I am perplexed and a little frightened by your ability to overlook your own appearance while creating some of the most beautiful clothes in the world. I find it hard to take your advice on how I should dress when you show up at premieres and fashion week looking like an Oompa Loompa (Valentino), or Janice from the Muppets (Donatella Versace, I'm talking to you here.)
Betsey Johnson, I love your pre-teen sense of whimsy, but at 66 years old, please, please cover up your sun damage!
Karl Lagerfeld... I don't know what to tell you about this. Even Madonna has left the gloves at home. Let's all take a moment to look at Tom Ford... and please remember, while drama can be fun, please leave it on the runway.
And Amy Winehouse's marriage falls apart as she lands back in the hospital. Sheesh! I can't take even three days off! The Daily Mail, my source for all that's holy in Winehouseia, reports:
"Troubled singer Amy Winehouse was admitted to a London hospital on Sunday after suffering a reaction to her medication. The 25-year-old's health problems meant she was absent at her husband Blake Fielder-Civil's court appearance yesterday. Her absence at court and failure to visit him in rehab since he was released from prison three weeks ago has further fuelled reports their marriage is close to breaking point."
News of the World, which makes The Daily Mail look like The New Yorker, has even better stories, a reported exclusive with Amy:
Drug-tortured star Amy dramatically confessed: “It’s over. There’s no way back for us now. It was never going to last. We were only together for SEX. “I fancied him like mad, like no one else I’ve ever known. But it’s not enough, is it?” Amy stunned pals with her bitter acceptance that the 17-month marriage will end in divorce. And she shocked them by revealing astonishing secrets of their wild sex life including LESBIAN ROMPS and sordid THREESOMES.
I don't know about you folks, but I LOVE when news ARTICLES capitalize RANDOM words. Well, these words aren't so random, I suppose. But it sure does add to the legitimacy of the article, doesn't it? Hit the link to read more of the NOTW article... it's awesome.
That's right, everyone. Here's the unveiling of the Twilight shirts. Mine is the one on the right, BFF's is the one on the left. I'm sure you'll agree we looked supercute, and I am proud to say we received many an appreciative nod from the 13 year old girls in the theater.
Let me set the scene for you- BFF and me, 80 teenage girls and four brave parents that drove their pre-teen girls. BFF and I were clearly the oldest people in the audience without any kids. I desperately wanted to sit next to Becky, a lovely girl we encountered in the snack line. Sadly, her pal Mindi called the seat.
The movie is terrible. Terribly AWESOME, that is!!! The movie is FAR superior to the book (not incredibly difficult to achieve), though there are enough subtle nods to the book in the film that will make the most devout "Twihard" squeal, including a cameo from author Stephenie Meyers (here's your fruit plate... STEPHENIE). In order to try and bring in a more diverse audience (not happening), director Catherine Hardwicke added a mystery storyline and more action scenes to the film than originally present in the book, which does wonders for streamlining the plot.
My review of the film itself is probably irrelevant-I'm sure most of you won't see it in the theater. I can understand not wanting to fight through hordes of hormonal teenagers swooning over Edward Cullen (and swoon-worthy he is). I am betting that you won't even cop to putting it on your Netflix list, though you totally should. It's ok. I know some of us have an image to uphold.
I know you'll secretly watch Twilight, doors locked on that one wet, sleety winter night when you know no one in the world would know you chose a teen vampire movie. I also know you're going to want to talk to someone about it, because it is embarrassingly the most super-cool. Just know, gentle reader, when that day comes, Birv is here.
Details about the trip and my devastation over the loss of Pushing Daisies to come.
You know I love senior citizens. I especially love old folks with a sense of humor, and this is the best thing ever. I can't even comment on how much I love this choir.
It's days like today that I wish I could be wrapped up in a cocoon made of sweatpant material with Daisy, a lot of chocolate and Cheetos, and every single Pushing Daisies episode ever recorded. I probably don't need to elucidate on why I feel that way.
Alas, while I may not have a cocoon made of sweatpants, I WAS able to snuggle Daisy and watch a new episode of Pushing Daisies last night. 'Oh, Oh, Oh It's Magic', indeed!!!! Continuing to make subtle nods to great movies, last night's episode was a shout out to The Prestige, though instead of death by water tank, we've got death by 'Cementia'. Last night's was a doozy, not only forcing the Pie Maker to accept that his brothers' neediness mirrors his own, but also shedding some light on the mysterious disappearance of their father in the first place. Could Dwight Dixon, the subtly menacing charmer filled with other people's secrets, be at fault? What does he know about the dads of Coeur de Coeurs?
Sidenote- do we know Ned's last name?
Favorite lines:
Dwight Dixon: "Snorts and giggles are the cinnamon and raisins in my oatmeal."
Emerson Cod: "Oh my. Where did I put that rat's ass I could give??"
There were a lot in there, and since I was busy putting a little bling on my newly minted Twilight shirt last night, I was sorely remiss in writing all of them down. SPEAKING of Twilight, tomorrow is tomorrow!! I can't wait. I can't wait to see BFF, I am embarrassingly pumped for the movie, I am ready to be a full-on 13 year old girl. You know my review will be coming.
Honest to god, I love free CraigsList. This is the real picture that this person put into the post.
Hamburger Helper - Bacon cheese burger pasta (Flossmoor, IL) Reply to: mailto:sale-925937785@craigslist.org?subject=Hamburger%20Helper%20-%20Bacon%20cheese%20burger%20pasta%20(Flossmoor,%20IL) [?]Date: 2008-11-19, 3:06PM CST I made a whole skillet of this Hamburger Helper thinking my brother and his friends were coming over and they went to one of the friends homes instead. I don't want to throw this out, but don't care for the bacon in it. I figure in these times someone might want a meal today. We can meet at a safe place to make the exchange and you'd have to bring a big bout. I wouldn't risk trying to poison anyone and list it publically on Craigslist, so please no stupid jokes. This post is for someone who may need a little extra to feed their family today. I will throw out tomorrow.
Location: Flossmoor, IL it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interestsPostingID: 925937785
Well aren't you Mother Teresa, feeding the hungry with the bacon-y goodness of The Helper? I love this poster's sanctimonious plea for "no jokes".
Thanks to George, who claims that Hamburger Helper is no help at all.
I have officially found the scariest mascot ever. This looks like some sort of horrible Mark Ryden creature come to life to eat my spleen from my still living body.
If any of you are judging the kind of horrible parents that would let their kid get close to this thing, remind yourself of this... "If I were the parents of this little girl, I would offer her as a happy meal/sacrifice to this monster while peeling bananas in the opposite direction too."
We all know how my heart is pitter-pattering over the release of Twilight on Friday. I'm not lying when I say how excited I am to be bedazzling a shirt, though I am sad to be crafting on my own (dammit, BFF, why must you live so far away!!). I will also admit to a mildly embarrassing attraction to 22 year old lead Robert Pattinson, who's broodishly stoned looks first introduced the Hannah Montana set to testosterone as Cedric Diggory in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
"But it's Hugh Grant, not Dean, he most frequently calls to mind. So much about the two upper-class Brits is the same: wide-set eyes, schoolboy baffledness, a bumble-and-mumble manner - even an equally floppy thatch of hair, which Pattinson said he hasn't washed for six weeks."
Six weeks. Six weeks??? Something tells me it isn't hair gel creating that "just rolled out of bed" look in the picture above. It also draws more attention to the flop sweat going on in this picture. Tiger Beat is NOT amused.
Where the F(#K is this lady's belly button?! This is Karolina Kurkova, a model supposedly from the Czech Republic, if by the Czech Republic they mean Star System Beta 9. Apparently they photoshop in a belly button on her Victoria's Secret spreads. There's no question this woman is stunningly beautiful, but what the hell?
I can think of only two explanations:
a) plastic surgery has tummy-tucked her belly button into oblivion.
b) she's an alien that is infiltrating the human race through photo-media, hypnotizing men-folk into a subordinate slave race. Clearly, this is the more likely scenario.
Troubled singer Amy Winehouse launched into an incredible rant about The X Factor to a bemused fan who rang her doorbell. The outrageous comments were allegedly recorded by a fan who pressed the intercom button at the singer's Camden home, according to a report in the News of the World. X Factor judges Louis Walsh and Simon Cowell were the main targets of Amy's rambling tirade. She said: "Let me say one thing that is pertinent and I won't swear on it either. It's got nothing to do with Simon Cowell, although everything that's wrong in the world probably does. "I mean he's the reason that all them hairdressers haven't taken their pictures out of the window since the Sixties." Winehouse sensationally claimed that Cheryl Cole has the hots for her and that Louis Walsh was a "fool" who has no personality. She said: "I love Cheryl, I love Cheryl. She fancies me I'm telling you."
The article goes on, but as I have no idea who the hell these people are outside of Winehouse and Simon Cowell, I'd wager you don't either and don't care.
I WOULD, however, like to know why on earth a fan is ringing her doorbell unprompted. That's like slathering yourself in marinade and knocking on the door of the gingerbread house.
Maybe that's the newest dare for English kids? Rather than peek through the windows of the crazy cat lady, you need to ding-dong ditch Amy Winehouse.
This is a looong 'un... written entirely while I was waiting tonight. Who says one can't be productive with nothing to do? Feel free to skip to the material for short attention spans below this post if you like.
I have dined alone at a restaurant before, though usually by my own choice. I have been lucky enough to say (minimal though my dating history may be) that I have never been stood up. Tonight, however, I must admit that this is precisely what’s happened.The embarrassing truth is that tonight, I was stood up by an eighty-three year old woman.
I’ve discussed Pat, the woman I call my “pseudo-grandma” on this site before.Having first been introduced when my mother worked at the law firm at which I was later employed, Pat took a shine to me and she and I see plays, operas, the odd night at the symphony.She’s one of the few people I can count on to always be up for something “cultural”.During the fall, we have season tickets to The Court Theater, located on campus of University of Chicago. Nice digs, indeed. We usually meet for dinner before the show, and we decided to try someplace new.
I’m starting to grow a little bored, so I begin texting a friend to pass the time, a captain’s log of sorts: “Pseudo-grandma is late. I’m the only one in the restaurant. I feel like I’m a castaway on a desert island, with the locals staring at me.”
I sit, and while I eat a dry, but warm cornbread muffin, I jovially explain to the host and my server that someone will soon be joining me. After fifteen minutes, I try calling Pat. Her cell phone is off, which is not unusual- at eighty-three, she detests the thing and it gives an unholy squeal in her hearing aids that I can usually hear across the table.
Dressed as I am in my theater finery, and experiencing an atypically fantastic hair day (an ode to the power of hemp oil shampoo!), it is natural for my attendants at the restaurant to assume that I am waiting on a date. My waiter asks “Is he running late?” to which I respond with an inadvertently cryptic “She.” My waiter gives me a double take that I don’t immediately understand. As he walks away, it dawns on my why he looked at me with somewhat unflattering surprise.
“Captain’s Log: 15 minutes and waiting. The natives are friendly, and have brought me sustenance. Through a possible error in comprehension, my waiter could possibly think I’m a lesbian.” Due to a few low-toned and completely distressing comments to me about how he wouldn’t ignore a girl that looks as good as I do, I make no effort to dissuade him of this notion.
I order chips and guacamole. The guacamole is pre-made and still frozen and the chips are stale. I continue to eat them, partly because I want to look like I have purpose in the restaurant, and partly because the idle wait staff is standing right by me… staring. With only me to attend to, I am experiencing a bit more attention from the wait staff than I’d like, particularly while I am waiting longer and longer for an individual who is clearly not going to show.
“Captain’s Log: 30 minutes and waiting. The natives are now looking at me with pity. They appear to question whether I had a dining partner at all. Indeed… at this point, so do I. Did I create pseudo-grandma as some deserted dining mirage??” I try Pat’s cell phone several more times, each time going straight to voicemail. While I wait, the music, a generic piano concerto that isn’t quite Muzak and isn’t quite worth listening to repeats three times.My waiter, waggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, asks me if he thinks my date isn’t going to show. I decide to finally set the record straight, but trying to explain my relationship with Pat is difficult, and I end up babbling non-sensically to the guy. As I look at the bemused expression in his eyes, I realize I am giving him far more information than he cared to know, and probably asserting in his mind that I have gotten stood up by a date and I am now trying to save face. I should have just told him she was my grandmother.
Forty minutes in, and I am genuinely worried about Pat. The woman does more in a day than a Marine, and stays up later than any 21 year old I know, but she is in her eighties and driving in from the suburbs. I know from personal experience that driving with Pat is a singularly terrifying ordeal, and I begin to worry that she has gotten in an accident.I decide to call her house number, which she answers. She has forgotten the play.
“Captain’s Log: 40 minutes and final entry. It’s official, I have been stood up by an 83 year old woman. I shall never leave the dining island. There is no hope!!”I finally break down and order ribs, and from my waiter’s smug expression as I hang up the phone, I know that he is certain that I have been stood up.As he delivers my ribs, he says in a quiet voice that shows that he is hoping his boss won’t hear “you look too good to leave alone tonight!”Wide-eyed, horrified, I use my best defense mechanism for when someone (sadly, anyone) shows interest in me; I laugh far too loud, and pretend I don’t understand him until he walks away.I choke down my ribs as fast as I can manage, which is difficult, because they can only be described as a boiled shoe covered in ketchup and cherry jam.
I ended up paying $35 for my crap dinner tonight, a wholly wasted experience. I did meet Pat at the play, which was like the CLIF notes version of MacBeth. The best thing I can say about tonight is that it ended quickly. And that I still have amazing hair.
Pushing Daisies is most likely canceled while WifeSwap remains on the air, and this Harry Potter trailer came out, despite making me wait 8 months for its release. The Hollywood fates are so, so cruel.
Check out this trailer, though. Harry's the Chosen One! Millennium Bridge goes boom! Jim Broadbent looks more and more like Slughorn! Hermione may have learned to act!
Considering Daisy ate ANOTHER pillow last night, I am almost considering trading Daisy in for this model of cat... and I don't like living with cats! (The litterbox... ick.)
I have no idea what this is all about, since the description on YouTube looks like wingdings to me, but this cat makes me laugh. The benefit of living alone is that you can do stupid stuff without anyone seeing. I'm not saying I've done this (yes I am), but I have run into a wall more than once. Thanks to Brian for being on the forefront of breaking kitty news. It's a dangerous job.
Glorious, glorious Stylista! I sing praises to you and your petulant, backbiting 22 year old contestants! I applaud your shameless appreciation of over-privileged trust-fundians competing for a position for which they have no training and little discernable talent. While I find your contestants completely abhorrent, their viciousness and cattiness towards each other most certainly make for great TV.
While I was wandering lost through the land of boring TV last night, cursing the Country Music Awards, I fell back in love with Stylista. While most other reality TV shows have become stale through their incessant repetition and their contestants mere caricatures of former, more interesting characters, Stylista has broken the mold. Well, in a way. Rather than have the contestants serving the time-worn reality roles (the average joe, the screaming queen, the homo-phobe, the power-hungry bitch) we see on every other reality competition currently aired. Though Stylista has more than it's fair share of queens and bitches, it is more the judges that fulfill stereotypical roles.
Anne Slowey and company are trying their best to put on their most supercilious "Anna Wintour" demeanor, but each show, this strikes me more and more as an act. The competitions to get Anne an outfit she'd wear in the Hamptons or to fix her breakfast are almost directly from The Devil Wears Prada, and Slowey seems mildly embarrassed by her cooperation with these tasks. It appears that she would prefer to do these tasks herself, and her irritation seems more to be with herself than the general incompetance of the contestants. I've worked for primadonnas before, and Slowey is a kitten in comparison with the lawyer that once left me a message at 4 am screaming about why I wasn't at work.
I may actually have to start hating Scrubs, a show that I had previously enjoyed. Apparently, after airing the final season on NBC earlier this year, the show was rescued by ABC.
According to an allegedly leaked ABC mid-season schedule that was given to advertisers, Scrubs found a new home... IN THE SAME TIMESLOT AS MY BELOVED PUSHING DAISIES. Come on now... Scrubs had 7 years. J.D.'s commitment-phobia and blatant inability to function as a mature adult was understandable and relatable when he was fresh out of med school; at 34, it's sort of sad.
Supposedly, nothing is final, but with reports of my best friend Bryan Fuller thinking of returning to Heroes (which, admittedly would make that show more interesting again)and the sinking ratings of Pushing Daisies, I am really worried that the bell has tolled.
The leaked schedule can be seen on The Futon Critic here, which also shows the triumphant (?) return of According to Jim, scheduled for a full hour on Tuesdays. According to Jim? Really? More proof that TV and I have a truly abusive relationship. I hate TV so much sometimes, and yet I let it continue to hurt me.
TV Squad has an early review of the new episodes of the interloper here.
Is Fergie's face like a giant smear? I have never been one to find her attractive, but her face is like a bleary mess to me, all the time, like she's somehow out of focus. Even when she's not dressed in clothes she stole from a twelve year old, she looks... off.
Anyway, she's reportedly gained 13 pounds for a movie role (she acts?), apparently all in the chestal region. SMG actually looks somewhat frightened by the enormity of Fergie's boobs.
Being a member of the giant knocker club, I feel I need to sit down with Fergalicious and her stylist, and give her a couple of the key rules.
Rule #1) spaghetti straps and DD's don't mix... your tits look like they're trying to escape. Long hair does not substitute for sleeves. Rule #2) the empire waist style only makes you look like a balloon.
This Public Service Announcement is brought to you by the Cleavage Centers of America. "The More You Know..."
I'll be posting again later... I'm so in love with David Rakoff that I feel compelled to talk about his book, which I am currently reading. Feel free to read it if you want, but it's mostly me being self-indulgent and giving book reviews for a three year old book. Plus I need to talk about something to keep my mind off the fact that Pushing Daisies was pre-empted AGAIN, this time for the Country Music Awards. While I knew this was coming, it still disappoints me. I'm going through whimsy withdrawal... I hate looking at life without the multi-chromatic lenses of Bryan Fuller.
Also- Twilight Countdown... 10 days!!!! God knows why I find this stoner attractive. Yet I somehow I do.
Well I can't really say she's looking healthy, per se, but she looks moderately sober. And by moderately sober I mean she's taken a shower this week.
The Daily Mail reports that Amy cut her hair and discussed a rash on her stomach that she's being treated for, then offered the paparazzi cheese on toast. This is one woman from whom I would not accept food, even if I were dying from starvation.
Amy still hasn't visited her husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, since he left jail to enter rehab last week. Rumors abound that she dumped him, which he tried to dispel yesterday, stating that the pair will be "together forever". So that means approximately two more weeks, or until one of them dies. Well. We're probably still talking about the same time frame.
This is a bar stool designed for the kilt-wearing men of Scotland that the Geekologie writer found. I have to say, I never really thought about the hygiene of pub seats... until now.
Thanks to Brenda, who is about 1000 times cooler than me for snapping the immortal photo below. A little "where's waldo" game for you...if you look close, you can spot a loud-mouthed 17 year old Birv in the glass.
I find it an odd phenomenon that Americans like to spend our leisure time in rented shoes. This weekend was like the Fungal Marathon for me- both bowling AND ice skating, IN THE SAME DAY. If I don't contract Athlete's Foot after this weekend, it'll be a miracle. Maybe I should invest in a vat of Tough-Actin' Tinactin, just to be sure.
After returning to the sport after a twenty year absence, I am pretty damn impressed with my ice skating skills. Though Sis-in-law is savoring the chance to point out that my ice skating resembles a granny with a walker more than Michelle Kwan, I am proud of my accomplishments. I only fell once, and managed to stop holding onto the wall after 40 minutes. Of course, the one time I did fall I nearly killed my three year old niece... but she stopped crying after a while.
I also attended Adam's wedding, excited to finally see the inside of Michelle's Ballroom, which has captured my interest every time I pass by and see unhappy 15 year olds stuffed into taffeta sneaking a cigarette outside at the celebration of their little sister's first communion. It's actually a nice place, neo-classic columns and bas-reliefs (oh yeah, I used it), with the inexplicable addition of an Aztec sun on the main wall. Nothing says party like the Greco-Mayan style.
It was a beautiful reception- Adam and Joanna looked in love and happy and were great hosts. Everyone was so relaxed. The food was delicious...I am frankly amazed at how many ways a potato can be prepared- gnocchi, latkes, potato salad, pierogi, mashed. Ever the carb-whore, I ate it all with gusto. There were speeches...the theme of each seemingly "Birv, you will die alone". There's a slight possibility, however, that the vodka-cranberries I was mainlining have altered my memory of the night slightly. I can't comment on the accuracy of my later memories of the evening. I also have to figure out a way to get back to my car.
It's a beautiful thing to watch two people that genuinely love each other and have each other's best interests at heart get married. Adam, Joanna, I have nothing but love and happiness for both of you, and I was honored to be a part of your day. I hope you're having fun on your mini-moon!
Given that it is coming from the Daily Mail, which has the journalistic gravitas of a Cheez-It, it may not be true, but hey. One can hope. While I hope that Sarah Palin was really a robot and de-activated her immediately after the concession speech, I also want to think that the GOP is blaming her for losing the election, and are taking their proverbial ball and going home. The Daily Mail reports:
The bitter McCain backlash against Sarah Palin continued today as it emerged that Republican Party lawyers were heading to Alaska to retrieve her $150,000 (£95,000) campaign clothes. The vice-presidential candidate's hopes of challenging Barack Obama in 2012 took a big dent as simmering tensions with the McCain camp finally boiled over into wide-ranging criticism of her conduct. In a string of damaging briefings, it was claimed that Mrs Palin had spent 'tens of thousands' more on her clothes than budgeted for, that she once met McCain aides dressed in nothing but a towel and that she did not know Africa was a continent. She was also unable to name the nations in the vitally important North American Free Trade Agreement. There are only three. Her own, its northern neighbour Canada and its southern neighbour Mexico.
I especially pray that she met John McCain in a towel once... it may explain her daughter getting knocked up. "This is how you get ahead in the world, baby girl!" It is also widely rumored that she had a concession speech of her own to give, and that McCain's advisors laid the smackdown on that idea. My own hope is they stuffed her mouth full of venison right before the speech and shoved her out on stage.
If the movies are right (and we all know they are) robots and humans will become one, signalling the destruction of mankind. Here's evidence that the end is near, the Honda HAL. It supposedly stands for "hybrid assistive limb", but I think you know what Honda's real inspiration is... 2001: A Space Odyssey. If these things start calling you DAVE, start hitting them with a baseball bat until you see wires.
The Daily Mail reports that Honda believes that these devices were designed to help factory workers, the old and infirm, but all the pictures are of young and relatively fit people bouncing around on these things, so you know what that means. That's right, bionic army. I can't run from this desk to the bathroom 15 feet away, so I'm getting myself a pair to hybridly assist my limbs in running away from my similarly clad enemies. Apparently they cost about $2200 per week to rent, but the suckers at Honda will have to catch me first! Whee!
Big Brother has an addiction to Craigslist that I struggled to understand, UNTIL TODAY. I was looking at jobs online, and decided to play around on the "Free" link. Not only is someone offering a single 34" Black Shoelace, but another person is seemingly offering up their dignity.
Contraceptive Sponges (Logan Square) Reply to: mailto:sale-904448397@craigslist.org?subject=Contraceptive%20Sponges%20(Logan%20Square) [?]Date: 2008-11-03, 3:03PM CST 2 brand new, sealed in packaging Today sponges. Expiration June 2010. Indicate specific day & times you are available for pickup. Kedzie/Belmont vicinity. Serious inquiries only - I am not amused by troll replies. Location: Logan Square it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 904448397
Granted, it's been a while for me, but I do hold out hope that I will get laid before 2010.
The post brings to mind many questions (not the least of which is why these can't just be thrown away). What happened here? My mind naturally goes to the most likely scenario, which is that some poor woman in Logan Square has decided to swear off men, owing, no doubt, to her heart being shattered to dust by some swarthy dude with too many buttons open on his collar that calls himself Antonio, but whose real name is Louis.
I don't mean to post two Winehouse Watches in the span of 24 hours, but I heart Amy so much. Plus I couldn't let this one slide by without comment. I have no idea who this guy is, but let's be honest, the likelihood is, neither does she. One can only assume she thought it was covered in cocaine.
What better way to deal with your life falling into a black hole at 24 and your husband leaving jail and checking directly into rehab than sucking on some old dude's knuckle in the back of a taxi? Wait... perhaps we should be give a sigh of relief it's only his knuckle.
The most messed up couple in the world can be reunited once more... Amy Winehouse's husband Blake Fielder-Civil was released from prison today, though Amy wasn't present to greet him... probably because he was allegedly checked straight into a rehab facility, according to the Daily Mail. Let's be honest, rehab to Amy Winehouse is like garlic and crosses to vampires.
The thought of this coming at you for a hug is quite frightening however, so perhaps it is just that he asked her to stay home?
Also- below are some pictures that were snagged of Amy doing what she does best...totally and completely bat-shit crazy FLIP OUT. I'm not sure if she's accosting a paparrazzo, or trying to get the stash in his pocket. Something tells me she smelled cocaine on him. Thanks, Superficial... now be my friend!
Ahhh... from deep political essay to tracking your monthlies. That's my whip-fast personality change...it's how we roll here on Fonzipan. I can't stay serious for too long before I break out in hives.
Ladies, you can track your calorie intake online, you can track your investment portfolio's descent into the toilet online, why not track your special time?
Introducing the best way to avoid babies (or try and have them, if that's your thing)... MyMonthlyCycles. Not only can you track your fertility and monthy cycles, you can also track your weight gain and bitchy moments through the PMS Symptom tracker, thereby giving you rock-solid alibi when you throw someone off a moving CTA train.
"I was brought to read about and remember a time when the political life of the American republic seemed charged with possibility, nuance, complexity, electric contradiction and the dawning of a politics of difference, a new kind of democratic pluralism. The courageous people of the African-American civil rights movement desired and fought for freedom and justice with such ardor that those mighty abstractions, impossibly remote yet essential to life, became imminent, graspable, present in the world."
Above is a quote from Tony Kushner, writing about the political climate he remembers surrounding Kennedy and the civil rights movement of the early 1960's. In light of the election results last night, that same sense of hope and social revolution holds true through electing Barack Obama. This sense of promise and excitement doesn't stem completely from the nation's first black president, though that part of history can't be ignored.
Obama has often been compared to John F. Kennedy, champion of civil rights, and a keystone in enabling last night's results. In listening to the strength, determination and elegance of both men's speeches, that comparison is apt. The comparison between Obama and Kennedy goes deeper than charisma and eloquence. Both men had a sense of decency that seems rare in American politics, a genuine tolerance for everyone. They shared a belief in the American political process as an agent for change, and both men rallied a nation to activism.
Last night, Obama did more than graciously accept the daunting task of reviving this country. Last night's speech was a call to action: "So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other."
Watching the jubilant crowd in Grant Park, a few short miles away from where I live, I was moved. I believed in the power not only of our new president elect, but of that crowd, 100,000 strong. For today, at least, I believe that we can change this nation together.
I'm blowing right by pundit fashion, and into political food. Introducing... candidate cookies! Now offering new flavors... the bitter stale stink of disappointment and the sweet sugary taste of hope.
If you're into biting the heads off of political leaders, or getting your rocks off at an Election Party, get em here.
Actually, it happened AT the polls. I broke the touch-screen poll! Excited about my civic duty, I roll in to my polling location at 7 am, and an abnormally chipper polling assistant (I think we'll call her Mitzi) gets me VERY excited about the joys of the new touch-screen voting methods. Mitzi gives me a little hotel-room keycard and points me toward one of two touch-screen booths. I sit down and push my voter card in until it goes "click", just like the directions tell me to. I select English as my primary language, and suddenly the computer spits out my card and tells me to get a polling assistant. Mitzi's busy, but Chet comes over to help me (equally chipper for 7 am) and can't help, so he gets Barb. Barb brings over 4 keycards, and none of them work, the screen is frozen. So I have to use the strange new "Scantron Matching Quiz" paper ballot... which is fine. I just hope that I don't end up on the news tonight for somehow being counted as a double vote. I just said I wanted the touch screen in English! I swear!
I'm worried about the whole touch-screen thing anyway... I somehow feel that both these votes and the early votes will somehow be discounted by the Republicans... why not drag out that old boat again? It's worked twice before. It is a strange testament to American society that individuals can more successfully vote for the next American Idol with more ease and vigor than for our next Commander-In-Chief.
There may be a special "evening" Fonzipan post tonight- either applauding the onset of "the Golden Age" of Obama and the rise of far left politics, or saying my farewell as I begin my quest for Canadian citizenship. Hello socialized healthcare! You're all welcome to visit me and I swear I'll do my best to get you medicine.
Sadly, no Chuck last night. Happily, I DID get to update myself on Gossip Girl, which is always a plus. Those crazy kids on Gossip Girl have me hooked! Chuck Bass denying sex?? Blair doing the right thing?? Jenny Humphrey hosting a guerilla fashion show? Nate macking on a 15 year old? By the way, he's only supposed to be 17, so I don't see why Dan has such a problem with it. Apparently his sluttiness is good enough for BFF Vanessa. Sextacular! Incidentally, kudos to the GG execs for extreme use of eyeliner on Jenny. Nothing shows a tv character's descent into Go Ask Alice territory better than raccoon eyes. You just KNOW she's hanging with the wrong crowd now!
I have to discuss my disgust that tomorrow's Pushing Daisies has been pre-empted by Dancing With the Stars. Apparently, most of America would rather see Cloris Leachman break a hip.
In honor of Big Brother's birthday today, he gets his own post! Thanks for building my character through indian burns, dangling loogies and wet willies.
Many happy returns! In honor of your birthday, please enjoy this scuba diving cat. Thanks to Brian for filling our day with a little bit of weird by sending this out!
And nothing happened. Seriously. Apparently, either I look like I should be that tore up, or people are fazed by nothing.
Backstory- dressed as dear old Amy for work(It's like I get to do a Winehouse Watch on myself!), I forgot to bring any sort of makeup remover, and believe it or not, I looked even more bizarre without the wig. So I drove home as Amy Winehouse, and stopped in at Walgreen's (yes, I am a little exhibitionist, I suppose). No one in the store batted an eye! I didn't even get a "funny costume" remark. Whatever, people. I do my best to entertain, and I get nothing. Though I did make a little girl cry in the parking lot. Mostly because I stole her candy though, not the outfit. Just kidding. I didn't steal ALL of her candy. Just the Reese's. Because I'm an Amy that likes to eat. Me, below. Damn, my desk is a mess.
Onto the REAL Winehouse Watch- Last week we reported that Amy was in for a "chest infection". She got released on Friday, but then checked back in again today. Sources say it was because she wanted to make sure there were no complications due to the chest infection. I say it's because she tried to smoke her own hair.
Netflix Round-up: Snow Angels, Sweet Bird of Youth, Little Fish. Little Fish, while not being the best movie I've ever seen (no visible plot arc), has me convinced that Cate Blanchett could read a recipe to make cold cereal and make it interesting.
Snow Angels, on the other hand, was beautiful and tragic. Set in a bleak, gray winter landscape, the film follows Annie (Kate Beckinsale) and her attempt to move on after separating from her emotionally disturbed husband Glenn (Sam Rockwell, whom I love more with every film). Bleak cinematogrophy, bleak characters. The movie is like watching two trains heading for a wreck, but you can't warn them any more than you can look away. One warm, sweet spot in this emotional wasteland is the relationship between two teenagers, Arthur, a former babysitting ward of Annie, and Lila, the new girl in town. While there is drama and pain surrounding them at every turn, it is so sweet to watch their uncomplicated, young love unfold.
Sweet Bird of Youth made me grateful Paul Newman existed. Paul Newman and his raw, steamy, sexuality and tortured character, which works so well for anything written by Tennessee Williams. What I love most about Tennessee Williams is his exploration of the ugliness in beautiful people, and Sweet Bird of Youth is a prime example. Newman, a man raised on the wrong side of the tracks-turned gigolo returns home with a fading Hollywood star, and tries to revive his relationship with his former love, the daughter of Louisiana's biggest power broker, Boss Finley. As with any Tennessee Williams play, sex, tragedy and mint juleps ensue. The movie was subjected to early 1960's censors, which unfortunately removed storylines of veneral disease, hystorectomy and castration that are present in the original broadway play. Sounds like a hell of a night at the theater.
Dear Couture Designers:
Karl Lagerfeld... I don't know what to tell you about this. Even Madonna has left the gloves at home.
