February 2012 Archives

S'up y'all?

Oscar Breakdown

We oh-so-glamorously returned from doing biznazz in LA a day BEFORE the Oscars to attend the world's most exclusive viewing party from the box seats on our couch. 

That said, I feel it is my civic duty to break down the whole event for those of you who had other busy shit going on. Here's what you missed, in no particular order of significance:

• Sasha Baron Cohen was Sasha Baron Cohen.
• Billy Crystal told some decent jokes and swapped spit with George Clooney. 
• J.Lo's nip peeked out of her dress and blew a few kisses at the crowd.
• Nick Nolte's facialist injected a secret serum that morphed him into Kenny Rogers.
• Rooney Mara is hungry.
• Angelina Jolie is really hungry, but that don't stop a ho from showing some slit and making the room her bitch. 
• Some guy who looked like Moby thought her flagrant display of sex-u-alité was worth mocking during his acceptance speech.
• Bret McKenzie won best song for "Man or a Muppet" and is still the cutest dude in the room.
• Gwyneth Paltrow is flawless and obviously made of glass.
• A silent movie about making movies won Best Picture.
• The End.

Holla!

In light of the travesty that is the board of contraceptive experts, here's one for the womyn!

Apparently, all you need to qualify as an expert on women's reproductive health is a penis and a news 'do and/or receding hairline. Warning: Judd Nelson has become Sigmond Freud.

Stay gold!

xx

Please forgive the rantless post, but hey - it's almost as good as a pantless post. I'mma 'bout to leave on a jet plane so to keep you all sated until I return from the land of palm trees and surgically enhanced babies and labias, here's some sheer genius from Maya Rudolph and Amy Poehler, with a sweet cameo from Justin Timberlake. It's possibly the best Bronx Beat in all of history.

Have a great week party people! Stay gold! xox

Miss me?

Yeah, I did too. 

I've been sequestered at home with not one but TWO sick kids, all week long. And let me tell you -- those moms? Who claim they can write or blog or whatever and take care of their kids at the same time (I'm talking kids who can walk)? They're filled to the rim with the wettest, brownest, foulest excretions to ever pour out a hound's backside. Because if a kid can talk and walk, there's no way they will ever allow you emit the succinct, sequential brainwave patterns necessary to string a cohesive sentence together. Like the ubiquitous honey badger, they don't give a shit. There's always something to say or something they need, and you know what? If they're feeling lousy, they deserve a ready, steady hand to wipe the snot from their noses. And I'm happy to give them one each.

But I digress....

How Willie Nelson Ruled The Grammys 

Immediately following the death of Whitney Houston, much like Smash follows The Voice, this year's Grammy Awards were all about poignancy. 

Dave Grohl and his Foo Fighters rocked the house and extolled the virtues of a rare condition called musical authenticity. In spite of her Donna Reed weave, 

Then, in perfect concert with the show's established theme of perfection in simplicity, this ad came on.

Two minutes of sheer beauty in simplicity -- not just in the essence of the message itself, but in its delivery. Every layer of this campaign -- from the animated imagery, to the choice of Willie Nelson, to the choice of song -- reinforces that message. And that, my friends, is what makes a memorable spot.

Then, there's this:

Adele's Ex Fights Back

Farted in Your Sleep? Ha! How's it go?

There's a fire, burning in my bum/Reaching a fever pitch and it's keeping me up in the dark/Finally, I can feel you crystal clear/Go ahead and lay that fart and the smell will burn your hair

...and now for the chorus...

We could've had it all-hall/ But you farted in your sleee-heep/You could've held it all in your jams/But you laid it, you laid it, you laid it on the sheets.

That's it for now kids! Stay gold! xoxo

Fuck Komen

Unless you're buried under a pile of steaming doo-doo (and if you are, you've got bigger problems or fetishes than I can help with), I'm sure you've heard about how conservatives at the Susan B. Komen foundation pulled funding from Planned Parenthood. 

Well, the latest is they've been tsked and shamed into an apology and a full refund of funds.

Yuh, that's RIGHT.

I have a vested interest in this cause for three reasons. 1) I am beholden of a vagina. 2) I have a daughter, who is also so beholden and 3) Planned Parenthood was the only way I could afford decent medical care for ten years. 

As my ever-insightful bestie Barbara Barna said on the elliptical this morning, this despicable debacle proved a good thing for PP. Funds poured in from all four corners of the earth. Even New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg pledged to match donations up to $250k. Respect. 

But what sickens me is the reality that this kind of archaic, patriarchal politicking could STILL actually influence my health, your health and our daughter's health. At this point in American history, the uterus and its contents should be ruled by each individual owner. Period. THE END. Not your bible thumping, waitress humping, councilmen. Certainly not a personage without a vagina, nor with a hairstyle and ideology that dates back 60 years.

Until tampons are free and unicorns are free to prance upon this earth, we need Planned Parenthood to permit our daughters and our friends' daughters to live healthy, autonomous lives. It's a good thing the folks at Komen came correct. But don't tell me I have to wear the ribbon, motherfucker.

Give Me All Your Luvin'

Open Letter to Madonna:

Oh MADGE.  Stop it. Just stop it. You're 53, we know what kind of girl you are. We bought the cow back when you were Like A Virgin. 

You've always been like an older sister who taught us how to embrace our sexuality, to be comfy in our own skin, to be strong, to get ours. And by jumpin' Jehoshaphat, you're still every bit as lithe and lovely as the day you turned 39. But really? That's all you've got? Because this song is the aural equivalent of watching Demi Moore pass out at a party at Zac Efron's house, huddled over a paint can with telltale silver paint streaks over her lips. It's the tragic byproduct of a midlife crisis -- the day of reckoning on the Life game board where you've officially run out of ideas.

With the release of your first film, it seemed you had aspirations to act like an artist -- a for real, for true, artist. What happened? It's like you were the most expensive hooker in the suite and now you're giving away $10 handy - jays. Call me Violet but words like "luvin'" and "hugsies" that conjure hearts over the i's, should be relegated to the diaries of tweens. Setting a stage for us to compare and contrast you with M.I.A. and Nicky "GaGa" Minaj backfired - they shame you with their badassedness -- not their youth -- because it seems it is you who has grown uncomfortable with her own skin. 

Now before all your bitches start aiming the heels of their pumps at the bullseye superimposed over my temples, I'm saying all this because I love you and all that you've done for my generation. But please Madge, I beg you. Save yourself. Stop regurgitating your own work. It's not camp, it's poor taste. Grow old with us --  better yet -- show us how to do it with panache. And for Goddess sake, respect yourself.