The black nail polish is my favorite touch. It’s the little things, you know? What do you figure it costs to get a dress like this dry-cleaned? Do the cleaners have to, like, shine the mirrors? The whole thing looks like some hideous second-grade project.
Pics via Celebrity Nation.
So 25-year-old rich kid and MBA-in-training Jared Kushner bought the Observer today, and, wanting to be taken very seriously right from the start, released this (partial) statement, with lots of big, important-sounding words, to its staff:
We find ourselves at a crossroads in the newspaper business. The balance of printed and online content is undergoing an unprecedented adjustment and the way we deliver our product—first-rate journalism—continues to evolve. Together we will navigate this challenge with perseverance and innovation. The only promise I will make on the business front is to keep a completely open mind. At 25 and with only non-publishing related business experience, I am now equipped with two of the finest tools that a publisher could ever have; (sic) this fine staff, and the inquisitive energy needed to tackle convention.
Convention indeed, Jared. You need a complete clause after a semicolon. What you wanted was a colon.
A hard-won first lesson in championing a print media empire: run it past an editor before you run it anywhere else. They don’t teach you that at Stern, kid.
While a Jesus-lovin’ Mel Gibson works hard to bring Jew-hating back to the mainstream, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are leaving that last-season Judeo-Christian crap in the past where it belongs. The couple is focused on our world’s latest Chosen One, taking graven images to a whole new level by allowing their two-month-old child to be depicted in wax and put on display.
Okay. Stop.
Can we talk for a second about how incredibly fucked up this is? Please? I don’t care where the profits are going (UNICEF for anyone who thinks this changes anything), this is your child. This kid never had a chance. They never even tried. What could possibly be an acceptable rationale for allowing your two-month-old child to be replicated in wax and thrown in a museum and photographed with tourists for money? They don’t need the cash flow, I assure you. If UNICEF needs funding that badly, I’m sure one of them can cough up some dough. Why oh why would a person do this? I feel awkward making judgments on how people raise their children, and I try generally to avoid the topic, but this is really frustrating behavior to me; how is this baby ever going to develop a sense of self when her image is a media sensation before she’s really even fully sentient? When she’s been defined by millions of strangers worldwide before she even knows her own name? This is how the Paris Hiltons of the world come to exist, folks. These are the ingredients, but they’re much more potent here. This girl is in for a long journey, with a lot of hard outer shells and late-life soul-searching.
It’s going to be sooo much fun to hear all about it on E!
I’m sure Tom Cruise is teaming with envy, and you’ll see Wax Suri on display in the adjacent room just as soon as he and Katie adopt her.
It’s a snarky headline, but truly, I love this girl. I think she was the best thing that ever happened to Top Model, easily the most talented person to ever grace that show, and I think she should have won the whole damn thing. So when she showed up to support the Top Model writing staff striking for union membership, I didn’t even roll my eyes at her pathetic attempt at further publicity. Unless you watch Real World, which I have (thank God) finally officially outgrown (I tried to watch Key West and I just couldn’t get through an episode, and I am so proud of myself for that), it’s rare these days for reality cameras to focus their sights on someone who is just so fucking drunk all the time. Remember when she talked to a fern? For, like, hours? About how neither of them really fit in anywhere? And then finally Tyra had to come in and give the girls a thinly veiled chat about “vices” and she was like “Do any of you have a vice? Do any of you drink, say, wine? Maybe a lot?” And Lisa raised her hand and Tyra was like “Yeah? Are you a wino?” and Lisa was like “Yeah,” and Tyra muttered some inane thing about how vices are something we all have to overcome and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Lisa D’Amato’s alcoholism was nipped in the bud thanks to Tyra Banks and the deserving writing staff of America’s Next Top Model?
Yeah. That was so awesome.
Hey, Lisa, remember how you spent a good part of last year being billed as America’s Drunkest Girl Ever on national television? Remember how all the stupidest and most embarrassing things you said and did while getting totally wasted, alone, in front of a bunch of sober and clueless 18-year-olds was broadcast week after week, captured for time immemorial, for the consumption of the entire country and a smattering of overseas markets? You know who you have to thank for that? You know who made damn sure you looked your very worst every single episode?
Yeah. You go, girl.
I am a huge tool. I know. And his dining partner probably hates me for that “same-age” call, but whatever, I’m going to enjoy this. Have you all heard my OC stories? You haven’t? Let me tell you.
Once upon a time, in that blissful long-ago age before the world was engulfed (and promptly regurgitated) by Mischa Barton et al, an unknown, recently greenlit show-that-could called “The OC” began filming in Southern California. The beach scenes were filmed in a little place far outside the Orange Curtain called Hermosa Beach. It’s where I play beach volleyball. Anyone who knows me knows I take my volleyball very seriously, so when I arrived at the beach one fine day to find a fake hot-dog stand and camera crews set up next to my court, I was a little disgruntled. When they were causing such a disturbance and fuss that I couldn’t even play my game, I was downright pissed off. Go film in the OC, I thought, or at the very least in Malibu. But no, they were filming in Hermosa. They were all there, Benjamin McKenzie, Adam Brody, both of them quite short and skinny (ha!) and talking incessantly on cell phones in between takes. They walked around like they owned the place, very smug without even being famous yet. “I hate you,” I’d mutter under my breath, “I hope your show flops.”
Sigh.
So FOX aired the show, and of course it didn’t flop. And several months later I pull up to what is supposed to be a fabulous seafood restaurant in Marina del Rey, prepared for a lovely evening lobster dinner with my father and my sister, and there is no parking anywhere. There is no parking anywhere because the whole parking lot is filled with trailers and craft services tables. They must be filming a movie, I think. How annoying. I park really far away and begin the long walk to the restaurant, still excited for my lobster. During my walk I notice that they are, naturally, not filming a movie. They are filming “The OC.” At my restaurant. With lots and lots of annoying bright lights.
Whatever. I am still going to enjoy my dinner. My plans will not be foiled by “The OC” again. I sit down, and wait 30 minutes for the waiter to take my order, because everyone who works in the place is way too busy watching them film to do their jobs. Then I wait 45 more minutes for my overcooked, gross-ass, $40 lobster. I ranted and raved and got it taken off the bill, but the damage was done. I hated “The OC” for life.
Which is why, when I sat down at dinner last weekend at a table next to Peter Gallagher’s, I braced for the worst. But he really was keeping to himself and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the company of that chick, so his presence did nothing to disturb my meal or my evening, but I still thought it was worth telling Defamer about. And they ran it — woo-hoo!! I have had a very stressful week so you can mock away, but I am going to enjoy this moment.
Way to go, Melly boy! You’ve earned it. All those years of being so much better than everybody else are bound to take their toll on a man. TMZ reports that everyone’s favorite alleged anti-Semite is trying on a new hood — ahem, hat — as a drunk driver. According to the report, he was pulled over early this morning in Malibu heading eastbound on PCH (side note: at what point in Malibu does PCH run eastbound?) and blew a 0.12 BAC. The legal limit in California is 0.08, so with a little mathemagic we can definitively state that Mel Gibson’s blood alcohol content was 50% above the legal limit. It just kind of rolls of the tongue, doesn’t it?
Update: Wow, turns out the “alleged” part was a pipe dream. Gibson spewed anti-Semitic venom at the arresting officer. Elliott Back has the highlights. Apparently the police didn’t want to publicize those little details, fearing they’d be “way too inflammatory” in the face of the current situation in Israel. Does anyone ever wonder how much of this shit fell through the cracks before we had bloggers to pick it all up?
This also helps explain his apology today. In it, Gibson claims he “said things that I do not believe to be true and which are despicable.” He also claims he has “battled the disease of alcoholism for all of my adult life and profoundly regret my horrific relapse.” Melly old son, plenty of alcoholics in this world do nothing more inflammatory than talk to ferns. It’s a vicious disease, sure, but no one believes for a second that you don’t hate you some Jews.
From the Central Park Zoo official website. I took a screenshot so I can be less devastated when they fix it. Since the print is so tiny on the graphic:
“The new zoo is divided into several different sections which provide the
animals with homes as close to their natural habitat as possible. These
include tropic, temperate and polar zones that house everything from tiny leafcutter ants to the hugely popular polar bears. The zoo is also actively involved the preservation of endangered species, providing a home for rare tamarin monkeys, Wyoming toads, thick-billed parrots, and red pandas. Rumors of a secret exhibit featuring English-speaking cab drivers have never been confirmed.”
Someone is soooo getting fired over at Central Park. And someone (hopefully the same someone) is totally getting the blow job he was promised.
Now that we have the Lance Bass Madness out of the way, we can get to the really important thing that happened today: my second day of cooking class. Today was fish and herbs. We started by learning about the herbs, and I am now the proud owner of a chart detailing many different kinds of herbs and their many different applications, the entirety of which is largely meaningless to me. For instance, I am now armed with the knowledge that rosemary is appropriate for Mediterranean dishes, but I am totally defenseless when faced with knowing what constitutes a Mediterranean dish. I can’t name a one. But they’re great with rosemary!
So on to the fish. I learned about lots of fish-cooking words today, like poaching (cooking in simmering liquid), braising (cooking in a larger amount of simmering liquid), sauteeing (cooking in oil), pan frying (like sauteeing but with more oil), and steaming (I didn’t take a note on this one). As of this afternoon, I would have identified all these words as synonyms. No more! This class is totally paying off.
Nandita and I selected Red Snapper in Thai Green Curry with Rice today, and (of course) we rocked it. Not really being a fish aficionado, I had plowed gracelessly through life under the faulty assumption that all fish dishes taste essentially the same. This is not true! Our class made eight different fish dishes, all of which tasted way different and way good. This will probably not result in me ordering more fish over the course of my life, but right now I like to tell myself that it will.
Also I am going to start a running tally of how many times during a 3-hour class our teacher, Miss May, can say the words “much more delicious.” I took a quick sample today, and she said it 6 times in 5 minutes. She says it a lot. “You can buy your herbs dry, but if you buy them fresh they are much more delicious,” or “The fish will be much more delicious if you buy it whole and then skin it,” or “If you grill the green beans first they will be much more delicious.” In fact, I don’t know that Miss May ever says the word “delicious” without prepending the qualifying “much more.” She’s a fascinating and multi-layered character, that May.
Next week I believe we do poultry, so stay tuned for more of my culinary adventures!
Unless you have been holed up in your room with nothing but your gin and your Def Leppard albums for the past 15 hours or so, it should come as no suprise to you that Lance Bass is gay. If you had ever even heard of Lance Bass before today, it should come as even less of a surprise. He is gay, gay, gay, in much the same way he’s been gay since the very early days of *NSync, by which I mean obviously. If you still don’t believe me, TMZ has the video. He’s also very much in love with Amazing Race phenom Reichen Lehmkuhl, who is clearly very important right now because the mainstream media is taking the time to spell his name right.
Starting from nearly the minute I woke up, I have received an unending barrage of IMs, emails and phone calls from people relaying this information to me. People who haven’t called me in months called me today because Lance Bass is gay. So thank you for that, Lance Bass. Even stripped of your tenuous (and therefore unthreatening and marketable) heterosexuality, you are still giving young women in this country something to bond over. You’re that good.
The real news here, of course, is not actually that Lance Bass is gay, because Gawker’s been reporting that since sometime in the late 80s. The news here is that Lance Bass had the balls to look a mainstream media member in the face and say it. And that is awesome, and I like the guy so much more now than I ever did when he was boy-banding or faux-Cosmonauting or doing whatever it is that washed-up boy-banders do before they come out to People magazine. I’m impressed with his fearlessness and his sense of self, and also with the example he has set for Hollywood, for closeted aspiring boy-banders everywhere, and for poor Tom Cruise.
In editorial fairness, I should note that the timing of this “revelation” coincides with him pitching a gay-centric sitcom (with Joey Fatone — whose last name, with some cryptographic magic, can be rearranged to read “Fat One,” which is funny because he was the fat one), but I’m so damn impressed with the dude I am not even going to harp on that. Just don’t get me started on Kat McPhee’s “bulimia.”
So there you have it, America: Lance Bass is gayer than the day is long. Now pour some more gin and blast Euphoria again.
Never content to leave the boundaries of your reality unmolested, Alanis Morrisette and Ryan Reynolds are still groping one another in public places. It’s really too much for me to handle.
The Evil Beet 
