Skate is Enough

The Evan Lysacek media frenzy continues as speculations swirl that he’ll be selected as a Dancing With the Stars contestant. In a recent interview, he admits that he’d love to be a part of the show but isn’t sure if he’ll accept yet (contestants are announced next week). He also goes on to list his other interests that he would possibly pursue once he hangs up the skates professionally. These interests include other athletic activities, travel, film, literature, photography, fashion, design, music, hotels, cars, acting, Avatar, The Blind Side, District 9, An Education, The Hurt Locker, Inglourious Basterds, Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire, A Serious Man, Up, Up in the Air…

At this point the journalist began speaking to someone more interesting so, unfortunately, at this time it is uncertain what career path Evan Lysukdik will take in the future.

I'm just saying...

Renee Taylor

(of The Nanny)

VS

The Lady Bunny

Winter Haikus

As spring approaches, and winter relentlessly holds its tactless footing, what better way to vent snowy frustrations than through haikus?

Why do you hurt us?
I left So Cal sun for this?
Fake tan helps me cope.

Summer ends, we cry.
You end, and we all clap.
Help us to applaud.

Snow. Snow. Snow snow snow.
Ice. Slush. Fall. Cry. Skin. Crack. Burrrr.
I need more lotion.

Where is my warm life?
Fire Island can’t have snow.
My feet miss flip flops.

I hate you so much.
I really hate you so much.
I hate you so much.

Submissions are welcome...

Secrets and Tries

Bristol Palin, formerly knocked-up/currently unwed teenage mother and poster child for Republicans Pretending They Aren't Hypocrites is slated to make her acting debut this summer on The Secret Life of the American Teenager (a.k.a. The Life of Teenagers Having Sex and Not Having Sex and Maybe Getting Pregnant But Always Having Conversations That Are Peculiar With Happy Glimpses of Molly Ringwald Thrown In For Good Measure). According to very covert, under-radar sources, matriarch of the Palin Dynasty, Sarah, will make her acting debut next fall in The Secret Life of Annoyingly Accented Creepy Morons Who Turn Up-Dos Into Down-Dos When They Think the American Public Will Buy More Of Their Books. She'll be making an effort to promote more green behavior by writing her lines on the palm of her clammy hand.

Whacked Market

A 52-year-old woman in Ville Platte, Louisianna will receive a total of 30 months of hard labor for selling two children to a couple in exchange for a cockatoo and $175. Yes. You read that correctly. She sold two children for a squawking bird and cash that wouldn’t even amount to decent pair of jeans at Diesel. I mean, really? Couldn’t she maybe have thought about it a little longer and asked for something else in addition like a new pie tin, or a 12 pack of PBR, or maybe even some sparkly green eye shadow with a box of Capri Ultra Lights thrown in there for good measure? I swear. Sometimes people don’t think. Unless she was planning to take the cash to a casino and miraculously become a millionaire which makes perfect sense - but that still leaves the bird unaccounted for. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth trying to understand people.

What a Champ

Other than recalling dreams featuring myself, a Swedish model, a waterfall, and an absence of clothing, waking up with coffee and Good Morning America is my favorite way to start a weekday morning. Though there are generally a few priceless, comedic nuggets tossed throughout the news stories, Sam Champion went for the gold today (perhaps because Olympic Gold Medalist Shaun White made an appearance). While rummaging in the kitchen for something else to shove in my face, I heard Champion start yelling “Pull out! Pull out! PULL OUT! Faster! Pull out!” I’m just gonna stop there, because if I finish the story and tell you exactly what he was talking about, it’s just not going to be as entertaining. I would, however, like to recommend that the cast at GMA begin yelling random, sexually charged phrases at any given time in order to spice things up.

“Juju? I hear you’ve got something to tell us about the Toyota Corporation.”

“Thanks, Robin. I sure do. Further down! Further down! FURTHER DOWN! DON’T CHOKE! Over to you, George.”

“Thank you, Juju. We can always rely on you to SIT ON IT! SIT ON IT NOW!”

If It's Not Rough It Isn't Fun

Sunday evening was set aside to settle into a nice Valpolicella, red pepper hummus and watch a screener of An Education. Our plans were momentarily deterred when we got sucked into a fairly new website called ChatRoulette.com The site, launched in November 2009 by a 17 year-old student, Andrey Ternovskiy, as a means to video chat with complete strangers, claims to have at least 20,000 users worldwide at anytime. After the few comic minutes we spent swirling around in the whirlpool of brief social connections with said strangers, the 20,000 users claim is pretty believable.

Upon entering Chat Roulette, there are two stacked screens showing, on top, the screen of your potential chat friends, and, below your own video screen so you can see how just how creepy, ridiculous, good-looking, or scary you'll appear to others . After you've properly lit yourself and completed a hair and make-up session, just press PLAY at the top of the screen. What ensues is an orgiastic electronic collage; for us, it was giggling girls, pantless male torsos, congregating college students, a spider man mask, masturbation, and - when my friends and I comically wrapped our heads in scarves - people asking if we were ninjas. In short, Chat Roulette is like the A.D.D. hybrid of Facebook, YouTube, and a little bit of good ol' fashioned adult entertainment. And, based on the few moments of creepiness we encountered (namely, someone wearing a white Harlequin mask), the future subject matter of a teen slasher movie.

I'm just saying...

KHLOE KARDASHIAN

VS

CHYNA DOLL

Thanks to Tip Tip for the tip.

Cold As Ice

Dear United States Figure Skating Association:

I come to you as a friend. Okay…I know I haven’t really been around since 1994 when I got sort of excited about ice skating and stole the “Why Me?” Nancy Kerrigan issue of NEWSWEEK from the orthodontist’s office, but still, I’ve never hated you so that counts, right? Anyway. I just wanted to offer a little advice so you could try and stop embarrassing yourself. Look. Everyone knows you’re gay. Everyone. And we’re okay with it. Really. You were on Will and Grace for chrissakes. If we weren’t totally okay with you being a ‘mo, we would have, I don’t know, kicked you out of the Olympics a long time ago. You AND synchronized swimming.

But your denial isn’t just affecting only you anymore. You and your be-glittered black spandex wardrobe and effeminate hand movements are starting to drag other people into the mayhem and frustration that abounds from your unconvincing façade of heterosexuality. Okay? Look. We know Evan Lysacek totally digs you. We also know he’s totally into dudes. Okay okay okay. We don’t know per se, but we’re pretty sure that he’s probably lingered on the underwear section of the Sears catalog longer than he should have and that his Manhunt profile would read something like:

Straight acting with swimmers

build - tan, toned, into bronzer,

spandex and sports – no PNP.

In fact, any of the dudes you hang out with we’ve always just assumed were flaming queens (please reference spandex and glitter again).

That’s why when Johnny Weir showed up, we were THRILLED that someone was finally being honest. Some people said “flamboyant”, we all said “fabulous!” And what did you do? You tried to beat him into the unconvincing betrayal of honesty that you are. You tried to push him to the side, lock him in his bedroom when guests were over, and laughingly say “Oh his make-up thing is just a silly passing phase” while you nervously downed martinis with your neighbors.

Whatever. Hate yourself all you want. Pretend that Evan is just your “buddy” and that y’all are just two regular ol’ guys who just haven’t found the rights girl [to ignore your need for d**k]. But leave Johnny alone. Let him dance. Let him be balletic. Let him be flamboyantly fabulous. Let him be The Swan that he is. Because he actually is the first male skater to bring true entertainment and honesty (and really pretty eyelashes) to everything that you’ve tried to stand for. Whatevs. Call me. If you’re not too pissed.

Talk soon,

X

42 Candles

Today marks not only Molly Ringwald’s birthday, but also that of the late John Hughes who pretty much is responsible for Ringwald being a household name. With two such significant causes for events occurring on the same day, I’m guessing that this is also the day Anthony Michael Hall made a pact with the devil 25 years ago to be in select memorable films of the 80s with a brief resurgence in the 90s. It makes perfect sense.

Another One for Marriage Sanctity

A couple in Lewiston, ID, home of the Springtime Dogwood Festival, got hitched a few days ago. Unfortunately, the marital bliss was interrupted when the 21 year-old groom was arrested for drunken and disorderly conduct. After his release, he got thrown in the slammer again (yes - on the same day) after slapping and choking his wife during an altercation. But let’s face it. She was probably asking for it. He wanted a cold beer. Not some room temperature piss. And what was that Rolling Rock s**t? He only drinks MGD, b**ch! And she better not get fat like her momma or else he’s gonna slap her back into skinny! Now where is his Skoal tobacco?

I'm just saying...

SARA RUE

VS

VARLA JEAN MERMAN

Haircut 100

I have my haircut once a week by a middle eastern man with a potbelly, wisps of greyish hair on his swiftly balding crown, and a thick accent that so perfectly suits him and his rickety barber shop that it makes me think he could possibly be making it up just to seem more authentically kooky. Normally my 5 minute sessions with him are on a level easily defined as subdued - cue: me laughingly agreeing with his social commentary and comically skewed colloquialisms such as “You don’t do no good things for no one because they end up thinking it’s bad and getting pissed at you, you know what I’m saying, my friend?”

I love the guy and he’s always outwardly appreciative of the business I bring him (a rarity in ol’ New York). However, at my most recent hair-do touch-up, things went into a direction most likely made possible by some strong whiskey or a heated argument at home with his wife, I’m guessing – or maybe both. For, rather than the usual “How you doing, my friend? What we do on top? Thank you, my friend!” conversations we normally have, he decided to give some pointers on looking for a wife (I guess I hadn’t mentioned my penchant for Gossip Girl enough in front of him before). Though I was pretty baffled and sort of embarrassed by the whole ordeal - mostly because he made allusions to erections and repeatedly used variation of the word f**k - I managed to gather a few choice pieces of advice for all you bachelors:

In looking for a wife, you want to make like you’re looking for a refrigerator. You have to choose carefully because you want it to be dependable, sturdy, fairly good looking (with looks that will last) and you don’t want your food to spoil if things go wrong.

It’s also important to regularly sleep with your wife because if you’re not, it’s basically abuse and she’ll kick you out of the house for it and find someone else to f**k her.


If you screw the first girl you see and knock her up, she’s probably going to end up being fat and ugly (This in fact happened to a young man he knows and the wife evidently was so f**king ugly, he wouldn’t even want to s**t next to her. This poor girl.)

You should totally ask your parents what they think of your potential mate (I’m guessing this is more directed toward the father so he can be like “Dude – her mom’s fat and gross. She’s going to be fat and gross. Marry the chick with the skinny MILF.”).

Once I got over the comedic shock of the entire situation, I began to eagerly anticipate this week’s session. I’m hoping we breach the subject of whether or not men over 30 can wear bikinis to the beach without getting waxed.

Birthday Rainbow

Lavar Burton celebrates his birthday today. He can be anything. Take a look – it’s in a book, don’t you know? And re: the below video, what the F is that starfish cat thingy that appears about 27 seconds into it? Yeesh.

V.D. Strikes Again

May cuddly thoughts of cherubic little winged creatures, heart-shaped chocolates, pink and red and white flora, candlelit romance, and glittering heart shaped diamonds...not make you choke on your own bile.

Hail to the Chiefs

As you head home gleefully from the office, crack open the Absolut, Jack Daniels, Veuve Clicquot, or Bartles & James (depending on your geographical location and sexual preference), and sink into relaxation, remember that presidents may be responsible for this three-day weekend, but they are also responsible for the most boring ride at Disneyworld.

Gaga Land

At the annual AMFAR Gala in LA, Lady Gaga made an important statement: She is a singer, she is a performer, she is an artist, she is an icon...she is an iced dominatrix policewoman sugar plum fairy vanilla cupcake - with sprinkles.

I'm just saying...

Real Houseblight of Atlanta,

SHEREE WHITFIELD

VS

Drag Performer

SAHARA DAVENPORT

(as featured on RuPaul's Drag Race)

Long Live McQueen

Alexander McQueen, the man who brought you such visual fancies, sartorial dreamscapes, and runway orgies of couture and dramatics such as

THIS,

THIS,

AND THIS,

has sadly passed. Thanks for the fanfare. We certainly wish there could have been more.

Well Taylored

It’s official today: Taylor Lautner is legal. Well…okay. He may have technically already been legal in Nevada two years ago, but who wants to go halfway across the United States to seduce a werewolf? It’s just really awkward and time consuming plus you have to time it just right with the full moon so there’s no risk of being eaten, and then there’s the fact that you’re in NEVADA. Such a mood killer.

Der Denver Clan

Nothing says NYC snow day like Joan Collins, monochromatic 80s glamour, an Ali MacGraw guest appearance, and German dubbing.

Bittar Sweet

Anyone who gives a damn about me knows that I have a finely tuned fondness for Dynasty and all of its delirious glamour: I often start meetings with the infamous Denver Carrington board room speech, have perfected the art of letting my shoulder dramatically turn my entire body so I can glare menacingly before smilingly cunningly at someone across the room who has betrayed me, and my dog is named after one of the show’s characters. Imagine my delight when I discovered (as did multiple friends who immediately contacted me) that jewelry designer, Alexis Bittar, has chosen to make Joan Collins the poster girl for his Spring 2010 Campaign.


I’ve known of Bittar for some time and am more than a fan of his craftsmanship and creativity. His pieces are pearlescent, metallic femininity and might easily be seen on the wrist of a Renaissance lady in waiting or around the neck of a contemporary punk princess. But no matter the canvas, Bittar’s brainchildren are something to be worn by a woman conscious of her allure, deadset on making everyone conscious of her ability to seduce and annihilate at the flick of a baubled wrist. In short: Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan Dexter.

Who Paul?

I’ve somehow gotten hooked on Ru Paul’s Drag Race (the drag queen competition show aired by Logo) faster than a bulimic can upchuck a can of Easy Cheese into a jar hidden in her closet. The show isn’t terribly remarkable, the production values are low, and the Queens don’t even get to stay in a house a la the girls over at Tyra’s or the bitches in heat on The Snatchelor. But perhaps because of all this derelict backdrop, the sequin and sass are that much more glittery. The wonderfully awkward, intriguingly grotesque feeling I get while watching it is akin to being in the locker room changing when someone tries to strike up of conversation with you. You want to ignore them, you want to look away, you want to pull your pants up - but you’re frozen, wanting to know what this person looks like, why they’re talking to you, and whether or not they might be legitimately interested in whether or not you’re a swimmer.

Like all competition show formulas, there are challenges, and eliminations. But remember, people, these are DRAG QUEENS. So there’s rampant brash bitchiness that makes you want to slap those little twits like an ill-behaved cat, the scary pre-make-up eyebrows that will haunt your dreams more ferociously than Freddy Krueger, and the hit or miss costuming that is often times somewhere between a drunken, slutty Southern prom queen from the late nineties and an obnoxiously newly wealthy Long Island housewife from the 80s (I guess the easier way of saying that is: Fran Drescher in The Nanny). In short, you will be disturbed, you will be annoyed, you will be shocked, you will be baffled – and you will come back for more.

Double Zs

It’s Ziyi Zhang’s birthday today which may mean absolutely nothing to you, but for me, it’s a momentous occasion that recalls the time, many moons ago, when I was working in a Beverly Hills boutique and wondering why 2 Bachelors degrees were only earning me the price-of-a-latte more an hour than minimum wage. Just as I was about to slice the underside of my forearm with a boxcutter to escape having to hear Annie Lennox’s Walking in a Winter Wonderland again, in walks dear Ziyi – head slightly larger than cinema might have you believe, if I recall accurately – with her immaculately coiffed mommy and equally refined entourage of aunties. Sooner than later I’m ringing her up for an emerald green cashmere sweater while she and her mother graciously thank me. And as I tell her the total she takes out her credit card, places it gently in my palm and softly, demurely, adorably says: “My cod looks so smor in yo hanz” thus making me a fan for life.

Just for Hymn

Yesterday I had the esteemed pleasure of attending an exquisitely performed classical guitar concert (http://giacomolavita.com/) outside of Manhattan – and if you’ve never heard classical guitar, it’s like taking every element of classical music, whittling it down to perfection, and making you feel like you have the luckiest ears on the planet. The concert took place in a church and, while waiting for the concert to commence, I decided to keep my mind preoccupied not with tedious Facebook status updates pertaining to my current location and humorous queries as to whether lighting would strike, but with a little game taught to me by my dear, dear grandmother.

From an early age, I found that church rapidly transformed from being a place that made you feel so guilty that the PR girls in heaven just might have you on their list, to a place where the greatest challenge was to not let your I’m-in-a-place-where-it-is-socially-unacceptable-to-laugh-so-I-HAVE-to-laugh giggles become too audible. This challenge was made greater for my sisters and I by my grandmother who thought it useful to teach her grandchildren to thumb through the hymn book and add “Beneath the Sheets” after each song title so as to muss up the stuffy, sterile sanctity we were enduring. Having been absent from church since I can’t remember, I was eager to play “Beneath the Sheets” - and the results were far too delightful to keep to myself.

You Are My Hiding Place Beneath the Sheets (this one is slightly creepy and I can totally see Robert Deniro saying it in some freaky movie before he does something gruesome)

How Great Thou Art Beneath the Sheets (I should have this made into a t-shirt for how many times it’s been said to me)

Look and Learn Beneath the Sheets (this is when you’ve bedded that really annoying know-it-all friend of a friend you met drunk at a party and all you want to do is forget your mistake and go to sleep so you’re halfway coherent for Saturday’s Spin class)

You, Lord, Are Both Lamb and Shepherd Beneath the Sheets (for that domineering partner who cries after the throes of passion have come to completion)

Ask, See and Knock Beneath the Sheets (you just know Jim Carrey has said this before)

Now the Feast and Celebration Beneath the Sheets (sushi, anyone?)

And my personal favorite:

Let Us Talents and Tongues Employ Beneath the Sheets

I’m thinking of playing B.T.S. when I have to do an employee evaluation next time.

“Works well with others [beneath the sheets.]”

"Shows great leadership skills [beneath the sheets.]"

"Attendance is excellent [beneath the sheets."]...

Ho-leigh Crap

It's wonderful to wake up, have a lovely long walk in empty 6:30 AM Manhattan, come home for some coffee and see that it's Jennifer Jason Leigh's birthday. Then you realize it's J J Leigh's 48th brithday. 48TH. 4. 8. As in almost 50. As in you remember her being a kid practically in The Big Picture. Then you wonder if you should opt for vodka instead of coffee to calm yourself. Or just invest in stronger eye cream. Then you go for a second walk along the Hudson while Debbie Gibson's "Foolish Beat" plays on the soundtrack until a 17 year old asks his mom who the hell is singing that crappy pop song.

I'm just saying...

CONNIE STEVENS

VS

CARRIE UNDERWOOD

Shore Thing

The Jersey Shore, as far as I’m concerned, has single-handedly breathed attention-whoring life into an otherwise dusty creature lacking the social significance it once had in the 90s - read: MTV. The show not only introduced us to tanned creatures rarely seen outside of Joe Pesci films, SNL skits, and the Hot Topics of malls lining the Garden State Parkway, but also infused our daily vernacular with a fleet of unforgettable nicknames, catch-phrases, noises, and words sometimes only understood with the help of subtitles.

One such nickname that quickly became a household name was The Situation. Jersey Shore character, Michael Sorrentino, dubbed himself The Situation based solely on the fact that his ridiculously and unnaturally ripped abdominals [meant to draw attention away from his chubby face and bulbous nose] weren’t so much a physical attribute as “a situation” in which ladies often thrillingly found themselves. And now, wisely, Sorrentino has decided he’d like to trademark the name The Situation so that he can bank while the banking’s good by selling paraphernalia (underwear, tennis wear, bathing suits, etc.) featuring his now well-known nickname. My initial thought was unstoppable laughter . This evolved into a hardy “ewwww” which eventually became thoughts of whether or not Sorrentino would also venture to emblazon his name on Ed Hardy hats, half football jerseys, steroid vials, fake tan enhancement spray bottles, and Olive Garden gift certificates. But, you know, if he’s going to do this, why don’t the other housemates cash in, too? I’ve taken the liberty of making a few suggestions for them:

J-Woww – I see a line of bras that aid in the appearance of gravity-defying breasts. Awww, hell. Let’s call an ace and ace and create a line of implants called “Extra W.” You don’t need ‘em, but she didn’t need that extra “W” in Woww and look how well it’s worked for her on The Shore.

Snooki – The possibilities are endless. Namely, I see a convergence of the Snuggie and Snooki, a sort of ridiculous housecoat that not only promises to keep you warm, but also aids in displaying buoyant cleavage and a design that won’t prohibit you from snatch flashing everyone after a couple of tequila shots in front of the fire.

DJ Pauly D – Hair product promotion would be too predicatable, too gauche. So I think he should work the quasi-homonym angle and pitch a cooking show with Paula Dean and Pauly D, calling it Two Ps In a Pod. They’ll do such things as prepare a ham hocks stuffed with butter and bacon and show how the egg whites and butter you’ll later use to prepare the deep-fried chocolate pecan torte for dessert number 3 can also be used to create self standing hairstyles right on par with J-Woww’s breasts in terms of gravity defiance.

I wonder if the others are remorseful for not hopping on the nickname bandwagon. Vinny seems too level-headed for such nonsense (he admittedly despises the daily guido routine his housemates follow of GTL – Gym, Tan, Laundry), but hot-headed Ronnie could have easily been Bruiser or Napole[on], and Sam with her lovely aura of bland, vapid, brattiness, could totally have been known as Twitter…or Spaniel-ina…or Sausage Sam. Just a thought.

Well Wishes, Willow

Warwick Davis celebrates his birthday today. If you don’t know who that is, you either 1) Have avoided the Harry Potter films like the plague 2) didn’t see The Leprechaun or 3) didn’t pay close enough attention to the credits of the film, Willow. And if you have no idea what Willow is, then clearly you are not part of the elite group of students who were made fun of in school for their peculiar interests in fantasy films that helped them forget how uncomfortable it was to walk across the cafeteria in junior high, convinced that everyone was probably staring at them and wondering why they were such a loser wearing Gap Jeans instead of glamorous Z Cavariccis.

What the Oscar is Going On?

Regarding the Oscar Nominations announced this morning amidst the hubbub of Punxsutawney Phil's annual shadow chasing, I'm gonna need to catch my breath at the fact that A Single Man didn't receive a nomination for Cinematography, Art Direction, or Costuming. Seriously. It's a visual orgasm. Who the hell is the Academy? I don't get it. I just. Don't. Get. It. At least darling Colin Firth is recognized, I guess.

And now I bring you Exhibit A of the ignorant idiocy of an only fleetingly well-spoken Academy: the trailer for A Single Man:

Lady Grammy

At the 52nd Annual Grammy Awards last night the…wait. Oops. I have no idea because I didn’t watch it. I was in a post champagne brunch swirl of frivolity, dabbling at drawing a scene from the French Revolution as re-enacted by cats, listening to my niece sing The Carpenters over the phone, and finishing a made for SyFy TV movie about miniature tornadoes destroying Manhattan. Luckily I DVR’d the whole glittery awards hurrah so I can soberly partake in the plethora of sartorial milestones in Gaga’s wardrobe tonight. Oh, and in Beyonce’s record-breaking number of awards or whatever she’s noted as doing now.

Brazilian Gags

Nine months after sort-of-douchey, sort-of-super-hot NE Patriots Quarterback, Tom Brady, knocked her up, modelicious glamazon Gisele Bundchen gave birth…in a bathtub, thus successfully ruining the ability of any straight man to have any sort of decent fantasy excluding floating afterbirth about her ever ever ever EVER again.

Mother Trucker

A truck driver in Lowell, Massachusetts, has just reportedly choked on some value menu Wendy’s chili, passed out, and crashed into a home. The driver, luckily wasn’t injured but might receive a citation for eating while driving because of the incident. This doesn’t sound like a newsworthy story to me so much as a Saturday night out in rural Texas. And I’m supposing the report doesn’t tell us how he was eating the chili to sober up after the 7 whiskeys he guzzled when Myrlene Juggs, the red-headed exotic dancer and bartender at Bo Bob’s Gentleman’s Club and BBQ Buffet off Country Road 10, refused a date with him for the 35th time on account of she’s still technically married to Deputy Clem Watkins and he’s a real jealous type.