"A native of Los Angeles who now lives on the city’s Westside, Stone says she was named after the famous jewelry store, given widespread popularity in the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s, starring the late Audrey Hepburn, based on the Truman Capote novel.
She says the name became a natural for her blog website last year when she thought the practice of daily postings would help bring more discipline to her writing habits.
What she has also learned since last August is that writing about about pop culture is something she is good at.
'I find that fascinating,' says Stone, a striking beauty with long dark, brown hair and hazel eyes."
Us too, sweetie. Us too.
This is just plain mean. Okay, it's also funny.
As you’ve no doubt heard elsewhere, Kinja, Nick Denton’s latest attempt to commodify the purity of essence that is the blogosphere, is live. Kinja boasts some stunning innovations, none more so than Denton’s realization that rather than finding some marginally employable characters and paying them a pittance to provide content throughout the day, you can get a network of readers to do the job for free. Which leads to the obvious question: How long before Jason Calcannis starts poaching Kinja users at $5 a pop? Actually, this looks pretty neat; should we ever be able to get it together long enough to sort out our own list, we’ll let you know.
There’s always something cutting-edge to hear at Fluxblog, but today he’s really outdone himself. Where does he find these guys?
A 92-year-old man on his way to buy groceries spotted a person straddling a bridge railing, stopped his car and, with the help of a passing motorist, wrestled the man to the ground and sat on him to prevent him from committing suicide.
George Kouloheras was joined by Bob Michalczyk, 42, in saving the distraught man on Saturday in Lowell, Massachusetts.
Mr Kouloheras said he asked the man: "Why do you want to jump? Life is wonderful."
"God wants me to die," the man answered.
But Mr Kouloheras was unrelenting. "Everyone has a purpose in life," he said. "You just have to find yours. Then you'll get to be as old as me."
(Link via Hot Buttered Death.)
We understand a number of media types read this site on occasion, so we'd like to oh-so-sweetly importune said types with hiring power to give this guy a fucking byline already. Seriously.
"I continue to be jealous of the NYC Blogger Kru, mainly because its made up of like-minded individuals who have interests other than blogging."
Ladies and gentleman, Uncle Grambo. That heat he's talking about cleared up after our trip to the free clinic.
"A family pal said: 'Wayne Snr is spitting blood. He says Anthony punched him a couple of times. He wants to settle the score the old-fashioned way, in the ring. They know what they are doing, but it won’t be pretty.'
Both families are from Liverpool, where it is traditional to settle disputes with a punch-up."
"In the show’s most memorable scene, Mr. Brown—an extremely robust 41-year-old black man—sings and dances the penis role, which takes place during a dream sequence after Mr. Benson’s character undergoes heart surgery. Mr. Brown starts the bit with his beaming face poking out from between Mr. Benson’s straddled legs and, some 10 gyrating minutes later, ends up enveloping Ms. DeVito in the folds of his paunch."
(Third item.)
"Journalism magazine editor's car catches on fire by Bagel Place"
"A restaurant review in the Dining section last Wednesday about Spice Market, on West 13th Street in Manhattan, awarded it three stars. The writer was Amanda Hesser, The Times's interim restaurant critic. Last May, before her assignment to that post, Ms. Hesser published a book, 'Cooking for Mr. Latte,' that was praised in a jacket blurb by the restaurateur Jean-Georges Vongerichten, who later opened Spice Market. He wrote: 'Amanda Hesser's charming personality shines as the reader experiences the life and loves of a New York City gourmet. 'Cooking for Mr. Latte' is perfectly seasoned with sensuality and superb recipes.' The review should have disclosed that background."
Choire Sicha: more loathsome than Moby. Also prettier. Would it have killed them to say that?
"At a March 29 party in honor of National Tartan Week, however, Mr. Thurman attempted to water down his previous threat.
'Any intelligent person will tell you the statement "I want to kill him" is a proverbial statement and no one actually—well, people in prison may mean it—but no one in the outside world actually means it when they say that,' he told The Transom. "
“She doesn’t want your drugs. She doesn’t think you’re funny and she is honest about how embarrassing you are when you’re drunk. She isn’t excited when you call because she wants to know where the fuck you’ve been for the last three days.”
How to Deal with Your Girlfriend, by Manhattan Transfer
“Queens – Queens is Albany east of the Hudson. I could not compromise. It was Williamsburg, or the East Village. And no matter how much I explained to potential roommates that the minute I had a place, things would start happening, and the security deposit would be there, they just looked at me without any belief.
Some hipster in a loft: Dude, without a security deposit I really can’t make it work.
Gary: Dude, I thought Craigslist was about community.”
It’s the latest letter from Gary Benchley in The Morning News. We should warn you that while this piece is hysterical, it will, if you’re male (or, perhaps, an animal lover,) cause you some discomfort. Wait, this is starting to sound like one of our pickup lines. Just go read the damn thing.
We’ve got to be honest: We are never dumber than the moment after we’ve heaved our final thrust and rested our aching head on the shoulder of a disappointed partner who, unless he or she has been paid, has spent the last thirty seconds wondering how he or she got conned into this. So we’re somewhat skeptical about this study that purports to have found that sex makes you clever. In fact, we think there needs to be a lot more research. A lot. Drop us an e-mail if you’re interested in participating. (Link via Emma.)
Why My Magazine Puts Me to Sleep
Confessions of a Dependent Male.
I was sitting on the couch, reading New York one morning—okay, I know that must sound very unsophisticated and culture-free, but this was an exceptional morning: I had already finished Vanity Fair, and The New Yorker hadn’t come in yet. Anyway, there we were, as close to contentment as I could hope to get on this earth, when I made a minor-league error. I asked it what it was thinking about.
“Martha Stewart,” it replied, “I think her friends really fucked her over.”
I should explain that for the last few years New York has made a conscious effort to be the most vapid publication on either coast. As anyone will tell you, that takes extraordinary effort. You can’t just throw up an article about an elderly doctor’s slip-and-fall death and hope that’ll do it. You really need to put the time in: stories about comedians saying bad words, investigative journalism that uncovers the shocking tactics banks use to sign up new customers, and, of course, Vanessa Grigoriadis publicly working out her mental anguish week after week.
If memory serves, I simply fell into step and began discussing how fascinating it was that the Kozlowski kids were using their Blackberries at the trial. It’s nice to feign an interest in your magazine. But there is a time and place for everything, no?
[Continues on and on and on...]
"This business—of confidence, of tonality, of voice—requires comment, even though it's also true that nothing is harder to pinpoint. The colonization of literary discourse by theory, with its implicit unmasking of assumptions and positions of vantage, had all manner of consequences, but the most telling of these was, as I suggest, climatological. The widely publicized (and, in a sense, necessary) suspicion of ideologies and the incessant questioning of the 'natural' sign made it singularly difficult to venture straight literary judgments. The supreme narrative confidence of, say, an Edmund Wilson, whose trust in common sense and linguistic adequacy was his bedrock, became harder to sustain."
Are your jokes ever censored? The world of political humor is rather conservative. Is there anything or anyone off limits to you?
Denton lets me write anything. The only thing he objects to is the number of sex jokes. Or, rather, not the jokes so much, as the terminology.
"COURTNEY Love's bosom buddy isn't done milking his moment of media infamy. Kofi Asare, famously photographed suckling on Love's breast outside a Union Square Wendy's, is capitalizing on PAGE SIX's coverage of his titillating escapades by releasing a rap mixtape. Asare says it will be called either "Milk Money" or "All I Wanted Was Some Chicken Nuggets." Asare is philosophical about his 15 minutes of fame: 'I guess that's the best thing about sucking a breast. Both people get something out of it. It's a good exchange.'"
"Lawrence Taylor? Nice. David Roth? Deteriorated. WIESELTIER? That's a cameo.
Seriously, what's next: Michael Kinsley as a corpse on 'Six Feet Under'? Katrina vanden Heuvel as a magician's assistant on 'Carnivale'? Will Larry David find some way to annoy Katha Pollitt on the next 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'? Could they bring back 'Oz', only to find some role for Andrew Sullivan?"
"Tony takes me into a large room painted blue and filled with books. "This used to be the cinema," he says.
"Is it the library now?" I ask.
"Look closer at the books," says Tony.
I do. "Bloody hell," I say. "Every book in this room is about Napoleon!"
"Look in the drawers," says Tony.
I do.
"It's all about Napoleon, too!" I say. "Everything in here is about Napoleon!"
Fascinating article about the late Stanley Kubrick’s personal effects. (Link via MemeFirst.)
In case you haven’t heard (and we hadn’t until recently, so it’s possible) American Music Club have a new best-of compilation available. It’s not ideal (how could it be, with the exclusion of “Royal Café”?) but if you’ve been curious about the band (whose depressive, alcohol-laden lyrics could very well serve as the soundtrack to our lives) you should give it a spin.
Even the most acidulous reader will find something to enjoy in this Sunday’s City section: There’s a world going on underground. Contributors include Richard Price, the Mike Wallace who wrote the terrific Gotham (who needs to get back to work and finish the second volume already), and the kid from productshop nyc, who is apparently still single, if you’re interested.
"That lapidary aperçu is perhaps the most valuable lesson buried inside this biography of the young middle-class woman who became famous as the Hollywood Madam after her 1993 arrest.
Jamie-Lynn DiScala (Meadow on "The Sopranos") interprets the role of the 27-year-old brothel owner with coy vacancy, and her flat affect seems part of a broader postmodern approach to the material. "Call Me" is less a made-for-television movie than an extension of the 50's French nouveau roman; Fleiss's immorality tale is told without almost any conventional elements like dramatic plotting, moral precepts or psychological insight. And like the novels of Alain Robbe-Grillet, the movie is more interesting in theory than in practice."
Ann Widdecombe, agony aunt. The first response makes us think that this might be a parody, but even so… it’s too fucking early in the morning for this.
"He added, 'Many people have asked me, Do you think they will finish the series before Christ comes?'"
Our devastatingly talented Internet crush is at it again.
Redesigns at Radosh and Lindsayism. Lindsay’s appendages seem suspiciously augmented, but we’re pretty sure Radosh’s are real.
Dear Prudie,
I am self-employed and work at home. To my shame, and occasional self-loathing, I check out free pornography sites from time to time. (I have never gone further and actually paid to see more.) The other day I came across a porn scene featuring a female actress who, I swear, looks just like one of my cousins. Because the film clip is so brief, I can't be sure this person is my cousin. I'm not sure what my obligations are in this case. This cousin has been through some rough times recently (divorce, custody battle), and I would hate to think she felt she had to resort to porn to make ends meet. Our family has the resources to help her out. To verify her identity, or disprove it (I hope), I would have to pay $5 for a temporary membership. I've never wanted to do this for all kinds of reasons. The most practical of the problems: The charge would pop up on my credit card statement, which, in turn, would be spotted by my wife. What should I do?
Two new blogs from the folks at The London News Review: one on books and one on music. Orwell-bashing aside, they seem to merit further investigation. Also, this made us laugh. Then we realized it’s only funny if you have a blog. And then we realized we have a blog, and we’re enjoying blog humor. Now we’re sad again.
Wow. We can’t remember the last time we saw so much vitriol directed at The Times. What? Oh, right.
And Ariel Kaminer, who likewise left New York to edit "The Way We Live Now" for Mr. Moss at The Times, had a byline of her own in the Martha Stewart package. Ms. Kaminer, currently an editor with The Times’ Arts and Leisure section, declined to discuss her appearance in her former employer’s pages, or whether it might lead to anything else.The Times ethics handbook discourages work for competitors, including any newspaper or magazine that focuses on New York City. "Ariel Kaminer was unfamiliar with our rules, and she did not have permission to write for New York magazine," Times spokeswoman Catherine Mathis wrote via e-mail. "She has been familiarized with our policy."
Suddenly Ariel started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on her backbone. She had heard herself cry aloud:
'Adam! Adam! Adam, my love! Adam!'
For a moment she had had an overwhelming hallucination of his presence. He had seemed to be not merely with her, but inside her. It was as though he had got into the texture of her skin. Also she knew that somewhere or other he was putting together a package on the best dog psychiatrists in Manhattan and needed her help.
She lay back on the bed and tried to compose herself. What had she done? How many years had she added to her servitude by that moment of weakness?
In another moment she would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not known before, that she was breaking the agreement she had made with them. She obeyed the Lady, but she still hated the Lady. In the old days she had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of sophisticated disdain and haughty froideur. Now she had retreated a step further: in the mind she had surrendered, but she had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate. She knew that she was in the wrong, but she preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that -- O'Keller would understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry.
There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open with a clang. O'Keller walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the black-uniformed guards.
'Get up,' said O'Keller. 'Come here.'
Ariel stood opposite him. O'Keller took Ariel's shoulders between his strong hands and looked at her closely.
'You have had thoughts of deceiving me,' he said. 'That was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.'
He paused, and went on in a gentler tone:
'You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. You might even be able to edit Neil Strauss. It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, Ariel-- and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie -- tell me, what are your true feelings towards Gray Lady?'
'I hate her.'
'You hate her. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step. You must love Gray Lady. It is not enough to obey her: you must love her.'
He released Ariel with a little push towards the guards.
'Take her to the Escapes desk,' he said.
Okay, Cotts, we’ll cop to "racist," but "sexist" is completely off-base. We love women: the way they smell, the way their pert breasts bounce up and down when they’re jogging, the crisp lines in our shirts after they’ve finished ironing them. We could go on. Also, you forgot anti-Semitic. Other than that, it’s a solid piece of reporting.
One of the more thought-provoking aspects of the Maccers piece we referenced yesterday (apart from its role in affirming our desire to fuck married men) was how well-written the thing was; expanded a bit and edited slightly, it could be something you’d see in a magazine. What we’ve found to be perhaps the most interesting discovery in this whole blogging thing is how many non-professionals are actually capable of good, interesting writing. We were discussing this with a friend the other evening: Wouldn’t it be fascinating if there were a magazine written solely by people in other fields (i.e., not journalists, novelists, etc.)? Obviously, a whole host of questions arise: Would there be enough material to make such a publication work? Would the wide variation of styles and topics make the magazine too disjointed? Would there be enough of a readership to make it viable? Most importantly, does such a periodical already exist? Because we, at least, would read it. Okay, enough earnestness and praise. Back to bile in a bit.
If the phrase "Doner Kebab flavour Wheat Crunchies" inspires as much joy in your hearts as it does in ours, check out Snackspot. We stop by every few weeks or so; it's like a quick trip to the British Isles, but you're still able to donate blood afterward.
"The screenwriter of 'Dawn of the Dead' sees his movie as having a similar story to that of "The Passion of the Christ" -- only not as bloody.
'They are both stories about redemption,' James Gunn tells Zap2it.com. 'They are both about people who have lost everything, they are stripped of their careers, their possessions, their families and some of the people around them are redeemed and some are not. In my movie, they turn into flesh-eating zombies.'"
(Link via Quiddity.)
"Blair says he had 'heard' the tale and that it 'was supposed to be fact-checked but didn't get fact-checked.' After a letter of complaint from Boyd, Blair says, the reference was corrected in subsequent printings of 'Burning Down My Masters' House.'"
A word of warning before you read this interview with a young associate of ours: Don't get too close to your monitor. Those cheekbones will cut you.
"'Then, slipping into his trademark izzle language, he sang the song named after his favorite drink. Regrettably, that language is so colorful we cannot quote most of it. Let us imagine, then, for you students of language, that Mr. Dogg was covering the COLE PORTER tune, 'You're the Top': 'You're da Nile. You're da Tower of Pizzle. You're da smile on da MONA LIZZLE. I'm a worthless cazizzle. Izzle kizzle, what's your shnizzle, zizzle bop. But - double kazizzle, you're da top!'"
While we're on the subject of music, can we get a "Fuck, yeah!"?
We recently took Mr. Frere-Jones (the very same fellow who managed to get "sandalwood" and "booty call" into the same sentence – in The New Yorker! – of a Norah Jones review) at his word and forked out some of our not-so-hard-earned-but-still-in-short-supply cash on Arthur Russell's Calling Out of Context; it hasn't left our player since. It's probably not to everyone's taste, but if our fairly inapposite description of it as "Boz Scaggs avant-pop" piques your interest, we'd suggest that you give it a shot. We're not sure whether it's possible to inspire nostalgia for an event you've never experienced, but that's pretty damn close to what "That's Us" does to us every time we hear it. We have a feeling we'll be listening to this one for a long time.
On the positive side, our weeklong dereliction of duties worked exactly as intended: We feel fresh, energized, and ready to resume our responsibilities. On the other hand, we managed to pick up some sort of influenza-based ailment at the weekend (we had not known until now that it is possible to both sweat and shiver at the same time), the severity of which can be ascertained by the fact that we have no interest in smoking and the mere thought of whiskey makes our already sour stomach churn like an Amish woman on speed. We’re going to spend the rest of the day freebasing TheraFlu in hopes that we’ll be completely cured tomorrow, at which point new material should be frequent and even possibly amusing. Until then, please entertain yourselves by looking at the links to the right. Also, read this thought-provoking essay, which is clearly the product of a lifetime spent researching the subject. Okay, we’ll be back tomorrow. Assuming we don’t die or anything.
We're not sure what makes us angrier: the fact that it's funny, or the fact that it's true. Maybe it's the fact that we had to look up "ensorcelled." Anyway, we're ripping off the welcome message. Okay, back to the wars. See you on Monday.
We have of late, though wherefore we know not, been struck by the rather obvious revelation that life is mainly a series of meaningless and deeply depressing rituals performed in service of desperately mundane basic human needs which, even despite the occasional odd moment of elation one occasionally encounters, nonetheless lead inexorably toward the tomb. While this is by no means a profound discovery, that fact that it has supplanted our own self-loathing with a more general and expansive life-loathing leads us to believe that it might be best to take a couple of days off and recharge the batteries, as it were. While assertions like this one are almost instantly followed by a stream of completely unrelated material, we feel pretty confident in saying that there won't be a whole hell of a lot of new stuff at TMFTML this week. Oh, sure, we may bust in with the occasional dash of ill-tempered invective for which we are so well regarded by the seven people who read this site on a regular basis (particularly if mammoth twat George Gurley gets a byline in this week's Observer) but if you're looking for consistent entertainment, you could do worse than to check the sites on your right until our return.
A few things before we go:
· We often ask ourselves, particularly when she's throwing quarters at our ankles and yelling, "Dance, rummy, dance," while her admiring coterie of dodgy-vowelled Englishfolk snicker mercilessly in the background, why we like Elizabeth Spiers. Then something like this comes along to remind us.
· We're big fans of Tom Perrotta (the final lines of Bad Haircut approach the sort of genius into which Joyce was able to tap for his ending to "The Dead") and would be inclined to pick up his new one regardless, but this review in The Times is terrific, especially from the standpoint of a review. One rarely sees something so generous, so exciting, and so well-written, and we congratulate Will Blythe, whoever he is.
· Speaking of reviews, it's probably worth paying cash money for the new Harper's (we know, we know), specifically for Matthew Stevenson's terrific take on Jim Bouton.
· Sarah Lewittinn beat us senseless and then took a leak on our comatose body. We rather enjoyed it.
· Finally, we just read Dot in the Universe, which broke our heart and made us laugh in equal measure. This may be the funniest book we've read in the last five years. Do what you can to obtain it. (A heartfelt thank you to our friend Holly for putting a copy in our hands.)
Okay, that's all we've got. Save the occasional outburst, this will be about it until next Monday, when we return with our typically chipper outlook on life. Also, hangover stories and assfucking jokes. We know what you people come here for, after all.
"Jef Hickey has three testicles, but the third one, he says, is physiologically negligible, a non-functioning half-lump of vein and tissue, good only for winning bar bets. So there must be some other explanation for his extreme ballsiness. "
Wordsmith extraordinaire (and TMFTML-host) Greg Beato examines the life of a perpetual roadie.
That's the only joke we've got for this, sorry.
"I think it's resonated because this is what our visitors told us they wanted," said Randy Snow, vice president and creative director for Las Vegas-based R&R.; 'When we did our research, it was no big shock to us that Las Vegas has this liberating capacity for people. They will come here and wear things and eat things and do things and see things they would never consider at home.'"
Ordinarily we’d be loathe to recycle old material, feeling that it undermines our contract with our readers and glaringly exposes the fallow creative period we’ve been in of late, but we’re kind of busy today, and, you know, Bunsen does it all the time, so how bad can it be? So, herewith some of the campaign slogans that didn’t make the cut:
Las Vegas: Your Wife Will Never Know
Las Vegas: We Bury More Decapitated Prostitutes’ Bodies in the Desert by 9 A.M. Than You Will All Day
Las Vegas: Our Mayor Can Represent Your Mayor’s Indicted Ass*
Las Vegas: Bob Urich’s Been Dead For a Year; Isn’t it Time You Forgave Us Already?
Las Vegas: The Most Impressive Things Our Hookers Can Do With Their Mouths is Keep Them Shut
*Please note, as per our conversation with Legal, that at no point did the words “mob lawyer” come up in this list.
(Article via Agenda.)
We'd be lying if we said that this didn't make our day.
"The long-term risks of giving men progestin cannot be dismissed, according to John Stud, professor of gynaecology at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. 'It can cause testicular atrophy and low sperm count, a combination of testosterone and progestin could cause weight gain, acne, sleep apnoea and increased red blood cells. I don't believe there are no health risks at all. The people in Edinburgh, who are good scientists, have been working on this for over 10 years, and they have yet to come up with a solution.'
Even more significant than the health risks, says Stud, are the social disadvantages of the male pill. 'There's an inherent problem in male contraception: a 20-year-old woman would never trust a man to take it in a million years, and she'd be a fool if she did.'"
"In a state where outsiders, particularly those commenting about Texas, are often viewed with suspicion, Mr. Welch has won the attention of ballet audiences, partly because of the similarities between Texas and his homeland and partly because he owns a pair of black cowboy boots."
"He and his wife, JENNIFER SCHWALBACH, were in Los Angeles and she was nine months pregnant, Mr. Smith said. No commercial airline would permit them to board.
'Her water broke, she started dilating,' Mr. Smith said. 'So I called Harvey Weinstein and I said, "Dude, we're stuck in L.A., we need to get back to New Jersey so Jen can have this baby." So he sent the jet out for us, picked us up; we went back home, had the baby. So that's somebody who went out of their way - well, she didn't - but I went out of my way to make sure my daughter was a Jersey girl.'
"One of the most impressive debuts of the last decade, 'Grace' showcased the depth, sensitivity and heaven-kissed voice of a timeless talent who never lived to see the release of his next CD. His version of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah' is so heart-stopping that the wonderful original version is now second best."
"Blair yesterday called the plagiarism charge 'simply bogus' and insisted that he didn't even have a copy of the Globe story handy when he was writing the passage that appears at the beginning of Chapter 7."
Okay, we're not going to ruin the joke, but you will surely know it when you see it. Read the whole thing, as they say. (We've seen this linked a number of places, so we're going to toss the via link to [spins wheel] Matos.)
Are we going to hell for laughing at this?
First of all, Daulerio, it's TMFTML. Secondly, if Denton's progeny make any further attempts at stealing our ass-fucking crown, blood will indeed flow freely. That is all.
The defendant was ordered to pay $500 fine and remove the large collection of acorns which he is storing in his cheeks to “make it through the winter.”
The Boston Globe brings the welcome news that Charles Portis is working on a new novel. If you haven’t read any of his old ones, start with The Dog of the South. (Link via TEV.)
If you’re free next Wednesday night, you could do far worse than to go hear TMFTML-young associate Lindsay Lindsayism and a bunch of other bloggers give readings on the theme of betrayal. Ordinarily we would prefer to attend our own intervention than an event of this sort, but we’re big fans of The Vision of Wholesome American Pulchritude (© Bicycle Grrl), and now that she knows all of our romantic secrets we need to follow her around to make sure she doesn’t dish. (Please don’t let the fact that we may be in attendance prevent you from going; we will be on our best behavior, and possibly sober.) See you there!
"'It makes sense for marketers to take advantage of the interest people have in people who are gay," said Michael Wilke, executive director of Commercial Closet in New York, an organization that studies the portrayals of homosexuals in mainstream advertising. 'What's gay is becoming mainstream, but it still retains a bit of an edge.'"
Initial thought: If anyone can make 3,500 words about Anderson Cooper appeal to us, it's Choire Sicha.
Final thought: No one can make 3,500 words about Anderson Cooper appeal to us.
Your mileage, as they say, may vary.
Apparently, female bloggers are far less likely than their male counterparts to natter on self-importantly about their political opinions. Or something; we sorta tuned out when they started quoting the girls.
(Link via that Wonkette chick.)
VIACOM'S REDSTONE: "I'M ALL ABOUT THE ASS, MYSELF"
"Scary" is a bit of an understatement.
"As The Passion of the Christ beckons, we’re waiting for one straggler to join us in the lobby of Alexandria’s AMC Potomac Mills multiplex, a hulking, battleship-sized entertainment facility positioned behind a high-end strip mall. A construction crew has been digging out a new access road in front of the theater to accommodate more traffic, which only heightens the sense that we are marooned in some reclusive island of omnientertainment, now screening The Passion on three separate screens. Garfields and Scooby-Dos and Shreks are plastered on every bit of available promotional wall space. Making our way to the theater screening our 9:30 The Passion, we file by a cardboard promotional cut-out for the remake of “Dawn of the Dead” an altogether different tale of sacrifice and resurrection. When one of my companions jokes that she feels a little strange sipping on a cherry Icee as she waits to see her Savior killed, I reply that it’s at least not one of those blue raspberry ones."
We promise this is the only review of The Passion of the Christ that we'll link to. Fortunately, it's all you'll need.
Uncle Grambo, contemplating the revelation that disgraced “journalist” Jayson Blair found nasty messages slipped into copies of his book, elegantly puts forth the apposite query, “what kind of egomaniacal douchenozzle walks into a B&N; and ACTUALLY FLIPS THROUGH his or her own book on the day it's released?”
"Eddie Murphy, unhappy with being a successful comedian and actor, ventured into the music business, unfortunately. If I remember correctly, his first major release was 'My Girl Likes To Party (All The Time, All The Time, All The Time)' which was a completely believable title for Mr. Murphy, because at the time he hadn't been caught 'giving a ride' to a transvestite.
Due to the nature of the music business' arrangement with Satan, the song enjoyed a level of success unwarranted for a ballad of such crap nature. Naturally, the business wants one success to follow another. A songwriter was assigned, an album shat out, and we were sent to cover the music video shoot for 'Put Your Mouth On Me.' He still hadn't been caught 'giving a ride' to a transvestite yet, but in retrospect the song titles were starting to make more sense."
Brian Banterist shares some stale celebrity gossip.
We don’t drink much beer ourselves (it doesn’t work fast enough and it's hard on our girlish figure), but if you do, today’s MUG should be right up your alley. In other service journalism on the web, cock-ring connoisseur Andrew Krucoff tries to pretend like he doesn’t know the difference in styles.
"Late at night, Hockey walks down Broadway in the rain. Hockey has dined alone. Hockey has drunk too much. Pausing before the window of a fashionable restaurant, Hockey stares balefully at Major League Baseball, sharing champagne with models. Hockey dials the number of a girl it used to know and gets her machine. “Candace, if you’re there, pick up,” Hockey says. “It’s Hockey.” Candace waits for Hockey to finish, then erases the message. A cab approaches. Hockey raises its hand. The taxi passes. The driver stops at the end of the block for Pro Bowling, out clubbing with Monster Trucksand the Ice Capades. In the morning, Hockey stares at its lathered face in the mirror and thinks, I’ve had enough. I hate my job. I just want to go back to my cabin, do some ice fishing, maybe get a dog."
We had planned to run a list of items Wilkinson omitted (Hockey scratches its balls absent-mindedly during the Canadian National Anthem, Hockey claims to read Maxim “for the articles,” etc.,) but, really, it’s all too terrible. Never mind the editors, we want to know who fact-checked this sucker.
"Jeanne Phillips, who writes Dear Abby, told 'Stuck' to tell her husband why she strayed. 'To save the marriage,' she wrote, 'he might be willing to change back to the man who bowled you over in the first place.'"
(Link via scott lapatine's stereogum.)
"A new company called wePod can now be called upon to come round and collect your iPod and your CD collection, download one on to the other and drop them back within five days."
(Second item.)
"The Mirror account was written by Bill Borrows, an editor at large for Maxim U.K., who said in an interview that he could not recall, exactly, where he got the information that Charlie used to swear about Hitler, but that he might have read it on the Internet. He said he had not met Charlie in person, but had tried, unsuccessfully, to conduct a telephone interview.
'The bird didn't say anything, but I've had worse,' Mr. Borrows said."
Start here, with Mark Sarvas' interview of Dan Rhodes, whose Timoleon Vieta Come Home was one of the highlights of last year's lackluster publishing season.
“His Monday-morning absences were legendary,” Bruce Clayton writes of his erratic subject in the biography W.J. Cash: A Life. While we fail to see any similarities between ourselves and the author of The Mind of the South (a depressive alcoholic whose paranoid delusions eventually led to him take his own life in a Mexican hotel room), our personal penchant for the occasional Sunday-evening celebration makes the inevitable lack of new material of a Monday morning somewhat more predictable. While we gather our faculties for what we’re hoping will be Tuesday’s bukkakesque flood of linkage and smart-ass remarkery, we recommend you read the [insert obligatory reference to writer’s diminutive stature here] Maud Newton’s recent book review in The Washington Post and the Cinetrix’s examination of Prozac Nation. Back tomorrow, kids; you know how the rest of it goes.
Okay, kids, we should probably just hang it up right now: We’ve finally accomplished our principal reason for writing this blog.
Is it just us, or is it awfully quiet on the Internet this morning? Almost... too quiet. Where is everybody?
Highlights from the Arts section of today’s Times: Don’t Fuck With the Amish; Asshole Stops Doing Coke, Becomes Less Effective Asshole; Canadians: More Than Just Beer-Swilling, Gap-Toothed Fur Trappers
"An article on the Fashion page on Tuesday about the British designer Alexander McQueen misstated a phrase from his remarks on the common professional desire to create a signature product. He said, 'And you've just got to keep on striving until one day you're waking up, having your marmalade on toast, doodling on a cigarette package — and bingo, Bob's your uncle' — not 'you bought an uncle.' (The slang expression means, roughly, 'You've got it made.')"
"However, much better than all this for me are the two songs they contributed to that Blue Cheer eulogy CD, choosing ‘Feathers from your Tree’ and ‘Doctor Please’. Both versions are revelations and excavate the chaos from the Cheer originals without losing out, although for me you cain’t really do the former justice without at least approximating Ralph Kellogg’s absurdly grandiose dub pianos, however righteously proto-MC5-ian the vocals are. However, their choosing to do a version of ‘Doctor Please’ seems more than a little poignant with the recent news from my dear friend Herr O’Malley that all the years of substance abuse means Bobby Liebling is right about now having to have both arms amputated!"
The Archdrude reviews his album of the month.
As it turns out, there are women in the blogosphere too! Actually, this article includes some of our favorite people, and we hope it leads them to the kind of fame and fortune with which they can subsidize their less well-known friends' tragic alcohol dependencies. Also, we hear there are photos in the print edition, so you should probably shell out for that if you're in town or its environs.
We recently received the following query from a young associate of ours, and we're wondering if our readership would be kind enough to bring its vast experience to bear in answering it. Failing that, we'll send it to The Ethicist.
"hey, here's a weird question: if you're with someone and they die, do you still jerk off about them? like after you've mourned or whatever?"
The new Boldtype is out (up?). It's the Music issue. Looks promising.
We’re not in complete accordance with everything in the piece, but you’ve gotta love the last line:
The man told police that "he had proposed to her on Valentine's Day and she turned him down," the official said. "I don't know if that's why he ripped her heart out."
We’re not exactly expert criminologists, but we’re gonna go ahead and guess, yeah, that may have had something to do with it. (Link via Gothamist.)
Unless they run Teachout, we’re not sure how the Republicans can top this.
This is one of the most compelling essays we’ve read in ages, although your own appreciation may vary depending on your interest in beatification and ecstatic self-denial. In any event, the always excellent Hilary Mantel examines Gemma Galgani and the concept of ‘holy anorexia.’
"[H]is brand of loneliness and longing and hopelessness (all the stuff he sings about) is that of a person who finds it natural to have relationships with the unreachable - that's to say, with images and works rather than people. Nostalgia is the be-all-and-end- all of pop, and Morrissey is the king of all that, so when he became a star himself (and began featuring his own mug on his record sleeves) he had succeeded in creating an audience literally after his own image, a tribe inured to the modes and manners of heightened fandom."
Andrew O'Hagan looks at Morrissey and his fans.
Marge Schott has gone to million-dollar heaven.
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to have your head sat on by a fully dressed woman was very heaven. They're a disgusting race of people, the English.
The kids at The Morning News listen to music for the stroller set. You’ll laugh, feel kind of guilty about it, and laugh some more.
"In the 70’s, blowjobs were a big deal. Maybe we needed a new transgressive thing, and it’s anal stuff, butt-fucking." Although, he pointed out, "there is no actual butt-fucking in my novel."