Tuesday, June 27, 2006

i'm alive!

so here i am...over a year later, and i've still got it.

why haven't i written in over a year? because i've been busy, that's why. busy with blackbook magazine, busy with apartment hunting, and busy with staying busy.
so in the tradition of every other blog out there today, i'm going to commence my resurrection with some extra commentary on celebrity shit.

let's start with miss marcia cross...or should i say MRS. Marcia whatever, because she's married now.

ok i love marcia cross--she's my favorite character on 'desperate housewives.' she's also super nice (i've run into her in person). why, then, is she so damn plain jane?! i want to look at her and say, "whoa, she's one hot babe!" but i just can't seem to get past her pastel 2-for-$16 gap long-sleeve tees! all that money, and absolutely no fashion sense. where's her stylist? why isn't (s)he doing their job? if i were marcia cross, i'd whip that fiery mane up into luscious, marilyn curls and wear tons of eye makeup. i'd give the girls some much-needed exposure in a low-cut SOMEthing, and the last thing you'd see on my feet are those orthopedic monstrosities she's famous for sporting. fashion over function, sweetie--cute over comfort. you're a celebrity now. it's not only your job to play bree for us one night a week, but now you're also expected to fill a full schedule of stunning sightings and head turning appearances. make us hard, marcia, arouse us!
what's worse is now that she's married, what kind of deeper slump can she possibly fall into? perhaps she'll fall for the four most dreaded words of fashion: old navy cargo pants.

i know this is like a week late, but i still must pitch in my two cents on...

for those of you who missed this spectacle last week, sandra bernhard was on the view. but she wasn't only ON the view, she WAS the view! she painted the room, honey. she hands-down won the 'tell it like it is' award for letting the four deranged matrons of the couch know who's really the boss. and she wielded the word "honey" like a bowie knife. she waved it in the air before she brushed the throats of any woman who would potentially challenge her opinions on mariah, laura bush, or women's reproductive liberties. she wasn't hearing a "no" in that conversation...especially when two of the three brain cells elizabeth hasselback possesses decided to speak up and protest bernhard's opinion of the heavily-medicated laura bush. she piped up with, "why is she heavily medicated? because she advocates the education system?" girl, if you're going to make a statement and pretend to be some kind of activist, make it believable. what do the two have to do with each other? her blatant disregard for sensible war cries just outed her as yet another hamptons bitch republican. go wrap a cashmere around your shoulders and shut up.
star, on the other hand, a perpetual member of my shit list, played it safe and declared herself too cute to argue with sandra at that moment...and because i'm happy that the big bern got her way, i have to agree.

finally, i just have to be the one to say it. i have a ton of respect and admiration for anna wintour, EIC of 'vogue,' but honestly, when it comes to the book and movie 'the devil wears prada,'

so an angry, disgruntled assistant wrote a whole bunch of shit about you and fuckin' banked on it with a book...and a movie...and an oscar blandi haircare set at sephora. you're still anna wintour. you're still the editor-in-chief of 'vogue,' honey. take a damn pill. you're the last person i'd expect to be offended by a simple memoir, babe. so she said you're a bitch, and difficult, and quite irrational at times. sticks and stones may break your bones (and the occasional PETA-thrown cream pie may clog your pores) but do names really hurt you?
i can't believe a grown woman is freaking about so! you've even caused the whole conde nast establishment to get its cosabella panties in quite a bunch. poor anne hathaway won't ever see her face on the cover of 'allure' again...and with such peaches and cream skin. you're cutting off your nose to spite your face. what's next, sending grenades to every piece of hate mail that hits vogue from poor middle-americans? target's hip too now, ya know.
the only names you should be worrying about are those emblazoned on the tags of your clothes.

and with that, i sign off for the day.

expect much more in the future--the bitch is back.