It's happened. We've become That Couple. The couple who gleefully purchases costumes for their pets, gets the pets into the clothing through a complicated system of treats and half-nelsons, and documents the pets' systematic humiliation with photos.
Several months ago, my logic center suffered a mild seizure when I contemplated a possible romantic relationship between John Mayer and Jessica Simpson. I wanted to like the guy, but his alleged choice of companion pretty much threw his entire character into question. I was relieved when Us magazine seemed to take particular joy in crowing that he had dumped her after she turned a couple of dates into a major relationship. Okay, I thought. He's got some semblance of taste after all. But it seems I was mistaken.
Last week, we examined the boy skanks' bathing suit areas. This week, we examine their wallets -- and it actually feels more invasive and exploitative. That said, I'm kinda glad Romance went home last week so we were spared a scene of him gasping plaintively, "Can you put a value on love?"
Oddly, I found myself liking New York this week. (Maybe my fondness for her is going to alternate with the episodes, like the quality of Star Trek films.) But I couldn't not post this picture. You know how it is.
Some of you might be wondering why I haven't posted anything on the Oscar nominations yet. Frankly, I'm a little underwhelmed and disappointed in the choices. Maybe I got a little too into the whole Golden Globes business, but I just feel like we've been through this already. Almost exactly, in fact.
When I look through the nominations in what I consider the major categories (acting, directing, best film and best foreign language film), I don't see a whole lot of difference in the nominations. And while I guess that's a feather in the cap of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, it makes for a pretty boring awards season. Still, there are enough differences to warrant some discussion, plus I've got to go off on my designated rants for the season.
My perennial favorite British pop star, Robbie Williams, has announced that he will do a full-monty striptease for Elton John's 60th birthday in March. Of course, to my mind, nothing could top the one he did in the video for "Rock DJ." (Caution: not entirely safe for work, plus it gets a little gory.)
One of the most disturbing things I've seen on TV recently (besides all of I Love New York) is the way four of the remaining contestants on Top Chef ganged up on the odd man out, Marcel. I'd been unnerved by their persistent verbal abuse of him for the past couple of weeks. But last week, they crossed the line into physical assault, when Cliff woke a sleeping Marcel and held him down, while Ilan filmed it and yelled for either Sam or Elia to come get the clippers and shave Marcel's head.
One of the things that bothered me most about it is that I don't think it went down the way the show presented it.
UPDATE: Both my videos of the original head-shaving incident and the re-edited footage have been removed from YouTube after I got an email from them citing "copyright violations." Make of that what you will. (All I'm going to say is this: VH1 doesn't seem to mind my use of videos, but then I'm not accusing them of lying. Stay golden, VH1.)
I guess Isaac Cohen discovered he just wasn't that into Britney. I tell ya, there's something about being thrown up on that's really off-putting. To either his credit or his shame, though, he waited to sever ties until he'd picked up a crapload of hideously tacky stuff from Ed Hardy.
Yeah, supposedly, she's single again. I'm losing count; is this the second or the third dude she's dated since filing for divorce two months ago? (And does Paris Hilton figure into the count anywhere?)
Well, the honeymoon is over. I knew sooner or later New York would return to her obnoxious form, and I'd resume actively disliking her. Oh, well. At least I learned a new word this week: "mangeant." Yes, it's a beauty pageant for men.
Sadly, I can't remember if this reaction is to Onix's fineness, Romance's spaz-dance, 12-Pack's abs or Mr. Boston's bare ass. Oh, yeah. Brace yourselves.
This post isn't about the film and TV honors given out last night; it's not about handicapping Oscar season; it's not even about the Golden Globes broadcast itself ('cause I forgot to watch). It's about how the people who attended looked in the photos I snagged from Yahoo this morning (photos provided to Yahoo by NBC and/or Steve Granitz/WireImage.com).
For instance, Helen Mirren looked glorious, from the incredible color (everyone should wear peacock blue every chance they get) to the jewelry to that great "it's in the bag, bitches" gleam in her eye.