...Is what P and I were shouting at about 10.30p last night, the impatient toddlers that we are. We went to see Little Boots at Le Poisson Rouge—along with T and D—and I have to say that I can't remember the last time I left a show so...so...in love. (Though, unlike the could-be mos behind us, I do NOT want to have her babies.) And I can't decide what I liked most: the suburban girl dance routines, the Hitchcockian platinum updo, or, um, the music. So judge for yourself?
The only hipsters I hate are the motherfuckers who write quasi-intellectual hate email to me. I get so many messages that are like, "Fuck you, man. You're the hipster...You're using a false term to describe something that's just a social construct." Okay, I get it, you went to college. What do you want from me? A grade? You want me to grade your email? 'F' There. You get an F. Go away. Everyone went to college.
Oh, god help us. I'm sure this comes as a huge SHOCKER, but people name their offspring after celebrities. In this culture?!? But! According to an article by baby-naming expert (yah, who knows) Pamela Redmond Satran for The Daily Beast, they don't stick to, um, classy ones: Three of the fastest-growing names for girls are Khloe (Kardashian), Miley (Cyrus), and Audrina (Partridge).
I mean, what about Whitney? At least she got the spin-off.
The top 10s are here (and are pretty predictable)—Madison, anyone?
Jessica Stam. I mean, first of all, Rodarte. Thank you. Beyond that, everything works: the hair, the shoes, the pose.
At the other end of the spectrum:
Jessica Biel. I've said this once, and I'll say it again: High school volleyball player. That's all I see. And, why do I feel like these two clowns look like they're at a costume party where they decided to go as Brad and Angelina? Not working.
More pretty and not-so-pretty dresses over ats The Cut.
BAD. Sorry. The crazy person next to me has started to take over my brain.
You guys, I just realized I have yet to mention to you all my new hobby: stalking Bo Obama a.k.a. Bobama (sorry, T) a.k.a. the most fascinating, wondering, pick-me-upping dog EVER. I am obsessed with him and am convinced that the best way to achieve world peace is to get him and Suri Cruise in a room together. Problems would just meeellllt, you know? Osama Bin Laden would throw up his hands and then give the whole world a hug. (Because O.B.L. is the whole problem, you know? That's what I've heard.)
Now, considering that I was one of the seven people to purchase Mandy Moore's last album Wild Hope, it probably comes as no surprise that I'm also psyched for her next, Amanda Leigh, out on 5/26. I do think, though, that even if I didn't know this was "I love you, forever. Love always, Mandy" singing, I'd still love the first single "I Could Break Your Heart Any Day of the Week." It's Jo Dee Messina plus Katy Perry—you know, in a good way.
You know when someone's US Weekly career consumes his big-screen one like a flesh-eating disease? And you see so many still photos of said person that you start to forget he actually moves? Well, today Lindsay Lohan and the on-again Funny or Die remind us that, hi, LiLo has a voice. And sometimes it's even witty and self-deprecating.
The cover story of the latest Rolling Stone is a G.G. tribute. YAYs all around. But! Rather than do something interesting with Blake and Leighton (and, eventually, the rest of the gang), they took the ol' lesbian besties route. Licorice blowjob? CLASSIC.
Don't worry: The cover shot features the two girls licking one ice cream cone. It's all about subtlety, you know?
The dictionaries have a more liberal definition of marriage than our government. I know, shocker mcshockerson. Apparently this amendment to the defn was made in 2003 but was not publicized/reported until this week.
I follow some news stories and pop cultural products with such an intensity that I may as well set up a Google Alert, and 18-year-old author/editor Rachel Kauder Nalebuff and her book My Little Red Book represent one such case. Chick wrote a book about first periods (as in, menstruation) that, of course, isn't really about periods as much as it's about our cultural history and femininity. She started compiling stories when she had her first "arts and crafts week at panty camp" at 13 and eventually drew in such names as Erica Jong. (Judy Bloom would TOTES have contributed—'cept she was busy campaigning for Obama.)
The New Yorker posted an online-only Q&A with R.K.N. I have yet to read the book (I know, I know—I'm far too busy reading about it), but K, J, and I got it for B for her big 2-6, and I'm anxiously awaiting feedback.
Why is it that any sort of "famous couples" hi-jinx remind me of the classic 1999 film Never Been Kissed? Moving on: The artist Jonathan Horowitz has designed a collection of pillowcases that play tribute to duos (of varying degrees of fame and/or longevity) through some collaboration among P.S. 1, Art Production Fund, and Calvin Klein. The most timely—and least surprising—set is on display in the windows of CK's Madison Ave. store:
From WWD, which ran a little blurb on the project.
Variety has a swoon-swoon-over-the-moon review of the Clive Owen and Julia Roberts thriller. STEAMY. It's one of the two spring movies I'm really hot for, so really I didn't need the big sell—but maybe you do? Or maybe you want to go see with me?
Since you asked, the other is I Love You, Man, which I can totally vouch for. Buy your tix. It's adorable. Paul Rudd adorable. Girl pals who aren't lame stereotypes adorable.
If you can't tell in the video, the smaller text on the banner hanging outside of the frat house reads "No tolerance for intolerance." This was part of the University of Chicago protest to the protest (kind of like backlash to the backlash?) by Westboro Church this week. The Westboro camp waved classic signage like "God hates fags," while the student body responded with ones like "God hates the new Facebook" and "God...shoulda put a ring on it." I'm all warm and fuzzy inside.
The big TV profile of the Vogue Paris EIC will premiere at the DVR-required time of 4.30a EST on March 18. This teaser kinda sucks—thanks for the insight, Marc—but I have high hopes.
It took me until 2008 to realize that writing things on the internet doesn't (necessarily) make you the most annoying person in the universe. Then my friend had a dream that I had a blog where I posted a photo of myself in an orange sequined dress. Hot.
I follow some news stories and pop cultural products with such an intensity that I may as well set up a Google Alert, and 18-year-old author/editor Rachel Kauder Nalebuff and her book My Little Red Book represent one such case. Chick wrote a book about first periods (as in, menstruation) that, of course, isn't really about periods as much as it's about our cultural history and femininity. She started compiling stories when she had her first "arts and crafts week at panty camp" at 13 and eventually drew in such names as Erica Jong. (Judy Bloom would TOTES have contributed—'cept she was busy campaigning for Obama.)
