Cheap Simpsons’s Movie Tie-in

This is the latest marketing gimmick, and I love it! Go upload a picture of yourself and see what you’d look like as a Simpson’s character.

With thanks to Nunna Yerbeezwax for sharing the link. Go do it now!

And I love it!

Heroes: The Super-Gay White Tigers Really Are Gay!

Okay, I’m believing Perez on this one because I can’t read German, but it sounds like Siegfried and Roy officially came out of the closet to a German newspaper. Did you even realize they were in? Yes, like certain other public figures (who maybe have the initials JF) who everyone “knows” about, they simply ignored the question. But now they answered it!

Good for them. All of America loves the white tigers. I bet there were a ton of folks in the conservative Midwest who saw the show in Vegas and prayed for Roy’s recovery after the tiger attack, even though he and Siegfried are so…colorful.

Maybe now some closed-minded people will have to say, hey, I liked those gay dudes before I knew they were gay, so maybe it’s okay to be gay. Or maybe not. It didn’t exactly work like that for the beloved Liberace. But it’s a start.

I hope the boys are chosen to be the grand marshals for SF Gay Pride this year. We could use a little Vegas on Market Street.

We Watch: In TV Shocker, Bachelor Couple Will Not Marry After All

I, for one, did not see this coming. From People, the sad news that Lame Head Andy and Too Good For This Tessa are taking some time to evaluate their relationship, aka Step 1 in the Squeezing Out Two More Minutes of Fame Through a Gradual Public Break Up dance.

Best line in the People story: they’ve broken their engagement, but not their bond

That is so gag-me. How gag-me? Every proana site in the world now has this at the top of their thinspirations puking tips.

Also, nice angle on that photo of Tessa’s ass, ABC. I’m sure she offers thanks to you daily for making that the show’s final publicity shot while she surfs House of Thin and Starving for Perfection.

The Imaginary Gun Show

I was so excited to write about the gun show. Even more excited to take pictures, until I found out that Cow Palace doesn’t let you bring in cameras. No matter, I would take copious notes, inconspicuously, and share the mystery with you, the curious world.

Except I didn’t get to go. For a variety of reasons that are best left unexplored (Chief’s fender bender = no car for WEEKS while it’s in the body shop, cough cough) we stayed home on Sunday.

But I can’t let go of the gun show dream. So here is my imagined gun show experience in the form of the semi-rhetorical questions I would have whispered to Chief during the day:

• Did you see her-no, wait, him?
• Oh my god, are those real?
• Whoa, are they a couple?
• I thought Nazi stuff wasn’t allowed?
• Where do you think that tattoo ends?
• Should you really eat that?
• What crazyhead issued him a permit?
• Is it wrong to buy this if I only have it ironically? No, are you sure? Please?
• Did he really tell you he killed a goat?

Next time I’ll rent a car if necessary. Shoot, I’ll rent a bike. But I won’t take Muni. Buses are for chumps.

Forget Rehab, What About Jail?

I’m no legal expert, but if I know the contents of Amy Winehouse’s drug OD regurgitation, then it stands to reason that the authorities know, too. So why isn’t she under arrest?

I mean, it’s still illegal to do ecstasy, coke or heroin, never mind all three, right? She admitted to this, and more, all over the interwebs. Not to get all technical, but that sounds like a confession to me.

What, doesn’t Commissioner Gordon have DSL down at the Hall of Justice? Should we print out a copy of the Perez post and mail it to him?

And we should totally add a note telling them to rush that squad car over for her. If this before and after shot is any indication, Amy’s five minutes from Keith Richards Heroin-Induced Living Death. Iggy Pop pulls it off, but on her it seems less “tribute” and more “lack of imagination.”

Phone People, or, Are We Mildly Autistic?

 

Some people are phone people. I’ve never been. I can talk to cab drivers about Kazakh history, tamale purveyors about regional South American cuisine, and crazy ladies about disemboweling chickens, but I can not talk to my closest friends on the phone.

Mostly it’s that I can’t pick up on conversational rhythms without seeing faces. Actually, they barely blip my radar when I don’t have an interview script. Throw a party and you’ll find me in the kitchen tossing back two drinks until I determine it’s okay to leave, abruptly.

Fortunately, Cat is the same way. We use text messages to arrange plans.

Cat: In cab. In 5 mins pls order cucumber mtini x2.
Colleen: Already did. Also made rez for table in 10 mins. Virgo.

Simple, efficient, direct. And that farmerbrown cucumber martini looked amazing.

Last week I called her at work. Probably she picked up because she didn’t recognize my cell phone number.

“Hi, this is Cat?”
“It’s Colleen. (beat) I’m looking for mascara. What type do you use?”
(very long pause)
“Pink and green tube.”
“Oh. (beat) Okay. (beat). Well, bye.”
(click)

BYE.

Blueprint vs Domino

Names of children featured in the August issues:

Blueprint
Stella Lou
Sasha
Edie
Sammy
Daisy

Domino
Oliver
Trinity

Much like the magazine itself, Blueprint’s names are safely bridge-and-tunnel: from the pull-out handbook on surefire grilling to the tennis racket purchasing guide, this is a magazine for blonde-highlighted, Hoboken-dwelling 23-year-olds who spend their summer shares in the Hamptons squinting at bond traders named Judson. I came, I saw, I decamped for New Jersey, had two kids, and named them “Daisy” and “Sammy.”

The names arise from some pastoral fantasy, evoking that much-heard-of and n’er experienced simpler time. Imagine a picnic: mom in a sundress, the kids pressed and polite, dad doling out potato salad and sliced meats. But dad’s fantazing about finger-banging that new analyst, the kids know they only got into the second-best school in Cherry Hill, and mom is thinking “I told you no MAYONNAISE in these sandwiches!”

Domino, however, seems purposefully to scrub the existence of children from its pages. An article on redecorating maternity-wear guru Liz Lange’s Manhattan rental features none of her children; you can sense their presence off the edge of the page, the photo director chanting “To the left…to the left…to the left” until they’re safely out of the frame.

Oliver and Trinity are the two teenage sons of some designer. They seem like nice enough kids; they have a purpose-built room to play their guitars. Probably they’ll experiment a bit with drugs, make some student films at Wesleyan. They’ll buy houses near the beach in Southern California, with expensive light fixtures and bespoke stationery. One of them will be gay, the other will at least wonder.

All in all, Cat, it seems like we’re Domino girls. What are your thoughts?

Period Shopping at Walgreens

Walgreens is a magical place. There is always something you need at Walgreens. When you crave a quick pick-me-up, whether it’s lipstick, double sided tape, Dr. Scholl’s inner soles or a refill of Ativan, a trip to Walgreens always delivers.

This is true every day of the week. And then there are certain weeks of the month when it’s especially true. I speak of Period Shopping.

You know. When you go in ostensibly to pick up a simple box of tampons and whatever ancillary equipment you prefer (panty liners, Monistat, or god-forbid-but-someone-buys-it “feminine” spray.) But before you put such openly vaginal items in your basket, you need cover purchases. Like a magazine. And shampoo. Shell pink nailpolish to have at your desk for emergencies. Gum.

Once you establish a basket base, you add in the box of pussy pops and go on your merry way. En route to the register you walk down the candy aisle. That’s where the psychosis sets in. Your mind squeals, “CANDY!” Full size candy admits defeat in the fight against bigger jeans, so you pick up a bag of mini Twix bars. For the office candy jar. Plus a tub of Red Vines, for variety.

You notice tension flooding out of your body. Shopping feels good! So you turn right, up the random electronics aisle, instead of left to the cashier. You stock up on photo frames, blank DVDs and Excedrin PM, which it pays to buy before you need it. You select light bulbs, leisurely.

Anywhere between $50 to $100 later, you stagger out under the weight of three bulging white plastic bags, a discreet brown paper wrapped box of tampons forgotten at the bottom of one of them.

Walgreens knows this. Why do you think they organize the aisles the way they do? And we love them for it. I feel better just knowing they are around every corner, that flushed feeling only a credit card swipe away.

Note that this same phenomena occurs at Costco, with a tally closer to $500. You’ll also walk out with a box of tampons big enough to supply Beaver Academy for a year, which is a good thing for certain ladies who have particularly heavy days.

Shop happy.

Meat as Strategy

So the Times is reporting on a culture shift in women’s first-date eating habits.

Former vegetarian/Smiths-album-owning Martha Wilkie (nee Flach) wanted to appear “unpretentious and down to earth and unneurotic” on her match.com profile, so she mentioned meat twice and later chowed on steak frites on a first date with her future husband.

Uh, I don’t know. On my first date with a crazy scientist, way back in 1998 (ahead of the curve!), I had steak and he had a salad. He also had a roll of $50’s, no job, visible track marks, and the same address as his parents, so probably I should have spent a bit of time discerning if he would be a good mate instead of neurotically planning how to appear like an beer-drinking, steak-eating, fun-luvin’ Kate Hudson.

But the fun times we had!

Halloween Spooooooooooks

Helena Bonham-Carter and (husband? life partner? dark lord?) Tim Burton are expecting a second child, who will undoubtedly grow up to be brilliant, slightly evil, and possessed of both crazy hair and excellent cheek bones.

I can not WAIT for the theatrical release of Sweeney Todd, by the way.