In Medias Res

So long, sucksters!

I'm sick of Friendster Blogs being down.

You're sick of emails telling you when I've posted something new.

So this blog is a-moving. Find me <a href="http://bloggaplease.blogspot.com/">here.</a>.

Bookmark it, yo!

Time Was On My Side

Video Fun Friday!!!

Oh, I'd love to write a nice long entry about Courtney & Eminem, or Cindy Sheehan, or how Death Cab is about to become the Christian Laettner of indie rock, but I just got Comcast On Demand and a LoveSac, so we'll get to all that another time.

Let's all watch TV! Here are some of my current favorite videos:

• The NY Attorney General fined Hot-97 $240,000 for putting this on the radio, and I think it's worth every penny. By the way, the first thing we hear is that Kemeisha needs this fy-hunnit for textbooks; what does Eliot Spitzer need $240,000 for?
• Courtesy of The Malcontent, an advance look at Brokeback Mountain. It comes out in early December; I'll be lining up outside Graumann's Chinese around Halloween. Who's with me?
• The inside story of the acrimonious future break-up of King Ten.

Enjoy! If you need me, I'll be ass-deep in The Facts of Life. The Piekarski year!

The Greatest Bumper Sticker I Have Ever Seen

I pass this one on my bike just about every day, and even given the gnarly neurological subject matter, it never fails to put a smile on my face. No, For Better or For Worse family, I Never Heard of DYSTONIA, and you're right: that's pretty funny.

It does the heart good to see the Patersons in a simpler time. Especially this week, when we're all recovering from Elizabeth's near-rape. I mean, look at them. Michael's smile is utterly effortless- no Deanna, no children to ruin his sleep and cloud his beautiful mind. April's still a toddler, wide-eyed and blissfully unaware of the fall from grace that awaits her as guitarist for 4-Evah. Farley's still alive. God DAMMIT, we miss you, Farley. Sometimes it's too much to bear.

I love these people. They remind us of the beauty, the fragility, the unpredictability of life. The fact that change is the only constant. The possibility that the person you least expect will make a quip that teaches you a valuable lesson and makes your face go like this:

These here are crazy times. Tomorrow's not a promise. Sometimes the best thing to do is huddle up with your family and have a good laugh at the knucklehead who never heard of dystonia.

By the way, it's a neurological movement disorder, you ignorant prick.

No, THIS shit is bananas.

If you've ever wondered what it would be like to be stuck in an elevator with Leeza Gibbons and an 8-ball of weak blow, get to a newsstand! OK Magazine has finally made its American debut, and I'm one small but decisive step closer to joining a militia.

In between features on the New Man in Mischa Barton's Life (it's a PUPPY!) and the A-List's secret  getaway (it's SANTA MONICA! Seriously, they give you directions and everything) is my favorite: an intimate conversation and fashion layout with Tara Reid.

Now, on shoots like this, there are stylists and lighting guys and make-up artists and publicists and managers and photoshoppers and airbrushers and on and on. Yet:

We must assume that the intended effect is "sexy, mysterious and alluring", but the result is more "drunk, startled and digesting hot wings." My artist's rendering:

In the Q&A, Tara is asked about her infamous red-carpet exposed-boob incident:
OK!: There was a lot of comment in the press last year about your wardrobe malfunction at P. Diddy's party...
Tara: I think it's the dumbest thing in the world. I mean in Europe, people don't have a top on, and they just hang out at the beach. Who cares? It just shows people's ignorance.

Good call. Going in front of dozens of photographers and having your dress fall clean off your body without you so much as twitching? Totally, intimidatingly classy. Let's you and me have a motherfucking General Foods International Coffee one of these days. On me. Pinkies all out and everything.

I am reminded of Tara's interview with the New York Post, in which she lamented her party-girl image thusly: "I'm known as this retard." Oh, Tara. I don't think you're a retard. See, my cousin Mike has Down's Syndrome, and he knows when his shirt is on.

And this is just the tip of the shit-berg. OK Magazine is on newsstands now. Or you could watch the Style Channel and slap yourself over and over. Your call.

Ain't That Peculiar?

"P.S.: We were hoping for a more recent picture of Mr. Gaye, but unfortunately, in 1984, his father got drunk and shot him in the face. Bottoms up!"