most beautiful road in America)
Kayenta, AZ to LA

... In each leg I will highlight the state borders crossed.

The first day was a little frustrating. It was one of those things where you know something beautiful is in store, but you just have to be patient and sit through the redundant. Driving from DC to Ohio was pretty much just driving on 270 for an extension of time. For those not in the know, 270 is the northern road of Maryland, which leads into the backwoods of Appalachia. It's actually an incredibly verdant and lovely drive, but for me it was just driving into something-that-isn't-DC. The states we crossed were:
Maryland, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio*

Compared to the route that was ahead, this drive was quiet and serene, almost smothered by trees. It was very, very hilly (what I perceived to be "omg mountains!"). Mostly muted nothingness, but that's OK. Here was the most exciting part of Maryland (and the whole day of travel):

Cumberland, Maryland was the biggest metropolis we left before "Cincinnati." It was precious and awesome and in a valley.

After Maryland, it was just a mess of Eastern Mountain. We drove through West Virginia, a nothing of American Forest, then through Pennsylvania - a means to an end - and then into Ohio. We drove all the way through Ohio to Miami of OH's campus. We stayed with Brendan's awesome possum friend, Jillian.

Her house, like every other upper-classman one on campus, had a name. It was called "Intoxic-Eight" for the eight-resident quota it held. The next door neighbor was "Tequila Mockingbird." Another house that I thought was in incredibly good taste was the "Betty Ford Clinic." College.

Anyway. Miami of Ohio reminded me that I never went to school on a traditional campus. I paid like, $8 for three cocktails. EIGHT DOLLARS, you guys. EIGHT HUNDRED CENTS. To me, that's like writing a $62 check for a Park Avenue duplex. So needless to say I was ecstatic. It was nice to drink my life away that night for next to nothing in the midst of WASPy college ignorance. Jesus, is undergrad a blissful utopia. The next day, we woke up (Brendan on Jill's porch), ready to face the corn-fed road to St. Louis....

* I was so proud of myself for actually catching (almost) every state welcome sign on the trip. Obviously, though, the Maryland sign isn't mine. Suffice it to say, though, that I cross it numerous times per year driving in and out of DC and Virginia.

Make them claws sing

2009-09-27T20:37:00.016-04:00

Over the summer I picked up a few new "things" that I totally love, and they're totally things that I need to take advantage of before I turn 30. Because I don't think anyone at a private school is going to take an application seriously when the kid's mother wears tube socks, Marlene Dietrich red lipstick, hoop earrings, and skirt-turned-sundresses to the interview. One of my favorite new things is highlighter-themed finger nails, and I am positively infatuated with manicuring myself in shades that are ready to make love to a black light. Along with the go-to staples of black, white, and red, here are my recommendations for turning people's eyes to your mitts before your mug:

BLUE
I was at Ricky's yesterday (looking for flip-flops after drunk brunch because my 4.5-inch pumps couldn't make it to the subway - DON'T JUDGE) and saw these wonders. The blue one is a perfectly meditative and tranquil, yet perfectly aggressive and happy color. Do you not just want to wear it and feel so knowledgeable about everything? Also, they're only $6, which makes good for the fact that they're virtually internet obscurity (writingablogishard).

GREEN
I feel as if people can go many ways with green - my preferred general color, if this is an interview. My favorite nail polish ever in the world period the end has always been LA GirlsFlare nail polish in Gleaming (looks a lot like this), which isn't really green so much as it just... something anyone would just want to LICK. It was an impulse purchase I made at Urban out of pure curiosity. Ricky's sells everything else that is considerably highlighty green, so I recommend hauling ass there to get your astroturf on. Right now I have something "subtle" on my toes, which is Sally Hansen's Green with Envy.

ORANGE
Orange is not a very AWESOME color, you know? It comes across looking like a ballsy alternative to red, and for those who are just trying to dip their feet into this whole philosophy, I think orange is a good introduction into the "bright" school of nails. The orange that I use is Sally Hansen's Sun Kissed.

PINK
Pink is a default color for nails. It's safe and easy and pretty for anyone! However, if you want to get stupid with your paws like me, then I recommend you get Punchy Pink from Essie, which is what I'm wearing now. I saw Brooke Hogan wearing a similar color a few months ago, and since she's the arbiter of good decisions I decided to follow suit. I think this color is fun, youthful, and completely, totally, Barbie Caribbean. Who doesn't want that?

PURPLE
Personally, purple doesn't work with my skin tone as a "fun" shade. It either comes out looking like a very wintry hue or something that is a sassy, cool-mom attempt at not-red (which I HATE). The purple pedi I had on my cross-country miraculously looked awesome, however, my own "purple," if you must know, is Essie's Footloose. It was my shot at a eye-popping purple, and it failed miserably. However, I feel like it would work on someone who isn't Irish. So reach for the stars, rich nonalcoholic world!

RED
Red, when faced with the question of getting neon, essentially ends up being orange. I remember my most favorite pedicure was one that I had about three years ago. The day after we took a boat out of Annapolis Harbor, and floating in the murky Chesapeake Bay, I could still see my electric toenails, painted in approximately this shade, wading four feet below me. The sun, the color, the smell of Maryland freshwater... bliss.

YELLOW
Yellow is the best. Just the bar none best. It's cheery and unassuming and has this frustratingly mysterious way of making you lighten the fuck up. It TOTALLY reminds me of my mother, even though she's the last woman you would see wearing yellow nail polish. Anyway. For something that's going to look like it was used in an 8th-grade US history text book, I recommend Essie's Funky Limelight. On a more muted side of yellow, as in something more apropos to a Crayola box, I point you toward Sally Hansen's Lightening.

The Year of Parvin

2009-09-25T09:49:00.004-04:00

Parvin told me to update my fucking blog. Her wish is granted!

Keeping up a blog is expensive, if attention and energy were the same as dollars. Contrary to a lot of naysayers, I feel like blogs are a wonderful gift from the internet that allow people to express themselves in ways a little more untethered, and - although questionably - a lot more boldly and publicly than before. Blogs are also great ways to allow yourself to cultivate your own self-perception, and I think Parvin is the shining example of this fact. Although I'm upset that I was not chosen to be her Alcohol Life Coach, I think her mission statement and strategy are solid ones.

Hopefully breathing new life into this blog - and coming back to the world of blogoshpere - will convince her to make me her Blog Life Coach. I think together we can yell at each other to stay on top of our god damn respective blogs. She's doing a great job so far.

The Cocoon

2009-06-22T23:11:00.005-04:00

A friend of mine were talking yesterday about quarter life crises and becoming a better person and digging yourself out of a whole and stuff. Which is ironic because in comparison to last year, when I was falling asleep in wine bottles and treating my job like it was my own personal daycare, my life right now is considerably agreeable. But this sage, wise friend of mine brought up an idea that I find pretty insightful. She called it the cocoon. Basically you reserve a month for yourself - meaning you isolate yourself from certain vices - to flourish into a BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY. You know. Like Mariah! In my case experiments like this always come out half-assed and I end up looking like a moth that listens to Mariah Carey (by that I mean I wiggle to this song on repeat). However, I'm determined to make this go round work. I have several goals, all of which involve embracing things that would make me more presentable to a co-op board and less of a candidate for the ~~Maury Povich~~ Suze Orman show. Here are my goals for Yoo-lie:

Blog at least four times a week. I am an astute woman with an articulate voice and I will project it upon my community.
Do one crossword per day, preferably something that is released by Highlights-for-Adults.
Lose ten pounds - sans celebrating each pound lost with nine drinks and a trip to Crif Dogs.
Pay my bills. For real this time. I've learned I can't get by on life anymore by smiling and pretending to think store credit cards are the same as gift cards.
Go to yoga twice a week.
Finish each Jeopardy episode on my DVR queue at some point over the weekend.
Join a book club.
Stop eating every bit of my $100 grocery purchases in two days.
Strengthen my professional social networks. Yes, Twitter, that means I'll probably pay more attention to you, also.
In an effort to excel at Item Three, stop tucking myself into bed with a Diet Coke and putting myself to sleep with Paula Deen videos. The woman is deep-fried molasses Southern crack, y'all. WATCH HER SHE IS CLOGGING MY ARTERIES I LOVE IT MORE PLEASE.

Twenty-three

2009-05-03T15:23:00.004-04:00

Hello interwebz. It's been a while. Last you saw me, I was a poor, unassuming, and ignorant child of 22. Since then I have blossomed into a mature, well-versed, 23-year-old woman of the world, my sage brain swimming with poetic musings and grand ideas. No longer do I wallow in the darkness of adolescent shenanigans, friends.

I meant to write a "birthday post," and I know I'm like five days late on it, but better late than never! I guess that'll be the mantra this year. Work? Better late than never! The rent? Better late than never! Taxes? Better late than never! My period? ....

My friend Aviva gave an update on her blog about things she lost and gained betwixt her very lamentable absence from the world wide web, so in the form of both a good friend and a noble blogger, I'm going to copy her.

WHAT I LOST THIS YEAR:

1. A job

2. An apartment

3. My iPod

4. My patience

5. Two roommates

6. Really cute platform sandles

7. A game of drunk Scattergories (never forget...)

WHAT I GAINED THIS YEAR:

1. A better job

2. A better apartment

3. A new iPod

4. The iPod I thought I lost

5. 15 pounds

6. A puppy, sort of

7. My voice

8. Aviva's watch

I guess I'll revisit the lists as I think of things, but that's the gist of it all, I suppose.

And since this is a birthday post, I'd like to wish the following "birthday buddies" a very blessed belated: Andre Agassi, Master P, Uma Thurman, Michelle Pfiefer, Jerry Seinfeld, Duke Ellington, William Randolph Hearst, and my personal favorite, Bernard Madoff. Also, happy anniversary to Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun, and also to the LA Riots of 1992. Great date, that April 29th.

Somebody gon get pregnant.

2009-04-25T00:03:00.002-04:00

Gawker predicted the Tracy Morgan/Jordan mash-up that happened on 30 Rock last night, but they were unsure about the last frame. Well fools, I found it, and it's awesome:

"Just a blonde bitch in bunch of bubbles"

2009-04-07T23:59:00.005-04:00

I must admit that I'm starting to have a love/hate relationship with Lady GaGa, as should be expected, I suppose, when you see a great artist who cockteases you with two years of obscurity before he or she blows up in a very boisterous and uncomfortable way.

Something about her Madonna-esque British twang is revolting to me, and I'm repeatedly annoyed by the no-pants thing (trust me, when you get heat about leg exposure from BABYLEGS, you know som'n has gone horribly awry in your wardrobe conscience). The way she hides behind retro glasses, a blonde wig, and random members of the glitterati makes me feel betrayed by the cute, bubbly brunette girl I met back on the LES in the summer of 2007. However, I must give her points for consistency, delivery, and style.

Watching this video that I found on FourFour was the total straw on my camel's back, but even in the face of all this show boating, I still can't deny that the girl's got chops. Her songs are catchy, she's indelibly unique, and this lady can sing. I'm a little afraid that she'll go similarly AWOL at the show I'm planning to attend on the 2nd (weekend of my birthday, yall!), but if it's anything like this, I guess it can't be SO bad.

Parvin told me to do it

2009-04-07T22:09:00.018-04:00

Parvin told me to try LIVEBLOGGING this episode of RHONY, so I'm going to try, and then go back and edit (I know, that's breaking the rules) and post. Too bad I forgot until 5 minutes in! Yall missed Jill's second event meeting and a graphic design brainstorm between Bethenny and Alex. Nothing happened - let's go.

Aaaaand here we go. LuAnn talking about self esteem and why she likes herself to young girls to put in her service hours at Countesses 'R Us. I cannot wait for Richard's recap on this.

Now she's trying to explain her torrid past. Look at the blank stares. Richard, you know what to do with this.

Oh dear lord sweet Jesus. She called out a girl who wanted to be a model, saying that losing weight is easy. Great contribution to a SELF ESTEEM WORKSHOP, you horrid C U Next Tuesday.

I'm not crazy about Jill's new apartment. Places that look too much like a model home and or hotel lobby and or weird jewelry boutique on Spring Street don't look lived in. And the coffee table says "pop." WTF.

Bethenny, I love you for directing national attention to Alex's hilarious website and Simon's Fan Club.

Bethenny, I love you for shining light on the truth of Jill's apartment that will only look good for 5 months.

The partner is Simon. I went to watch videos on BravoTV.com and they totally spoiled it.

Told you so.

This is the best plan EVER.

Oh look, Kelly segment! Which to me is the same as a commercial so I'm getting up for a glass of water.

"Everyone wants to go out with Max," you know, like everyone with a dick. Right Kelly? Or like, everyone who's Simon van Kempen.

Speaking of Simon, looks like those two weeks of the tennis unit in phys ed Down Under did a wold of good.

Now Simon's panting and sweating. Now he's picking up balls. A little censorship please, FCC.

Why on God's great earth does Alex need sexy reference photos for a LOGO? Isn't it her job to make a design? She must be watching lots of Logo.

They cut back shortly to show an out-of-sequence moment of Jill having a Jew sob in her kitchen. So, there's that.

Oooh! Real Housewives of NJ preview comin up!

Kelly, there's a diaper popping out of your navel.

Shut up Ramona. You can choke on my Team Jill shirt. Nothing is gauche except your husband's rapey eye stare that he flashes anyone with a set of boobies.

Look everyone! Alex came! And she's wearing the upholstery from that leather couch we had in the basement and threw out last year!

Ramona's stretches look like a really poor audition for Debbie does the Tennis Courts at Chelsea Piers.

Also, tears in her eyes and pursed lips is a great way to look unfazed. She's got a great poker face.

Alex, shut the hell up. It wasn't fair to subject Simon to tennis that because he was sick that day in Socialite Class when they went over WASPy sports.

And Ramona and Mario win against their "disrespectful" partners. Yawn.

One more thought: "JERSEY GIRLS ARE LIKE THE REAL DEAL." (Straight from the horse's mouth.) This looks so. Ridiculously. Scrumptious. Evidence:

"I wanted to get new bubbies, but my husband, he's an aaass maaaan... My husband's delicious. He's gawt the big muscles, the big tan, the big everything... My little girls aaw divas like theh mama." ~Thank you Theresa. Good luck on your impeccably tasteful French Chateau vision for the house.

NSFWacebook

2009-04-04T09:39:00.002-04:00

Hey guys. Just a PSA. Because about five minutes ago I fell into this trap for about the thousandth time in two months. When you plan to visit Facebook, make sure you type it into the address bar correctly. Because when you type in "facbeook," you'll get a bunch of newsfeeds I'm sure you'll wish you never had to be fed.

You're welcome.

Good mom?

2009-03-31T17:10:00.003-04:00

Now that I'll be working from home, I have been very seriously (and very stupidly, I guess) considering the prospect of adopting a pooch. Even though pets are contraband in my building, I know for a fact that at least ONE long-haired chihuahua is living there without a green card. My mom is readying her [rental]nest for a little cockabichon named Olive; my dad owns a little fat dachshund named Boone; all this goggie business just makes me ache for one. I have been trying to think of small breeds that are dynamic and easy to maintain, but still look idiotic. I'm leaning toward a Scottish terrier - the one good thing that lived in the White House between 2001 and 2008.

I mean, really. I dare you to watch ten seconds of these chubby little fluffy sacks of coal and not want to sell your soul. Eye-melting preciousness particularly sets in around 1:40. You've been warned.

Ask Paris her thoughts on...

2009-03-26T13:29:00.001-04:00

There's more to Paris Hilton than you'd think.

I do not want to put my name on this blinky recap.

2009-03-25T12:57:00.005-04:00

To be honest I wasn't sure whether I was watching an installment of Real Housewives last night or an episode of Gossip Girl. Which naturally meant: It's Fashion Weeeeeek! Everyone acted irrationally catty and stupid self-deluded, not unlike the behavior espoused at the Chilton Academy. The girls are all fully settled back in Manhattan, but Ramona promised to renew a little piece of the Hamptons when she swore to Jill that she'd cut a rug at the upcoming charity gala. You've just made me the happiest little girl in the whole wide world, Ramona.

Here are some notable gems from last night:

Quoth Simon: "Well, if you're going to get pregnant, it's not going to be from me! You know, since I was surgically altered for that NOT to happen." ... at Silex's exclusive designer fitting for Fashion Week. Which was at a tiny store probably on Driggs Avenue that sells moderately expensive lines like Free People and Betsy Johnson but doesn't really carry "one-of-a-kinds" by any original designer. In any case, Simon still found it necessary to announce to perfect strangers that when he does have TOTALLY heterosexual sex with his wife and he's TOTALLY not thinking about Hugh Jackman, they won't have to worry about popping out any more Little Lord Fauntlery's. Since he HAD A VASECTOMY, YOU GUYS! Silex then talked about how chic Williamsburg was, as an admirable hotbed of "under 30's" art and fashion. Then the two of them went to pound back $1 PBRs at a nearby dive bar and joined a rousing game of kickball in McCarren Park.
Quoth Jill: "Put a brawrawn." ... regarding how she thinks grown women should dress, especially at things like her Zang Toi luncheon presentation to which she was very careful to only invite "women that can spend that kind of money." Jill has license to act totally snooty about shit like this, because this was a personal event thrown in her honor at a legitimate designer showroom, and not a camera crew indulging Alex and Simon while they try crap on at Chico's or wherever. Also, Jill lost all stuffy edge of pretense when she acted like a totally embarrassing Jewish mother at the luncheon, whipping out her digital camera and yelling at all the designs, shouting conversations across the table, and flapping her arms in pride of what Toi had "designed for her" (which was really just a great necklacke with an LBD, that, yeah, wasn't really designed for her, but God love her anyway). Earlier, she was waddling around the studio and singing like a bird when she squeezed herself into a "size 0." Sigh. And this is why Jill is the undisputed Champion of Awesome.
Quoth Bethenny: "OK, so... that happened, so let's go over here!" ... after Kelly completely and suddenly walked away from Bethenny mid-sentence at the Jill Stuart show, when someone famous passed by her line of sight. Bethenny reacted to such utter booshit by making a "this bitch is wackadoo" face and floating magnificently down the hall of the Public Library, Blackberry and friend in tow. Later she revealed that Kelly sucks not only because she's the poster child for horrid chemical peels, but also because Kelly acted like a total Lohan around Bethenny's boyfriend a few years back. You know, once Kelly woke up from a three-day bender and scoped the room for a committed man to steal. And then tried to tempt him with talk of how she knew Diddy's publicist and could probably hook him up with a table at Bungalow 8 and a few bottles of Ciroc if he's interested.
Quoth Kelly: "Oh? You have arthritis? Oh, that's cute!" ... to Jill's daughter at the planning meeting for Jill's arthritis benefit. Kelly sort of took the whole opportunity to help not unlike a queen bee in high school would take the requirement that she work on a science project with five nerds during the weekend. She waltzed in half an hour late, mostly because of all those other charities and obligations she tries so hard NOT to "lend her name to," and then immediately yelled out that she didn't want to be cochair, because, ohmigawd that's like... social suicide! (Oh wait, maybe I'm thinking of "Mean Girls.") But, seriously, no offense you guys, she REALLY wants to help out because this little girl is adorable (cut to 16-year-old Ally glaring through her eyeliner), but she just like, you know, it's like, whatever! Kelly ultimately extrapolates that she would rather invest her integrity to interviewing socialites, writing for magazines, and being photographed at parties to bolster someone's PR, than do charity work. Oh another place she invests her integrity is all over her ex-fiance's face. Just sayin.

Bling!

Bromance

2009-03-22T21:33:00.006-04:00

In an effort to prevent two blinky recap posts in a row, and after a very dull weekend, and not wanting to write an epic missive about this movie, I'm just going to say two things about "I Love You Man," which I saw on Friday and was pleased at how non-Judd-Apatow-y it turned out to be.

1. Paul Rudd is absolutely. adorable. Watching him play doting fiancé trying to be cool with slangy nonchalant COOL GUY sayings made me want to sew him a teddy bear stuffed with my tears and smiles.

2. I want to marry Jason Segal, spend 15 hours a day with him in bed watching Colbert and drinking Bud Light, and mother two of his awesomely funny, really tall kids. I remember this guy from the best show ever created and killed too soon, and I'm so pleased to see that he and his cast mates from said show are receiving awesome cinematic retribution. Segal was great in this movie - he was fun and uncensored and goofy and big as a boulder and had a puggle and wore Uggs and a scarf on Venice Beach with this outfit. Yum.

Le recap blinqué, 18 de mars!

2009-03-18T22:31:00.009-04:00

Oh brother. If there wasn't a bible to write about this episode then I ain't a legal midget in two states. Let's even forget LuAnn's contra-feminist Edith Wharton rules of dating and feminism, shall we? OK. Because new as this laptop is I'm sure screaming and crying into the keyboard isn't going to translate into word composition, my love my sweet.

Next, the Russel Simmons & Sting party? Clearly it was an event to which Bravo begged Russel to invite the girls, since five out of six of them showed up alleging, "oh! [spouse] and I came home to a PILE of invitations after the Hamptons, and since it was a WEDNESDAY and there was nothing BETTER to do..." The Countess and Kelly yawned, while Ramona was uncouth and tactless (and kinda bitchy!), while Silex kind of let their guard down when Alex absent-mindedly whimpered "do we HAVE to wait till Sting [the only person US Weekly would recognize] shows up?" Simon looked at her with a "we're on camera and how dare you live through the night" glare and saved the trip by making out with Alex and then claiming the only reason their faces were melting was because ALEX WAS SO HOT! LOL OMG WTF wearefamewhores!

Speaking of Silex's tempestuous romance, we got a little glimpse into the nascent stages: Alex wasn't looking for anyone. Simon wasn't looking for anyone. But they backed into each other online looking to hook up. Nice use of Craigslist, you New York socialites. Hahaha, people who started a long-term relationship after a one-night stand are such... Oh. Um.

LuAnn's idiot countess routine is now a weekly installment, as her patrician ignorance of the neighborhoods south of the Park displayed an aristocratic stupidity that doesn't even exist anymore. "Where are we? Is this SoHo?" I mean, Kelly claimed she lived in SoHo/Little Italy/Chinatown, verbatim, and having lived on Lafayette and White (two blocks South of Canal!) for two years, I get that geographical ambiguity. Call it SoHo, or call it Tribeca, but don't be an idiot like LuAnn and ask on camera. The only time that sort of attitude was acceptable was when Big sexily crooned to Carrie on Sex and the City they were below 14th Street, and anything was acceptable. Sorry Countess, I am only going to respect your money when it comes with an Armani suit and a driver. Oh, and a penis.

Cherry on the topping: Jill (who has been too absent!) Jewishly screeching at the "squalor" of Silex's house: "How do they have SEX on the top of that bed? Especially with their kids on the other side of the wawl!!!" Oh Jill. You clearly have your priorities straight, and yes, you are still my FAVORITE. HOUSEWIFE.

PS. Sweet sassy mo-lassy! They're making a Real Housewives of New Jersey. Damn Bravo, you are really taking your satire to a literal sense here (but there goes your six-figure demographic). But of course I'll watch, so...

Bling!

Myspace Glitter Graphics

Erin go bragh

2009-03-16T22:52:00.009-04:00

Today I left work early, stole some codeine from the boy, and parked it in bed all day because a wretched virus or something is waging a relentless war on my abdomen. All the painkillers and "Wife Swap" episodes on my DVR queue still hasn't cured me of my nausea, and I'm hoping that I'll be alien baby-free by tomorrow for St. Patty's Day. If there's anything I'm proud of what I was inherently born with, it's my Irish roots. Which give me a biological constitution to act like a drunken idiot and get irrationally indignant.

I was going to make a playlist, but I gotta admit that this one's a little thin. There's a wealth of Irish songs that are fun to sing when you're fumbling through a Jameson's-induced stupor, but these are the ones that I'm not ashamed to say I have on my iPod (the rest I will share when you and I are both at a point where it will not be remembered the next morning).

The Boxer One of my favorite songs in high school. Also every time I hear the line "Caught the downfall of Jack and Jill, Ryan too," I think they're singing "Pete and Meg, Brian too," and then I think the song is about Family Guy.
Love You Till the End Unfortunately the lead singer of the Pogues has a mug that's clearly taken a harder hit from drinking than his liver. Regardless, the Pogues are an incredible band (who I missed! this weekend!) that play simply the best modern Irish stuff I've ever heard. They also did "Fairytale of New York," which I listed in my Totally Rad Christmas Mix.

Sunday Bloody Sunday This is a song about 27 civil rights protestors being killed for their political beliefs in Northern Ireland. Also, a car bomb is a drink wherein you drop a shot of Jameson's (or Bailey's) into a glass of Guinness and chug it. Making light of revolutionary integrity and political violence is what St. Patrick's Day, and Irish American conscience, is all about. Sláinte!
Dreams Like "Sunday Bloody Sunday," this song isn't really musically "Irish." It's modern and reminds me of being in the fourth grade and being forced to listen to my mom's Cranberries tape whenever we were in the car. But when it comes from a nation whose only global contribution is slapstick theater, Guinness, and the cautionary tale of how to NOT ignore birth control, I'll proudly call the Cranberries the music of my people.

Galway Girl This song makes me want to dance around with a hot Irish man and drink my face off and then make a stupid decision.
Shipping Up to Boston I never saw The Departed the whole way through because I'm not good with gratuitous violence. Oops.
C'est la Vie Unquestionably the most integral composition in the history of Gaelic music. It's important to note that Irish people can only be successful internationally if they incorporate more sophisticated stuff, like French words, into their music.

Remember this?

2009-03-16T00:57:00.005-04:00

I'm going to make this a series, wherein I bring up memories from my childhood (so basically eye porn from 1993-2003) and then give "second thoughts," things that I would never think to myself at the tender age of... 17 (I went to Catholic school!). OK? Hyah we go. Remember this?

ON SECOND THOUGHT.

I love this song. When I listen to it, I want to learn how to play an acoustic guitar and then wail on one. But the video? WTF? Is being a stalker sexy all of the sudden? When were stalkers financially eligible for Nolita lofts with arched windows? I guess when the same graphic tee and jeans is all that's in your wardrobe, you can swing it.

New hero

2009-03-12T22:45:00.010-04:00

After I posted that video last night of my main dude Rufus, I realized the video was so crazy and CRAZY because he was on the Isaac Mizrahi Show. Which, as every curiosity does, led me to YouTubing Isaac Mizhrahi. He has a website and video blog and webisodes! Awesome. This man is so fabulously gay. He's also very modest and forgiving and Ramona Singer-y with his wide-eyed curiosity. Loves him! Here's his website. I tried to link to my favorite vlog yet, in which Isaac stoops to approve of a Dolly Parton tattoo.

Tadzio, tadzio

2009-03-11T23:54:00.012-04:00

Since high school, I have been a) a fan of Drew Barrymore, and b) a fan of Rufus Wainwright. It came as a disappointment that both the former was straight and the latter was gay, but hey, waddyagunnado! The point I'm trying to make is that Grey Gardens is premiering soon on HBO, with Drew Barrymore starring as Little Edie. This movie incites incredible curiosity in me, mainly because I'm all, holy shit, who the FUCK would just sacrifice themselves to living in an ivy-embraced mansion of disrepair in East Hampton? When they're the G.D. relatives of Jackie KENNEDY? WHO? But it also sparks a lot of interest in me because I feel like I love my mother enough to resign myself to this sort of existence. If Ann Reilly said, "Hey Kiki, I'm gunna just chill in a dilapidated house in East Hamps for the rest of my life," I'd just be like, "Um, OK! Give me wireless and a faithful deli that delivers and I'm yours for eternity." Sometimes, you jut don't ask questions, I guess.

Another thing that totally piques my curiosity is this lovely little tune from Rufus Wainwright. Who I believed was straight back in the era of the Connelly School of the Holy Child and There-Is-No-Such-Thing-as-Homosexuality. Seriously, between 2000 and 2004, I developped an unwavering devotion to this man, and still I stick by it. Today, his mere sensuality just lullabies me, and the dearness between him and Isaac is just purely sweet and plebian (is it real?). I heard this song in my junior year of high school, which was like back in 1962, so I'm just fondly rememberin, here, peeps.

Award to most constipated-looking-screen-capture goes to whomever created this screen grab:

Ed. note: Isn't this video so effing STRANGE? Like, what's with the dog running all over the place? Did someone spill cheerios on the floor or something? Why is Isaac Mizrahi there? Why isn't he on the Today Show telling Meredith Vierra how to dress in florals?

Blinky recap numero dos!

2009-03-10T23:11:00.007-04:00

Ah. Everything has come full circle, and the status quo of Housewife Law is in its place (namely, the island of Manhattan). Meaning that this episode was another enthralling chapter in the bildungsroman that is Ramona Singer's life. Ramona was once, twice, three times awesome, and for this ep at least, the stah of the show. First - when she basked in the pool of money, margaritas, and Mario that was her Hamptons estate (which the editors juxtaposed oh so keenly to play right before we saw Silex chill out in THE INFLATABLE POOL THAT THEY BRAGGED ABOUT in their shitty Brooklyn backyard surrounded by concrete and a wire fence and a dilapidated tenement). Second when she actually doled out reasonable dating advice to Bethenny, which the vile LuAnn promptly took as an opportunity to lunge at Ramona's jugular. Thirdly, when Ramona drunkenly bopped at Bethenny's Social Life Hamptons party (if I were Rich here is where I'd insert a gif of the drunken bopping). No wonder she is the only Housewife the ever evasive Kelly agrees to hang out with. Don't let any hater take you down, Ramona. Yes, You Can.

On the other end of this Knickerbocker smorgasbord there was LuAnn, who slipped so far back in to her traditionally lofty Countess milieu that my respect for human kind broke out in hives. At the Hope Lodge, which LuAnn sort of treats like a shrine or a temple or something (since Philanthropy is the official religion of bullshit New York Page Sixers), LuAnn immediately started shrieking about how rude Ramona was to suggest that the Count was an "old man." (Which Ramona didn't - just sayin.) The entire scenario was like watching a drunk Republican Senator kicking a puppy. But how dare Ramona call Count Alex old! To LuAnn's face! In a charity kitchen! In front of the Count-let (who sat their dutifully nodding)! The sheer gall just sent LuAnn on an epileptic tirade, and wouldn't it just. By the way LuAnn, 15 years is a big age difference no matter how old you are. But just for your piece of mind, the fact that you so shrilly retaliated to an innocent comment is in no way indicative of the obvious fact that you and the Count are totally not having sex. Nope, not at all. None.

Oh, then LuAnn sat and scoffed at how hurt and upset Bethenny was at lunch. After LuAnn started singing about retouching Bethenny's Social Life cover instead of congratulating her. I know, LuAnn, some people just really can't let bygones be nonroyal bygones, huh?

Bling!

Sweet statutory, Batman

2009-03-10T21:10:00.008-04:00

You know, I will always contend that I have good taste. That includes my picks in television (Real Housewives), movies (Judd Apatow crap), books (I Hope they Serve Beer in Hell), aperitifs (Yellow Tail), cuisine (Lunchables at the office), and music. Aside from the rad jams that I score from Steph, I listen to catchy tunes like this ditty. You can take the girl outta middle school...!

I remember when I was 12 years old, I wrote three letters to Leonardo DiCaprio. I didn't send any of them because I thought all of them were too pedestrian. I wanted to pen him a note that fully convinced him of the prodigious truth that We. Were. Soul mates. "How do you Sleep" reminds me of that feeling, and also of drinking Coronas on a patio in NYC in a hot sundress and Nicole Richie sunglasses.

Is it summer yet?

This is why you're fat

2009-03-10T11:53:00.002-04:00

This blog will be my go-to scapegoat whenever I feel especially obese and guilty. It truly is an orgy of everything that leads to an early onset of type II diabetes. Or you know, a stroke. I'd laugh at most of it, except um, I'd maybe actually eat that meta-pizza (a pizza topped with pizza bagels, BUHLICIOUS).

"Making Scents of New York"

2009-03-09T01:10:00.008-04:00

Whenever I'm in Sephora or the cosmetics area of a department store, the only thing I really enjoy perusing is the fragrance. Even though I'm religiously dependent on it, I don't consider make-up a particularly fun thing to shop for. When I started wearing make-up my mom bought it all for me, which meant it was all Bobbi Brown and it was all outrageously expensive. So to me, make-up is kind of like cable or a gym membership: I need it and it's fun to have and all, but it's a bitch to pay for. On top of that, I never feel good about myself when I have to physically scrutinize the one feature on my body that I can never change just to pick a foundation.

Fragrance, on the other hand, is such a joy for me to play with. I think perfumes are easy to sniff and assess based on your own personality, and thinking about when and where you'd wear a certain scent is always fun to imagine. I also tend to believe that every woman should sort of have a "signature scent," and searching for mine has been a never-ending endeavor. But I also keep some bottles on the side that I think accompany different outfits at different times, or different days and different moods.

Today I came across Bond No. 9 New York, which I had seen a billion times but never stopped to inspect. Mainly because Bond No. 9 is based at 9 Bond Street, one block over from where the most wretched woman who ever wretched lived, and seeing the bottles just brought up rancid memories. I, by the way, used to be a personal assistant for a NOTcelebrity who lived in Noho. But that's neither here nor there. Anyway, Bond is an exceptionally dynamic perfumery that bottles fragrances named after different neighborhoods and areas in NYC: ie, Chinatown, Central Park, Riverside Drive... So clever! I really, really love companies like Bond, who have a very clear vision for their brand, keep it clean, and remain totally loyal and committed to their agenda (Demeter, for example, is similarly true to their own aesthetic). Bond has gorgeously designed bottles and candles, and their logo is a sweet little homage and play on the vintage NYC Transit tokens.

Anyway, the lady at the counter sent me home with Andy Warhol Union Square (the original scent that caught my attention), Nuits de Noho, and the Scent of Peace. This week will be my trial phase and I will promptly make it known which little piece of candy I prefer (the samples are wrapped like taffy!). And then all of my friends can pool to buy me a really well-designed bottle, since only one would set an individual back $195. See, even the prices are true to New York!

Blinky recap numbero uno!

2009-03-05T11:26:00.004-05:00

Let me just preface this by saying that in no way no how will I ever encapsulate the literary magic that Richard at Gawker seems to sprinkle over any recap. The man is a brilliant spectator of the reality show circus, with an ineffable power to narrate that I would never dare to copy.

Anyway. Regardless. This show just spews too much insanity into American homes for me to stay quiet. The third episode, to my surprise, was still set entirely in the Hamptons. I guess a whole lotta doody went down in West Egg, huh? We got to see Silex gloat over their own sickly pale arachnid bodies in a "sauna;" we got to see the Countess "indulge" her daughter and a few friends over an etiquette luncheon (oh that lucky girl); and we got to see Bethenny run around being the woman I wish I was, dancing dirty with rich gay men and pounding back tequila and looking like a pair of perfect boobs on perfect legs with perfect everything. Seriously, lucky girl.

Even though we haven't gotten back to the Island yet, the women are definitely falling back into their owb archetypes, which brings me such glee. Luann reminded us all that SHE MARRIED AN ARISTO HO HO HO ISN'T THAT RICH NOW WASH MY FEET WITH YOUR TEARS. Her daughter Victoria is shipping off to Count-let school in Bougey-burg Connecticut with a bunch of other girls that were named after queens. Kelly was true to her aloof quest in proving that she's not here to be a Housewife when she filmed more scenes of herself looking at the other women as if they were batshit crazy. Ramona, never one to disappoint, acted batshit crazy. She vehemently denied that she'd help Jill with an arthritis fundraiser until she - wait - remembered he daughter had arthritis. Then she laughed maniacally at Jill's hesitance to join a tennis game while her husband Mario drunkenly looked on and waited to get wasted enough to want to have sex with her. (I'm just hypothesizing how their marriage operates, that's all.)

Oh yeah, she also engaged Governor Patterson in a conversation over who was more blind. FOR REAL, RAMORON???!!! FOR REAL? Also, I feel it appropos to call any blinky with David Patterson in it a BLINKY. You know. Because his eyes are fucked up.

Bling

2009-03-04T17:44:00.004-05:00

Ohmygodyouguys. This is how I spent my time at work today. Learning how to make blingees. Expect to see a lot more of THIS glory beautifying up my blog soon. My new resolution is to recap every RHONY episode with a distinct blingee, starting with last night's. Recap coming veeeeeery soon! In the meantime, let's get down with Gay Brad and Ramona at the Hampton's Tea Dance!

I don't think she really said that actually

2009-02-25T15:24:00.001-05:00

But whatever.

Total knock out

2009-02-21T19:31:00.006-05:00

My new favorite beauty product (which is rare for me to have because I rarely spring on cosmetics before I spring on alcohol/shoes/coffee) is KO's nail polish. This stuff is BUH-MAZING, guys. It's what they call "flatte," and what we call ultimate matte. It's really chalky and soft kind of how you'd expect house paint to dry on your nails. Sounds unattractive, but it actually stays well on the digits and (although it can chip easy) doesn't look any different than a good manicure. It only comes in black, white, and frosty pink. Which is all I wear. And since these babies are $22 a pop, I'm OK with that.

You're just jealous.

2009-02-18T00:07:00.007-05:00

Two Housewives posts in a row? Why you ask? Because I have been waiting a GD month for this mess. Also, it takes a certain amount of gall for someone to slap recession-raped Americans in the face with a show about rich, flippant women who will pay no heed at all to the death of Wall Street. And for that I feel like I owe someone my attention.

First of all, and most of all, LOL at Alex and Simon. LOL all over their faces. Bethenny said it best when she noted that Alex and Simon probably showed up at the Social Life Hamptons party thinking the event was named for something they could win instead of the magazine actually throwing the soirée. These two are at a point where they totally know their own shtick and are playing it up to the point of unquestionable obnoxiousness. Sure Simon. Sure you're happy in that "Provençale" shack you're going to call a Hampton getaway where you have to crouch in an attic bedroom and pray your kids aren't going to learn how to turn on a 17-year-old TV/VCR unit. Oh God, then they might catch an episode of "Dora the Explorer" and learn Spanish.

Next item: Jill is obviously the star of this show now and for that I thank the Lord. And Cindy Adams of the New York Post.

Next item: Ummm... are these hos pulling a fast one on me? Just when I was signing out my praises for the NYC women's faithfulness to their own persona Ramona says something intelligent and LuAnn takes off her countess tiara if only long enough to be fair and impartial. WTF is going ON here? I hope this twisted turn into reality doesn't last long. Probably once the girls return to the Island, Ramona will go back to thinking she's Carrie Bradshaw and LuAnn will go back to thinking she's Queen Frostine.

Next item: Ugh. Someone please hit the snooze button on the new girl. Kelly's the only real socialite of the crowd, which means she isn't here for the free spa trips or bar hops or (as the old reality adage goes) to make friends. She's here because she's an editor at Elle and as soon as Nina Garcia turned into a psycho and "Project Runway" jumped ship from Bravo's collateral, the executives had to placate the magazine somehow. Kelly is a fan of being surrounded by men ("gay men, bisexual men, straight men..."), having people hang out by her pool in their riding boots, and staring with the same facial expression as someone who fell asleep under a heat lamp. Done. Next.

Whatever guys. The important thing is that I once again got a chance to judge these women I secretly want to be and Bethenny imparted more wisdom on us through her glassy drunky warbles. Cheers to this season.

At least it's not Celebreality

2009-02-16T17:31:00.004-05:00

This weekend when I wasn't losing a battle with my kitchen trying to cook a three-course meal, I was doing what I normally do to forget about the fact that I'm broke: watching the nonstop loop of the same four programs on Bravo. Since it's ending tomorrow to make way for the most awesome series ever, the last few episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County aired, and below are my final judgments. Because the reason reality TV was invented is for people like me to rehash it out on blogs that hold no lasting cultural relevance.

The OC girls, as I've said before, are entertaining merely because they're all outrageously insidious and self conscious. However, I think the reason they don't measure up to the NYC girls for me (aside from the fact that I live in New York myself and have an allergic reaction to Southern California) is because they tend to be a little inconsistent. If I liked these girls to begin with, they somehow ended up letting me down, and vice versa. On the other hand, I will ALWAYS love Jill Zarin, ALWAYS scoff at Alex McCord, and ALWAYS think Ramona Singer has lost it. And lo, the following are my comprehensive opinions about our West Coast compatriots.

Jeana Jeana is oozing with insecurity and it hurts my heart. It also makes her scenes extremely difficult to watch. Jeana is sweet on the outside and has the semblance of the most rational women in the OC with her docile manner and her sage wisdom. She only occasionally makes snarky comments, but more-than-occasionally makes very non-confrontational judgments. Her inability to stand up for herself is most evident - and most frustrating - in her interactions with her kids. The way she lets her rancid sons verbally rip her apart is just. fucking. appalling. I used to be really turned off by feminists, but it's women like this that remind me what we have to lose in a simple abusive relationship. Blech.

Tamra Someone at Bravo envisioned the profile of the perfectly lofty entitled Orange County wife, and Tamra Barney embodies it. She's really good at sabotaging people. With tequila. And using all the stupid shit they did when they were drunk against them in a court of blond judgmental women. Of all the OC housewives, she's the one who most resembles your best friend from seventh grade: she laughs with you, tells you how hot you are, and goes shopping for a dress to wear to the dance with you. But then she goes home to text the boy you have a crush on, send a blow to your self-esteem in a three-way calling attack, and write in her diary about how big your ass looked in that dress. In other words, I really like Tamra, but damn, bitch is straight outta Mean Girls.

Vicki I think Vicki is sort of the top dog of the OC housewives. Funny enough, Vicki also thinks Vicki is sort of the top dog of the OC housewives. Vicki's trademark is harping on about how hard and constantly she works, which really is a commendable feat considering how faithful she is to her responsibility of filming a reality show for Bravo - dutifully going to all the restaurants, spas, and nightclubs she needs to film her scenes. It disappoints me to see how poorly Vicki handles her relationship with her family, especially her husband Don. She excludes him from almost everything she does, and it's clear that Don just gets through it by downing another Corona and laughing about it. Drink up, Don, drink up.

Lynne Just as I do with all the other housewives, I have mixed feelings about Lynne. Because overall, this lady seems to have wandered into this whole mess in the midst of a hashish trip. She genuinely doesn't seem to have any ill feelings toward anyone, and has very rarely made a hurtful comment about anyone, behind their back or to their face. Her relationship with her husband is so adorably real and her Jessica Simpson inspired comments are silly at best. However. I think this woman lets her peyote habit get in the way of her consciousness that she's on national TV. Yeah, her kids are a little out of control - and they're very typical of a normal American situation - but Lynne sort of lets it slide. Like, lady, are you going to even TRY to discipline these girls? Because much as the fog of THC is clouding your vision, there are about a couple thousand women out there right now who are judging your face off. Including single, childless women. Like me. Put down the bong and take that girl's keys, because she just raided your liquor closet.

Gretchen I was really rooting for this lady from the start, which was tough in light of all the criticism she was getting, including from the all-knowing Bethenny Frankel (thegreatesthousewifeEVER). Like Lynn, Gretchen honestly seems benign (no cancer pun intended). You may call it Anna Nicole behavior, but to me Gretchen did seem honestly concerned for fiancé's leukemia and sincerely in love with him. I'm sure there were tons of days where the camera's didn't follow her into the hospital when she visited him, since the hospital doesn't have pinot grigio flowing and blond bitches fighting, but it's suspicious how often Gretchen managed to run off on little trips with the girls. As the season went on, it got a little tiring to hear her make that "I need to get away from stress of the hospital" excuse and you had to begin to wonder how quickly Jeff was whithering away in whiles. He ended up passing away in September, and the amount of promotional material that was quite obviously filmed afterward, in which Gretchen has a breezy smile on her face, is pretty fishy. Lauri Waring Peterson quit filming in the middle of the season to help fight her son's heroin addiction, and, you know... just sayin, Gretch.

I guess when all's said and done, I'm just really looking forward to trading in short and shiny minidresses against a sunset for some tasteful LBDs in high rises.

Still not Perez

2009-02-13T09:23:00.005-05:00

I was just thinking about Valentine's Day last year, and how I had just started this blog. When I went back to take a look at my first post, I realized that today is this blog's first anniversary. Happy Birthday, Bloggylegs!

Why I'm going to exploit my kids

2009-02-12T21:29:00.004-05:00

... because whoring your children out to YouTube is not parentally irresponsible; it's socially generous. Just because the insanity of these kids is on display for all the world to ridicule it doesn't mean mom and dad love them any less. Two children have recently affirmed these feelings of mine. Even Anderson Cooper is getting into this crap!

1. Kitten girl. A lot of people are going to tell you that this video was totally scripted and manipulated by the kitten girl's parents. You know, even if it was, I totally believe that the commentary all came straight from the kid. It's the kind of weird, random, too-mature-for-its-own-age-at-times tone that can only come from a 6-year-old.

2. David after the Dentist. If you're ever at a party with me tokin a fatty and you offer me a hit, this is exactly why I will vehemently refuse. The second I learned how to inhale, this is what I looked like five minutes later. I totally sympathize with the need to let out a primal scream, wondering if I was part of real life, and hopelessly pondering "is this going to be forever?"

Stump

2009-02-11T09:18:00.006-05:00

Congratulations to the best official pup on the face of the earth, Ch Clussexxx Three D Grinchy Glee, aka Stump. Stump won the title of Best in Show at Westminster partially for displaying outstanding marks in the standard of his breed (the Sussex Spaniel) but mostly for having a name that was obviously scrawled on his papers by a drunkard. He is also the oldest pooch ever to achieve this accomplishment, because he's SEVENTY in doggy years.

My mom called me last night to announce that she is now hell-bent on getting a Sussex Spaniel, even though she understands that there are only about 29 in the entire world and now the price of a puppy is probably marked around the same as her mortgage payment.

Six degrees

2009-02-10T09:29:00.005-05:00

Last night, after Obama's press conference, shouty Chris Matthews had a live midnight episode of Hardball. I'll admit, I was only watching MSNBC because I heard the Westminster Dog Show was on. But anyway, Matthews was interviewing Kevin Bacon, who stars in a new film as a lieutenant colonel who escorts the remains of a fallen soldier from Iraq to Wyoming. He was sitting next to the real man he played in the movie, Lt. Col. Strobl. Strobl was talking about the tight community of the Marine Corps when he said, "the 'six degrees of separation' comes to my mind for some reason right now" Uhhh... maybe it's because YOU'RE SITTING NEXT TO KEVIN BACON.

Here's the video. Hilarious "duh" moment sets in around 6:08.

Things that are awesome (besides the internet in my aprartment)

2009-02-07T22:28:00.007-05:00

Why am I sitting at home writing on a blog at 10:30 on a Saturday night? Because I can! Because the Time Warner technician came! All rejoice! (Is it in any way shallow and spoiled of me, by the way, to be this over the moon for finally getting cable in my apartment?)

It might also because I am broke as a joke after this move. It might also because I'm bad at winning friends and influencing people.

I don't know. Let's discuss my new two favorite things this week, both of which are courtesy of Steph.

1. Dooce. The blog that only puts more pressure on my 22-year-old bioclock to get married and settle into precious domesticity as soon as possible. I love everything about Heather Armstrong's website, from her whimsical design to her breathtaking, modest photographs to her hilarious flair for writing about her family and homelife.

2. Coraline. I didn't know anything about the book before I saw this truly inspired stop-motion movie, but I was really captivated by what a horrific dreamworld Neil Gaiman had imagined. There was a lot of goodness that I could gush about in this film, from the goth-ly playful soundtrack to Coraline's kick-ass nail polish (which I own in "Electrify" and you can find at Urban Outfitters). What I really appreciated though was, despite the PG rating, that the story seemed to be ripped from the inventory of my seven-year-old nightmares. The grim images in that movie were just so jarring and uncanny to the sort of things I thought only my messed up mind came up with during childhood.

And re: 3D. What a strange comeback, no? I can't help but attribute this silly phenomenon to the "depression" that everyone's so wont to prescribe. Looking at a theater full of intelligent people gawking through 3D glasses simply reminds me of the resigned simplicity of early twentieth century America: post-Depression, post-WWII, deluding itself into believing that watching stuff in 3D and furnishing diners in chrome was stepping into the future. Well, Ike Administraion, you called it! 50 years later, Madison Avenue is jamming two-toned glasses in our faces just so we can watch the Super Bowl. Take that, ya damn Soviets.

3. Oh, also awesome: Charlie Wilson's War. Not having the internets or moneys = watching a lot of DVDs. OK?

Babylegos

2009-02-05T13:48:00.005-05:00

Today my friend Charlene posted a link to this genius photo album on a Times blog. I thought since I haven't updated in a while - considering I'm still in the throes of my glorious, life changing move up to the Heights (and still don't have the interwebz) - I would share this with yall. I think it's pretty accordant with what I'm thinking about lately. My situation in the new apartment has really put me on Cloud Nine for the past few weeks and totally allowed me to appreciate this great city for what it is. It's amazing what crawling out from under the BQE can do for a person.

Hats off to Christopher Niemann for positing such urban delight in legos. AKA the best thing God ever invented.

CFS, No. 4

2009-01-22T15:28:00.004-05:00

It's the Cute Fucking Shit Inaugural edition!

I know, I know. The Inauguration hype is sort of running out of steam and people are slowly resorting back to realizing how much life sucks. At least it's in a mindset of suffering conditions in the country rather than suffering leaders in the country.

Still, I can't get over Maliah and Sasha! Jeeze. They're just. Too. Precious. There have been a ton of stories about their Jonas Brothers scavenger surprise and the fancy new school they're attending (though aren't all DC private schools...), almost to the point where you'd wonder if they're kinda, you know, brats. To be honest, I'm insanely jealous of them. But I think I can rest assured that these two are not little a-holes because in all their pictures they seem to be innocently, sincerely loving every moment of their pop's limelight. Case A: Huffington Post's "Most Adorable Moments" slideshow, in which we see Maliah documenting these life-changing days on her digital camera (something about that is just so cool and endearing to me) and Sasha looking like she had successfully coerced the White House kitchen to enable her major sugar addiction. Scuse me while I puke rainbows.

Obauguration

2009-01-20T15:52:00.006-05:00

The fact that no one is talking about what an historic day it is here in this office gives me severe misgivings. It also makes me miss my hometown DC (aka "God's country" as a high school friend used to call it) more than I ever thought I would. I am so ridiculously proud of the Obamas and must say that we have one fiiiine lookin' family in the White House. Seriously. Sasha and Meliah were a-DORBZ, Michelle looked like a lemon pudding dream, and Barack looked about as refreshing and expensive as an economic stimulus package.

And here's some fun for the losers like those of us who WEREN'T invited to an inaugural ball. Which I'm sure will all have shitty booze and lame jams. Anyway, look guys! An inauguration ball gown quiz! I got 7 out of 8. How'd you do?

This film has been brought to you by every closet on Bedford Avenue.

2009-01-18T00:42:00.007-05:00

Tonight some friends and I saw the movie Milk and made a lot of homo jokes. As in, "Man, I knew that mall cop movie would be gay, but sheesh!" The movie was fantastic and strangely still relevant today and I loved it and bla bla bla bla.

But what I really want to talk about is the WANT factor of everything any actor was wearing throughout the film. Am I psycho for wanting to dress like a permed gay rights lesbian activist from 1978? Probably. In fact, I really just want to dress like Emile Hirsch's character. I have got to get my hands on a pair of these frames:My friend Amanda commented that the whole movie was evidently sort of a 2-hour commercial for American Apparel, and I think I agree with her. I mean, kooky specs, unflatteringly tight textiles, and washed-out drab colors and hoodies? Yeah, sounds like stock in which a hipster would invest. Regardless. I'm willing to risk coming off as an epic fail and swear to rock a pair of tube socks and high running shorts sometime this summer with split-toned Jackie O shades. You won't be able to miss me, boys.

(PS: Apparently Holly Madison sells a line of tube socks. If you think I'm not itching to get my mitts on a set of those puppies then you don't know me well enough, friend.)

Please renew this clusterfuck, Bravo. PLEASE.

2009-01-17T10:15:00.008-05:00

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! Bravo is running a Real Housewives of New York City marathon! Right now! Are you watching it?! Watch it! Exclamation points!

The Real Housewives franchise is easily one of my favorite things in life. It's reality TV without the trash, so you don't really feel guilty watching it, you know? Kind of like reading Elle (not exactly the New Yorker but not exactly Cosmopolitan). Well, ok, addendum: the ladies of Atlanta kind of brought some trash(-y hookers!). It's a tightrope we're walkin, right Kim?

For me though, the women of New York produced the best dynamic, probably because each of the five of them had distinctly honed personalities with a basket full of neuroses and negatives that I can scrutinize. Not to say that the OC girls and the Atlanta girls are boring by any means, but it's like, the OC girls are all backstabby blond bitches. And the Atlanta girls are all (say it with me) trashy hookers. The New York girls, on the other hand, are just a squawky mess. And since you all care, here's my profile of each woman:

Ramona I already talked about this lady a while ago, and my sentiments still ring true as I revisit the season this morning. In the last episode, in front of three models, Ramona made the statement that "modeling is an industry that doesn't require a lot of brains." Then she dug herself into a more hilarious hole by trying to apologize. What a girl-woman. I hope no one ever clues her in.

LuAnn Not to say that this group isn't perfect, but ugh! If there's one woman I could pluck out it would be LuAnn, the "cunt-ess." LuAnn thinks her "royal" shit doesn't stink, sauntering about with a sense of entitlement that I once believed was only real in period movies. She barks at her housekeeper, refuses to go on a first-name basis with drivers and the like (since they're "like children" and under her authority), and attributes the privileges she deserves to her European title. Seriously, are you fucking kidding me, LuAnn? As if "European" was even an indication of superiority over "American." She therefore is an immediate target for...

Alexandsimon Alex should always be referred to as Alexandsimon. Since her confusedosexual British husband, Simon, is practically sewn to her fabulous Roberto Cavali frocks (that he picked out). Alexandsimon is OB-sessed with gaining access to the upper echelons of society, so much so that Alexandsimon makes it a 24-hour job to research events, shop for designer costumes to wear to said events, and then scour the paper the next day for photographs of Alexandsimon at the event. Wearing the fabulous Roberto Cavali frock. Alexandsimon also has this insecure unrelenting quest to live the European life that LuAnn espouses, naming the children François and Johann and making it a point to tell everyone that François (who is fucking FOUR) makes speeches or whatever in French and Latin. This surreal behavior ere go takes a toll on Alexandsimon's house, which is dilapidated, and the stuff Alexandsimon's kids should be learning, like basic colors/numbers/shapes, and manners.

Jill Aw, Jill. The most balanced, normal lady in the whole cycle. There's very little shade of character in Jill that I could criticize, because she has her head on straight in the way that only a hardened, no-nonsense Jewish woman from New York would. She talks about her boobs ALL the time, which is kind of hilarious, only stopping to make astute, completely correct critiques of the other crazy housewives. She's in love with her awful chihuahua instead of status, which, after LuAnn and Alexandsimon, is really refreshing. Oh yeah, and she hates Ramona and it's fucking hysterical.

Bethenny After Jill Bethenny is the one who I could see myself totally being friends with. She's the only non-married, non-mother of the group, and she won't let us forget it. Bethenny's job is to cook food sometimes but mostly to just get drunk and badger her boyfriend about proposing and making her pregnant immediately. She's best friends with Jill, understandably, since they're both really good at sitting across a table from pretentious idiots and rolling their eyes. Her talent for critique is exercised in full force on her Bravo blog, where she attacks Housewives of other seasons in similar unminced words. Keep on keepin on, homegirl.

UPDATE As Bethenny would say, holy inappropriateness! The Bravo gods heard my prayers and are indeed blessing America with a second season of New York Housewives. This calls for a GNO with Alexandsimon. I hope we get photographed!

Buy my domestic bliss

2009-01-14T14:36:00.011-05:00

Yall, I'm movin! It is time for me to bid adieu to my totally impractical Brooklyn apartment and haul ass (and lots of other shit that's going to burn a god damn crater in my credit line) over to a brand spankin' sexy new flat in Washington Heights.

The move makes me anxious for a handful of reasons: I'll be living on my own; I'll be paying more rent while not sharing utilities; I'm not sure how my neighbors will take to the black tar heroin ring I operate from home... Most of all, my palms are sweatin over the dollars I'll have to spend. I'll be breaking bank not only for the inter-island schlep, but also for the myriad of abstracts that I still need to, like, live.

I was joking with my friend Amytang that I'm going to have a housewarming party for which I'll create a gift registry at Urban Outfitters, Ikea, Bed Bath & Beyond, and the like. It started out as a joke but the more I consider how fucking sparse my inventory is, I'm beginning to take it very seriously. So without further ado, here is how you can contribute to the Katelyn Lahr Apartment Foundation:

Coat rack Unfortunately there is a terrific lack of closet space in the new digs, but ample entryway. I like it in light blue, okay guys?
Mattress pad Now that I'm not living in an 8'x8' sleeping cubby, I can turn my twin size bed into something that the MTV would call "where the magic happens." My magic (read: Facebooking, sleeping, and occassionally eating pickles) needs proper lumbar support and queen-sized rolling area.
Pots and pans Because in the new apartment, unlike in Brooklyn now, I will NOT be making bestfriends with that guy from Sapporo Haru who delivers my sushi and seems eerily content with making a 20-minute trip in 14-degree weather.
Curtains It's curtains for me! Nyah hahahaha. I think these seafoam guys have the potential to look either very happy or like a hospital treatment.
A dresser Or wardrobe. Totes loves this mirrored one from Pier 1:
Quilts, pillows, comfies I really love the stuff Urban has, but I cannot justify paying twice the amount I spend on groceries on fucking fluff stuffed in fabric. Still... this Russian doll bedspread is criminally precious.
A microwave Can you believe I don't have one? Why? Who am I?
Some pretty paper laterns I think I'm a little too fond of paper lanterns. They're nice and they emit a warm glow, that's for sure, but they kind of scream "I'm a white girl who's trying to make my dorm room look classy."
Something to get me started Duh. And my new neighborhood juice emporium delivers! Hurrah!
A kitteh I'm going to be so lonesome! (sad face) Allegedly no pets are allowed in the building, but when I looked at the place the first go-round a woman was on her way out to take her pooch for a walk. I think if she can keep a yappy terrier I can smuggle in a four-pound something that confines itself to one apartment, poos and pees in a box, and never makes sound except to hiss at me when I'm drunk. I'm doin it.

Thanks again, Vh1

2009-01-11T23:44:00.007-05:00

Tonight I resigned myself to Vh1 to watch some wholesome family programming. By that I mean trashy episodes of Rock of Love Bus, Real Chance of Love, and Tool Academy. First item on tonight's post is the fact that I'm actually in effing LOVE with the song from Real Chance of Love, "Does She Love Me," performed by America's most eligible bachelors, the Stallionaires. For cereal you all, this song is catchy!

Next item. Tool Academy. It's sort of like Charm School, except it doesn't feature the alumni of previously crappy reality shows to labor. Basically, nine "tools" are forced to go through a relationship boot camp per the wiles of their doormat girlfriends. Obviously this is much to the chagrin of the nine gentlemen, who enjoy engaging in things like screaming why they're awesome, wearing aviators while they spray Pam on their delts, and giving themselves idiotic American Gladiator pseudonyms. They also have trouble living with the fact that being confined to a grooming academy for 30 days grossly interferes with their agenda of banging twins every night and drinking Natty Lites. This show's pretty easy to follow, mostly because every other word is "babe," "bro," or "douche." I say: beer me a whole season of this shit, dude.

Babylegs, 2009 edition

2009-01-04T23:33:00.005-05:00

You guys! My pop gave Babylegs a really fawesome facelift. There are two other alternative headers, which I'm considering changing out over the next few weeks. Just to try on for size.

And for the record, yes, that is the real BL making "crab feet" in Montauk, c. August 1986 because I had no idea what the fuck my mom was trying to place me on. I had a sand phobia, like most normal children.

Top 10 Characters of 2008

2009-01-03T10:59:00.011-05:00

10. Jonathan Rhys Meyers: He totally out-douched himself as Henry VIII on the second season of The Tudors, which returned this year as the porniest thing besides Californication that was allowed on TV. I guess he tied this spot with Natalie Dormer, who played a totally kick-ass, painfully beautiful Anne Boleyn. And much better than Natalie Portman did.

9. Megan: Rock of Love's Megan inspired just way too much hatred from me to be excluded from this list. Megan defines the profile of that girl who knows she can use a rockin bod to get, like, whatEVER she wants (and yes, I'm only saying that because I'm jealous). Consequently, she wears nothing but teeny weeny bikinis everywhere (seriously, everywhere) and tries to carbon copy Paris Hilton by walking around with a smug grin and a dressed-up chihuahua. Unlike Paris, however, she does not stop imbibing, which gives her constant ceiling eyes, and she seems to be unaware that her 15 minutes will be up as soon as Vh1 cuts the cord on this ridiculous batch of incestuous reality show characters. PS: thanks much to Sharon Osbourne for giving Megan just a fraction of what I wish I could.

8. Heather: Heather is definitely the undisputed heathen queen of Vh1 - I will forever sing her praises (until, you know, like, Vh1 realizes they can only ride on the same four reality shows for so long). Unfortunately I missed her breathtaking performance in the first season of Rock of Love, which included Steph's faves like the "yumola" oyster scene and a joyride through some of the most ridiculous hairstyles imaginable. I think this little vignette sums it up perfectly. Regardless, in 2008, Bret's old flame championed through a second round of RoL 2, I Love Money, and Charm School, kicking Daisy's ass, hating Megan, hating Megan some more, and ultimately faltering under the marijuana ban they imposed on the set of Charm School. Hows about a 21-gun salute for our fallen pothead stripper soldier.

7. Christian Siriano: Bar-none the most talented, innovative, and awe-inspiring designer on Project Runway. After his victory the show clearly began to meet its demise, so it was only appropriate that he gave ProjRun its defining peak. Plus, he gets definite bonus points for being a total featherweight twink that defines his edge with such catch phrases as "tickety tack" and "fierce." (Yep, sorry Tyra, but Christian totally swept that carpet from out under your feet.)

6. Wall-E: This little robot almost pissed me off in his sheer adorableness and vulnerably good heart. Jesus. For three straight days back in July, I couldn't stop being all like "oooowaaaaaallleeeeeeee."

5. Jemaine Clement: Yes, Jemaine, yes it IS business time.

4. NeNe Leakes: "Caution to the wind, bras be damned" was this lady's mantra. If there was ever one woman in the Housewife collection who I'd want to hang with, it would most surely be NeNe. As her awesomely colorful voice was a pleasure to imitate among friends, she gave us such quotable gems as "don't be tardy to this party," and "close your legs to married men," and "TRASHY HOOKER." Her eccentricity completely made up for the fact that she kinda got hilariously drunk and kinda hilariously ripped on her "best friend" in a limo one night... especially since her best friend was totally self-deluded and self-centered. Whatever. NeNe, you're the lady.

3. Ramona Singer: aka "Ramoron." I seriously think this lady is full-on retarded. However, Ramona has definitely been my favorite housewife thus far in Bravo's whole series. Though NeNe is surely spunky and "three-snaps-in-the-Z-formation" enough for me, Ramona was just too faithful and too sincere in her ridiculousness to forget. She sort of reminded me of that aunt you had that loved to be around girls, and spoil them with outlandish tea parties, or try and infiltrate their adolescent teen pop world and be the "cool mom." She refused to be painted as anything but the perennially young Manhattan party girl, and in my book she gets immediate points for style and consistency.

2. Don Draper: This man needs no explanation. Even if I knew he's had careless, unprotected sex with scores of uppity brunettes, wastes his lungs and liver away on packs of Lucky Strikes and old-fashioneds, and based his entire life on a lie about his identity... yeah... I'd still hit that.

1. Barack Obama: Duh. That one.

A Very Katelyn Kristmas Mix

2008-12-09T23:11:00.013-05:00

(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!

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"Jingle Bell Rock" by the Plastics

They do it every year.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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

2008-12-08T17:21:00.005-05:00

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

2008-12-02T23:38:00.008-05:00

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

2008-12-02T23:13:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-11-19T11:44:00.006-05:00

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.

2008-11-19T00:38:00.005-05:00

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:

2008-11-12T00:48:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-10T23:09:00.004-05:00

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

2008-11-08T18:21:00.008-05:00

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

2008-11-05T00:37:00.006-05:00

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)

2008-10-05T23:08:00.010-04:00

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"

2008-09-17T22:55:00.006-04:00

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????!!!!

2008-08-27T23:44:00.006-04:00

... 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

2008-08-26T09:54:00.005-04:00

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.

2008-08-10T22:55:00.003-04:00

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!

2008-08-05T00:12:00.005-04:00

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

Tonight marked a few firsts for me:

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).

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

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!

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.

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

2008-07-31T17:03:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-27T13:59:00.005-04:00

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?

2008-07-27T02:13:00.005-04:00

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.

2008-07-22T14:27:00.004-04:00

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!

2008-07-20T21:53:00.011-04:00

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.

2008-07-18T13:45:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-17T22:32:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-17T17:24:00.010-04:00

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.

2008-07-14T10:04:00.007-04:00

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

2008-07-13T23:07:00.005-04:00

As mentioned in previous posts, I'm usually only up to commit myself to a book if it promises very grown-up elements and enough simple sensationalism to keep my interest piqued at Spike TV standards. On the past few trips down to DC and back I've settled with an issue of GQ or Maxim in favor of the magazines that I'm starting to find all too pretentious. What can I say? Maybe I really DO want to know how to keep a straight poker face, or find out whether or not monogrammed money clips really have come back in style!

Anyway, I just finished a title within the genre of what I can only describe as "dick lit" (a new canon of testosterone-laced works, epitomized by books like The Average American Male and Chuck Palahniuk oeuvres, and driven to shock society, counter the universe of "chick lit," and essentially throw in that literary hand job to male readers). I kept running into I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell at places like Urban Outfitters, where only a slim offering of fresh (slightly lesser known) books are displayed. I was intrigued, but being as cheap as I am (typically I don't spend money on something unless it's going to end up in my belly and probably get me drunk), I never actually bought it. I don't know why I did. I think I had just finished PS I Love You (the chick lit of chick lit - so horrendous - I'm dumber because of it - don't read it - watch Gerard Butler instead in the much better version of the movie - you're welcome), and had failed at trying to prove to myself that I could be swayed by reading a novel targeted towards my own sex. Alas, I decided to throw down the 14 smackers and let Tucker Max flush all the estrogen out of my skull.

I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell delivers. And then some. Exactly what you expect it to deliver: stories dripping with douche bags douching up the town via grain alcohol, bar fights, and gratuitous, unsafe, anonymous sex. It's entertaining if you don't read it all in one sitting. If you read more than 20 pages at a time, Max's fuckery just becomes a little too flippant - and unfunny - to tolerate. Trust me, morally upright it was not. The book was not written for the physically or emotionally squeamish, and certainly not for feminists, Jesus freaks, political activists, PETA, anyone with a daughter, or Oprah's Book Club. Basically, it was a literary love letter to the careless, selfish 20-something man (who forgot he graduated from college), and was filled with enough debauchery, bodily fluids, and bro-mance to make me grow an Adam's apple. There was enough hate to liken Tucker's opinions to that of the infamous Maddox (with whom he is friends - and I don't mean Knox and Vivienne's adopted bro). But. If you can handle this ode to the phallus (and by that I mean 200some-page bible of chauvinism), I definitely recommend. The inherent integrity of Max's work lies in his ability to tell a story, his biting wit, spot-on lexicon, and understanding of the need to record his shenanigans. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued enough to finish the book, and curious enough to see where his limits lay (spoiler alert: there are none). Well played, Tucker. Well played.

Also, when all's said and done, the dude actually seems like a nice guy. Here he is on Fox News, bein all CHILL. And I definitely recommend yall check out his website. Where I learned you could probably read like 80% (if not ALL) of his book along with some other vignettes. Charging the urban unknowing consumer $14 a pop when people in the know know they could get it online - FOR FREE? Let's hear it for being a dick.

New Favorites! Or, longest post ever.

2008-07-10T21:58:00.013-04:00

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.

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.

2008-06-26T23:00:00.007-04:00

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)

2008-06-17T14:29:00.007-04:00

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!

2008-06-06T21:31:00.003-04:00

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

2008-06-06T20:25:00.005-04:00

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.

2008-05-27T16:11:00.003-04:00

...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.

2008-05-22T01:12:00.006-04:00

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!

2008-04-29T00:00:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday TAH ME.

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

No really you look incredible.

2008-04-21T15:54:00.005-04:00

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.

VH1, you do not disappoint.

2008-04-14T11:44:00.012-04:00

The season finale of Rock of Love 2 aired last night, and boy am I glad I did not have money riding on that shizz! In the surprise of the century, Bret picked the most NORMAL girl in the competition, Ambre (who, to quote Daisy, is "like 80 years old and so boring"), and let Lil Mis Lips-n-Tits know that her tour ended there in Cancun. Unfortunately, in my opinion, this charming little piece of croissant didn't put enough la resistance up to stick it out till le fin. Oh well, c'est la vie. The best part of the episode? Bret's suavely classy choice of last words: "Now let's go have hot monkey sex." Wow Bret; be still my beating heart.

Not to assume that this outcome is the product of any real "feelings" or "relationship growth," but I can at least rejoice in the mere semblance of good decision making on Bret's part. I'm proud that he chose someone not only close to his own age (Bret, contrary to your paranoia, you aint foolin anyone into thinking you're 29, though I understand how mounting ultraviolet guitars on your wall and riding hogs around your living room can be deceiving), but also someone whose already-obnoxious valley girl accent, poor vocabulary, and sub-par inarticulate speaking skills are not smothered by the gargantuan amount of collagen in her face. Daisy does not look her own age; she looks like a 58-year-old TRYING to look her own age. Gugh. Just so glad that gal is out the door. I cannot WAIT for the reunion show.

SEE YA, HO! --->

Unfortunately I didn't have the wherewithal to stick around for Viva Hollywood, nor do I anticipate holding any interest in that show - NO GRACIAS, SENOR. But I did visit VH1's site to see if there were any deleted scenes from ROL2 of my favorite skanky skank skankishly skanking things up. There, I discovered under the "VH1 Classic" section the glorious and sacred cache of Pop-Up videos. I thought that stuff was lost and gone forever with the rest of the flannel and polyester 90s. Needless to say, I spent about 4,329 hours watching some of the videos VH1 had posted (there are roughly 80 for your viewing pah-leasure in two separate links). Something about them made me so nostalgic for the days of Limited Too, awkward middle school dances, body glitter and shitty lip gloss, and writing three different letters to Leoanardo DiCaprio but then not sending them because I was a pussy. It reminded me of when VH1 had a little bit of integrity, even though it catered to the likes of vanilla middle-aged yuppies, like when it aired stuff like VH1 Storytellers, Behind the Music, the VH1 and Vogue Fashion Awards, and even those crappy Diva concerts. I still watched it, bland as it was (not bland but totally fucking rad = Pop-Up Video). But I must say now more than ever, VH1, I really appreciate that you've degraded yourself to the baser interests of human devolution.

CFS, No. 2

2008-04-08T22:26:00.001-04:00

Ohhhhh look at the baby and his fucked up little ears!!!!!!!!!

He's so cute I just cried lemondrops.

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

What I do when I'm at work

2008-04-07T13:18:00.004-04:00

A couple of years ago I stumbled onto one of the most clever art duos I've ever come across. My favorite of their series is linked in the little "Talk about this at parties" section of my blog, and they are husband-and-wife team Drew and Natalie Dee. Aside from their respective webcomics, they also team up on stuff like Married to the Sea. Drew and Natalie create awesome little epithets from vintage designs, crude drawings, and little videos and blogs about their life in Columbus, Ohio with their pugs Charles and Chester. Hopefully when I grow up, my spirit will remain the same marriage of biting cynicism and endearing humor that these two seem to maintain. Here is one of my favorite additions from Drew's site Where are the Dogs Humping:

Somebody's got a case of the MONDAYS.

2008-04-07T10:12:00.006-04:00

It's meeee! Here is what I want to declare to the world aujourd'hui:

I cleaned my apartment last night! I didn't really pick up my room, but I did scour the kitchen, hallway, and bathroom so that these suckers never make another undeclared appearance. My kitchen and bathroom smell like cleaning solution and I loves it! Also, my feet squeak when I walk on the hardwood floors (whereas previously the soles would collect their own dust mite/crumb/wrapper sock if I went barefoot). But for srlsy, I'm so proud of myself! And everything is easier to do with The Real Housewives of NYC playing in the background!
This morning I had a glass of orange juice with some biotin in it, so my hair would FRIGGIN START GROWIN ALREADY (I'm balding, yall). I was like, cool, I've had about 80 calories so far - sufficient breakfast. But "making good" on my last post, while walking to work this morning, I decided it would be a really healthy idea to stop in at Cosi and pick up a grande "Arctic Mocha," which screams its caloric evil every time it slips down my throat. Not kidding, yall. This shit tastes like a nine-year-old invented it by mixing shaved ice and Hershey's chocolate syrup. It leaves this sweet, slippery film on your lips every time you take a sip.
When I paid for my chocolate aneurysm with a $20 bill, I got three $5 bills back (yeah, apparently Cosi thinks that gradual fatal installments of mocha cost $4.50 a pop). And holy maloly! Look at the new $5 bill! WHAT THE FAHK? It looks like a Parsons graphic arts student collaborated with the Count on Sesame Street to create this. Not to say that I'm not highly pleased with this tender, but it does kind of look like when you turn it over, the Mint seems to be telling us "this note has been brought to you by the NUMBER FIVE!"

(By the way, I was going to hyperlink to the Cosi Arctic Mocha, but when I found the sight and the nutrition facts popped up, I automatically closed the window and chucked the last quarter of the drink in the trash. Let's just say that I have just consumed at least a third of my daily calorie intake today.)

Looking forward to May, when I'll be 189 pounds and reading People with a cigarette!

2008-04-04T11:06:00.010-04:00

These are my goals for the month of April:

Find a full-time job. Or at least immerse myself very much into the search so I'm not eating cookie dough and living under flight paths and break dancing in the Times Square subway station for dollas this summer.
Quit smoking. I think by at least the time finals are over I'll be nico-free!
Stop wearing outfits two days in a row because I'm too lazy to go back to Brooklyn for a night.
Lose five pounds. I really need to lose, like, 15-20, but I'm going to be real about this. I aint running 8 miles a day, peeps.
Corollary: persuade myself that sesame seed bagels toasted with 2 pounds of cream cheese, washed down with a 300-calorie Jamba Juice, does not a healthy breakfast make.
Start reading more. And start reading items that are published seasonally, not every seven days (aka put down the Us Weekly).
Do my homework. Like, when it's due instead of three weeks later.
Clean my FECKING APARTMENT.
Hunt for lost treasure.
Convince my mom that "twat" is a much funnier word than it is offensive. You know, kind of like "addiction."

On those heels, sell society on the idea that the term "doing it" is so much more hilarious than "having sex."

CFS, No. 1

2008-04-02T00:39:00.004-04:00

I've decided that when I've neglected my blog for too long, and I don't know what to write about, and ESPECIALLY when I'm doing homework, I'm just going to post pictures of CUTE.FUCKING.SHIT. I'll just post pictures that are going to make you ooh and awe so much you're going to be burping butterflies. So, here, as the début of the Cute Fucking Shit Series, I give you a Cute Fucking Little White Puppy:

ADOWABLE!

Remember to take your nice pills today.

2008-03-26T10:18:00.006-04:00

One of the greatest things about living in New York is that there's this strange camaraderie that defies the stereotype non-New Yorkers seem to have about this city, the stereotype that you can only discredit personally after you've lived here at least a year. That is to say, one of the best things about becoming a New Yorker is realizing that you're part of a huge, dynamic community, which is NOT filled with assholes.

There are, however, the exceptions. A few weeks ago I was walking up Fourth Avenue to class, when some boulder of a man who's hollering at the top of his lungs to his companion walked straight into me. As I kept walking, he turned around, looked at me like I had just shot him in the foot, and screamed, "DON'T YOU SEE ME???!!!" Why yes, fat ass, I did see you. I believe I saw you from Brooklyn.

Special topics in conceptual marine life

2008-03-24T11:00:00.006-04:00

It's been a baron two weeks since I last paid any heed to this blog, and for that I apologize. To my fan base of what seems to be, like, three people, I'm sure this has been a veritable drought for you. Please forgive my neglect in the wake of yet another shitfest which befell the New Kennedys, codename: my family, eleven days ago (see, Caroline, I have an excuse to abandon my responsibilities- get to it, sister). I'm not one to turn a blog into a daily chronicle of my (not always so) pedestrian life, however, so on to my inner monologue - hurrah!

I only read about three books a year. I find this truth - like you, I'm sure - exceedingly unsettling and disappointing, considering my effort to augment my rich vocabulary, well-rounded mental bank of culture, and overall savoir-vivre. Such a thin reading list is also kind of fridiculous considering the fact that I work in and hope to pursue a career in publishing. A blazing sign of my mediocre literary pursuits also vests itself in my plebeian tastes: I only seem to go for books that are a step up from trashy romance rags that you'd find at Safeway, or similar deviations of The DaVinci Code. The only books I have read in the past twelve months include the final Harry Potter and Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Looking past Harry Potter, since it's a blaring chef d'oeuvre in the Western canon and therefore there's no need for me to defend it, I picked up Special Topics because it promised a strange mystery and a healthy wealth of cultural trivia that was vital to its plot. Its fresh quirkiness really, really resonated to me, and I found its puzzle admirably well executed.

I guess the reason I'm disappointed in myself for only choosing these sorts of novels is that they're so fast-paced that they demand absolutely no effort on my part to commit my voluntary attention to the book. They're so captivating that I feel I "can't put them down," if you will.

Such was the case with the third book I've read this year, The Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall. Any book that would do well advertised in Maxim or Playboy is a book for me. Not only because I think about naked girls and Ducatis all the time*, but also because I think I crave the sort of story-telling that a man would love: perverse, violent, and wickedly imaginative (I'm embarrassed to admit that Chuck Palahniuk is the only author I've consistently stayed loyal to, save whoever wrote The Babysitters Club series way back in fourth grade land). Shark Texts was the epitome of this kind of language, and I don't disagree with the praise its received as a ground-breaking new genre. The story and concept were a bizarre, existential amalgam of psychoanalytical theories not unlike those glorified in The Matrix. Lucky for the reader you just don't have to suffer through two and a half hours of Keanu Reeves and Cari Ann Moss humping in a cave. I don't want to divulge too much about the book, but trust me when I say that it beautifully embraces mystery, thriller, and even romance, without sacrificing original thought. In fact, (while the abstract theories are sometimes overwhelming), the psychological questions and mechanics Hall evokes are simply... exciting? The pace was absolutely perfect, and even the ending, though it threatened to be a little weak and macabre for a minute, was perfect.

Basically, buy it. Read it. You won't be sorry.

OK. I wrote an entry about a book. Now my blog is intellectual!

*I don't really think about naked girls and Ducatis all the time.

I'll stick to the pretty pictures, thanks.

2008-03-10T16:55:00.007-04:00

So, last night on the train I set myself to a new challenge. Trying to groom myself culturally, I have recently been making a sincere effort to buy magazines other than Cosmo and similar flippant sex rags which espouse twenty-first century female mania. For a more exhaustive, and hilarious, examination on why people shouldn't read these magazines, please see Jezebel's astute collection of observ ations. By the way, this has not deterred me from still wanting to pick the publication up from time to time. Sometimes we all need a little literary narcotic. OK? However, at the train station, perusing down the news aisles, I just didn't feel ready or smart enough for something as heavy as Newsweek or The New Yorker. Say what you will, I just don't find the "Talk of the Town" anything to write home about. Also, considering that the phenomena upon which I form my most cultivated opinions are VH1 and Project Runway (Gah! I'm so lazy. My hearty oped on Christian Siriano to come later - for now just read the musings of the authority slash God: Tim Gunn), I just didn't feel up to the mental challenge of indulging in the woes of America's intelligentsia. Therefore, I decided to go for the next best thing: I would pick up the mammoth issue of Vogue (for Anna Wintour's monthly love letter to the FAH-bulous does in fact include very astute diatribes) and encourage myself to read it cover-to-cover. Not a small feat, considering page count the cover boasts. This meant turning each page, and actually reading the articles, rather than just looking at the glossy pictures accompanying and then drooling over the Marc Jacobs double-page spread on the next page. Reading the articles actually shouldn't be considered so trying, especially because 80% of the magazine consists of advertisements and pompous photographs of people you wish you were. However, the treatises contained within typically profile a larger social issue or something about a foreign film or indie flick no one's going to see, because it's completely stupid, until it makes it big at Sundance. Therefore, it did command some sort of opinionated effort on my part. Touché.

One thing I was excited about was the fact that Drew Barrymore was the feature article. So, I decided to cheat a little bit and head straight to the piece (that's what she said). Now, I'm a huge Drew fan. Say what you will, but I've always loved her, even when she feigned that inane adolescent girl-crush on her Charlie's Angels costars, and even when she stumbled through that five-month hot mess of a marriage with Tom Green ("This is the Tom Green Show; it's not the Green Tom Show...." sorry, had to reminisce). And even when she gushes about the horrid childhood that saw her drinking at nine and doing yay at twelve - AH-GAIN. (Please Drew; considering my family woes I WISH I could go back in time and encourage my 9-year-old self to take a stiff one). Whatever. Drew Barrymore = the shit. But as I progressed through this article, the more and more I wanted to stop using Vogue as a travel companion and more as a surface upon which to vom. When did feature articles stop being portraits of celebrities and start being sickeningly infatuated propaganda? Julia Reed's œuvre on Barrymore is positive dribble. DRIBBLE I SAY! I mean, I can recognize the fact that profiles of A-listers in glamorous publications - even profiles of the baser A-listers (I'm lookin at you - LiLo) - are supposed to be a little kiss-ass. But this garbage was simply nauseating. It details, in bleeding-heart compassion, the history of a regal but misguided "dynasty" of actors and performers, all weaving through Drew's meticulous explanation of everyone's need to "find their tribe," and the accounts of the astounding pains and sacrifices she made in converting herself to Edie Bouvier Beale for the upcoming Grey Gardens. Wait, Drew stopped using her blackberry for a month? What a martyr. Bring back the flower child that made peace signs on the red carpet. That may have been when I was eleven and I saw her at Nickelodeon kid's choice awards, and when she looked like a cross between a vampire and a hippie, but at least it was more credible and genuine than this charade. And the worst, most unbelievable moment of this dark horse is when Reed mentions an impromptu call she made to Barrymore, while Drew was out at lunch with her boyfriend, Justin Long. Here's Reed's account of what happens when she asks for Justin's opinion of Drew:

When she puts him on the phone, I meanly put him on the spot. 'Tell me one thing she brings to mind,' I demand, but he doesn't hesitate: 'Instant light. Beauty and light, and she shines it on everybody who comes into contact with her.'

I'm sorry, but I have a hard time believing the Mac guy would ever spew that sort of bullshit. I think I'd have a more sincere relationship with the Dell dude.

High school story

2008-03-03T22:32:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, back when I was a sophomore at Holy Child, I had to go through a class called Road to Perdition. Some other people call it gym.

When I was a sophomore, phys ed actually sucked a whole lot less than it started out. For one, it was only two days a week. And secondly, we actually did engage in "sports" that were more befitting of an all-girls Catholic high school - WASP pastimes, in otherwords. We were schooled in the proper mechanics of badmitton, fencing, yoga, dance, and archery. To make up for the fact that we weren't exactly burning off the calories in a carrot stick during class, we had to bring in a log each week detailing the cardivascular training we pursued at home on our own time. If you know anything about me, your guess that I forged these little weekly claims is completely iron logic, kemosabe. Every week I turned in a record which stated I had gone on a treadmill for 20 minutes a day, 4 days a week. Regardless of the fact that that kind of exercise is complete bullshit to begin with, it was still really, really false. And on top of that I forged my mom's name. Sorry, Ann.

Anyway. My whole scheme kind of came back to bite me in the butt, as the reason we were required to hand these slips in was because the at-home exercise served as training for the two-mile run we were to do from campus into "the village." Holy Child is situated deep in the equestrian utopia of Potomac, Maryland, where the people:horse:McMansion ratio is probably 2:5:1. The hills and trees look like something out of a Keats poem, and let me tell you, when you're an amoebus couch potato of a high schooler, who's idea of a workout is opening a can of Mike's hard lemonade, then running those mammoth hills aint no cakewalk. On the day of the run, as I lagged behind all the other girls, somewhere around Behnke's greenhouse, I decided it would be a better idea to stop and puke on the side of River Road. My gym teacher came up behind me, probably suppressing her vindicated laughter while she asked, "you OK, Bridge?" (due to a stubborn insistence that my name was Bridget - even when she learned it halfway into my time at HC). I blamed my pathetic disability on the fact that all I had for breakfast that morning was orange juice, which we all KNOW you're not supposed to have before a run (sike - it don't matter one bit!). She told me to get in the van, which was following our class in the case of just such a travesty. I sat in that van while it followed my class all the way to the village, where all the HEALTHY girls bought ice cream from Safeway to eat on the ride back.

My punishment was that I then had to WALK SIX miles a few days later with all the girls who had valid excuses (ie asthma, a broken leg, admittedly not filling out their exercise slips for the whole year) not to run.

The lesson learned after all this? Wait till you're at a party, and you're drunk, to vomit in front of your gym teacher.

Backstreet's Back. By back I mean pathetic.

2008-02-28T11:41:00.000-05:00

The other night, while I was doing one of those habitual spend-the-night-in-Bobst-writing-your-midterm-paper (by that I mean effin around on Facebook and Pinkisthenewblog until 3am when I pinch out an illiterate piece of crap by 7am) practices, I was listening to Pandora - the greatest invention EVER - since my iTunes hasn't been synced up to my last computer. Suddenly, within the mix I had requested, the song "Get another Boyfriend," by the Backstreet Boys surfaced. Hoorah! If you're like me, and you're still a sucker for the shit you were listening to in seventh grade, then you'd understand why I hightailed it to Youtube, casually wondering whether or not these fellas ever made a video for that song. Well, let me break the suspense: they didn't. But I found something much better. A video from their concert performance. You're welcome, everyone:

How do I love this video? Let me count the ways:

The way A.J. enthusiastically ejaculates a hearty "GOOD GOD" between each verse and chorus while he makes love to his own shitty wife betater.
Also the other scathingly obvious signs of his drug addiction.
The awesome jacket that Kevin is wearing, which seems to be a really ballsy amalgamation between an aluminum vampire suit and a quarterback's under gear. And the fact that this rad cloak totally frames his Columbian drug lord hair do oh so fetchingly.
The moment Nick decides that being a bad ass = climbing on a drum set and violently wracking his head against it.
Dance moves which supposedly simulate sex (or, you know, a very alarming seizure), which I feel really would mislead a 13-year-old. Hopefully the majority of these girls don't grow up thinking that men are supposed to slink around like a gecko in bed while they whine into a headset.
"GOOD GOD!"

Monroehan

2008-02-24T16:37:00.000-05:00

I know this happened a week ago, and technically not blogging about it when it happened seems a little sub par for someone trying to be a good blogger, but the truth is, I didn't hear about it till last Friday, when I was too lazy to comment. And also more invested in trying to finish season 1 of Arrested Development online (unfortunately Hulu has a pretty skinny offering when it comes to Arrested, and my stolen wireless offers me limited alternative options). But ANYWAY. Onto more "arresting" (**chortlechortle**) topics, as people getting nekkid in Hollywood is vastly more interesting than what I do in East Greenpoint. Lindsay Lohan posed nude (!) for New York Magazine, emulating the "Last Sitting" spread taken of Marilyn Monroe right before she died in 1962. Naturally this incited a lot of stir because it was the first time a 20-something Hollywood party girl showed the world her bits a) intentionally and b) without stumbling out of a Bentley high on vicodin and Absolut. Also because considering the recent death of Heath Ledger, the timing seems a little uncouth on New York's behalf. I also find it a little questionable because I wouldn't be surprised if Lohan ends up in the same situation Marilyn did six weeks after her shoot. Granted, I'm sure she's skated dangerously recklessly on that thin ice before and that's why she's such a rehab vet - Marilyn probably would have behaved the same way if drug addiction and sexy self-destruction were as glamorous back in the Kennedy era.

So really, I guess my verdict is that the only aspect of this creation that could be spun as "tasteless," which so many people are wont to call it, is the timing. Other than that, I find the concept incredibly intriguing. The photographer, Bert Stern, was the same who photographed Monroe, and the idea of recreating the spread with a current actress (or, you know, someone who is grossly overpaid to make poor life decisions and live more extravagantly than you) is really classy, I find. Where it falls (really really) short, however, is that few people - me included - have any iota of respect for Lindsay Lohan nowadays, and honestly, she does not look good in these photos. They're in no way pornographic or vulgar (though they are more revealing than Monroe's version), but they're also not really... pretty? I'm not going to come down on her for gaining weight, but something about Lindsay's body just seems amateur and lazy (ditto on the editing - FTW man?), and her face shows the exhaustion of someone who just woke up after taking a two-day nap. After taking a two-day roll and coke binge. (Whoa! I'm harsh!)

But! One plus is that I am totally pleased by the magazine's spring 2008 fashion series, which fortunately did not include these puppies. Yikes!