Somebody gon get pregnant.

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:

Ask Paris her thoughts on...

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

New Favorites! Or, longest post ever.

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

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

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

4. Being employed. Duh.

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

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

VH1 TV Shows

Music Videos

Celebrity Photos

News & Gossip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy, yall:

I'll stick to the pretty pictures, thanks.

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 observations. 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.

Backstreet's Back. By back I mean pathetic.

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:

1. 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.
2. Also the other scathingly obvious signs of his drug addiction.
   
3. 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.
4. The moment Nick decides that being a bad ass = climbing on a drum set and violently wracking his head against it.
5. 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.
6. "GOOD GOD!"
   

Monroehan

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!

Flashing lights

Everyone must visit Perez Hilton's post re: Kanye West's new video for "Flashing Lights" immediately. Firstly because I'm new to this e-ranting thing and can't embed the video in my page like you pros who have been doing this for the solid year that blogs have suddenly become acceptable and addictive (I'm looking at us, Generation Q). Secondly, because I need corroboration to my sentiment that Kanye has completely LOST HIS GOD DAMN MIND. The beginning of this atrocity starts out like any other I've-got-a-million-dollars-so-I'll-drive-my-vintage-le-baron-into-the-Mojave-desert mod video that churns out of LA as frequently as Britney's crotch. But then... I don't know... you tell me. I've always been a rather confident fan of his, and sincerely admired everything he's produced. However, this creation is rather ridiculous. At least I laughed at his reaction to Katrina. This isn't even funny.