I was at a birthday party Saturday night when I had this exchange with a guy I'd just met:
Me: Has anyone ever told you you look like a young Henry Rollins?
Guy: Who's that?
Me: Haa Haa. But seriously, you look just like him.
Guy: I really don't know who that is.
Me: (incredulous) Henry Rollins? Black Flag? Henry Rollins! Henry Fucking Rollins!
Guy: (Shrugs) Who is that? I really don't know.
Me: Has anyone ever told you you look like a dumb Henry Rollins?
And no, he wasn't kidding. Kids these days!
(And yes, I was mean, but it had to be done. Tough love!)
* You already can't swing a laptop bag around Lolita without hitting someone who thinks that blogging is going to make them rich. (And please, someone do that.) Now it's going to be even worse. These kids today with the scary dollar signs behind their eyes...
* Speaking of, my friend had a genius idea: I should have done that blogger-fashion photo shoot, but worn a fat suit and blacked out my teeth. Because that's what Amy Sedaris would do! (WWASD) Brilliant...
* Right now I'm wearing a new fragrance: Curious by Britney Spears. The main reason is I think it smells good, but the secondary reason is it's my attempt to bring irony into the realm of scent. I do think it smells good, though. Very delicate. Anyway, I can't wait for someone to ask me what my perfume is! (I also think it's funny that it's called "curious." Like "What's that curious smell?")
(Nobody's going to talk about this outside of email? Fuck it, I'll talk about this!)
Yesterday, blogger and self-described famous public figure Stephanie Klein announced that she was pregnant. Her commenters went crazy with joy, posting 100 comments of congratulations in the comment section. Then, much later that day, Stephanie posted that in actuality, long before her announcement, the fetus was found to be deformed and that she was no longer pregnant.
Everything above appeared on Stephanie's blog, where she seems to be basking in the attention of her Oprah's-audience-like followers.
So what are we, Stephanie's public, to make of all this?
If I might share what appears outside of Stephanie's moderated comments section to be the unanimous opinion: we are no longer dealing with the world's worst, yet most self-congratulatory blogger. We are now dealing with a person who wasn't going to let a little thing like a nonexistent baby get in the way of her pregnancy attention.
What kind of person would use something as tragic as the loss of their pregnancy as fodder for a BLOG that deals primarily with what she's eating (and who she's fucking) for dinner? That includes more than 12,000 individual words about her hair?
You can say that I'm mean, you can say that this kind of thing is off-limits, but I say that what's off limits the degree of manipulation that went into what at best was a publicity stunt and what at worst was a cry for help by a very sick person.
Actually, at worst it was a publicity stunt. I'm not a psychiatrist, but if I were I would spend the rest of my life swimming in a large pool filled with the grant money I'd get using Stephanie as a research subject. Sweetie, I know you're reading this: go get help. You're going to make some Amsterdam Avenue shrink very happy.
Just in case you didn't get the memo, it is 100% not okay to hang out with Lizzie Grubman.
Deep down, you already know this. Bottom line: blogger starf*cker photos are embarassing to our Country, our Era, our Fad-Based-Hobby and our God.
Related: The Straw That Broke The Grambo's Back.
(Is there some sort of syndrome (along the lines of Jerusalem or Stockholm) where someone thinks they're famous when really they're just a blogger? If not, let's call it "Manhattan Syndrome")
I love you, but this is getting really embarassing. Pick a side: outsider or insider. There is no in between. This is to all bloggers. Remember where you came from, keep it real, stop frontin', be more punk rock, I'm watching you, etc. etc. etc.
* Slate's Dana Stevens gives us all permission to watch Breaking Bonaduce (I haven't yet, but I will now):
And now for the pretension:
* Nobody cared 20 years ago, nobody cared 10 years ago, and nobody even knows what you're talking about now. Uh...seriously...Nantucket pants? Huh? You're an old lady writing about how it's so unfair than just anyone can buy Brooks Brothers now when it used to only be for special people like you? And you really think that's okay? It's like the indie-rock-snob aesthetic applied to Ralph Lauren polo shirts, which would be awesome if it was satire, but instead it's completely dead serious. This reminded me of the random guy who showed up at my birthday party and started bragging about how he went to Hotchkiss. I kept saying "Hodgkins? What's that?" even though I knew it was a prep school. The moral is: if we all pretend to have no idea what pretentious people are talking about, maybe someday they'll shut up and get personalities. It's like complaining that your favorite vintage shirt is now available in sizes small, medium and large at Urban Outfitters, only worse. No. Body. Cares.
This might get me in trouble, but the power of parody compels me. Unless these people were severely taken out of context - and I don't believe they were - this is the single most offensive and unintentionally hilarious profile I've ever read of anyone, ever. Something must be done. So here:
UNDER THEIR EFFLUENCE
February 3, 2005 -- IN addition to working as the creative director for the Soho and Tribeca Grand hotels and being a self-described "douchebag," 36-year-old Tommy Saleh advertises for herpes, chlamydia, and genital warts - secretly.
"Valtrex did a giant, suppurating cold sore for me, and a post-urinating drip," he says. "APC gives me so much stuff - like crabs. Crabs mean a lot to me." Saleh also carries three previously undiagnosed STDs - all given to him for free.
Which begs two questions: Why and how?
"A lot of people want to put their herpes on me, because of all the fabulous things I do," says Saleh, with no trace of irony.
Some of the fabulous things Saleh has on his schedule: attending the free clinic in the East Village; sucking dick for a dollar at the bus depot; curating his "very strict guest list" for non-gononcoccal urethritis nights at the Tribeca Grand and sore-swapping with members of Interpol and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
"My friends are douchebags," Saleh says. "I get asked maybe 10 to 20 times a day why my cock is green and leaky."
Saleh is part of a new kind of STD transmission phenomenon - one that goes beyond more established methods like unprotected sex (sores orchestrated to look as though they're "up from the street,") or barbed-wire anal fisting (in which corporations hire young, attractive, charismatic people to go into bars and clubs and anally fist customers with a hand wrapped in herpes-soaked barbed wire).
"If the right person is wearing the right sore, people want it," says Kelly Cutrone, founder of the fashion branding firm People's Revolution. Cutrone gives thousands of dollars worth of free diseases to Saleh and other New Yorkers who aren't rich or famous, but who run in desirable circles and like the feeling of painful urination.
"We call it 'veinlining,'" she says. "That means we take it out of the industry and put it onto people's genital areas, so it spreads."
Cutrone says the civilians on her gift list "don't have to be knockouts - they just have to have great style. And it helps if they're really skinny And easy."Like Natalie Joos - who may not be a boldface name, but who is exclusively carpet-munching the models in Marc Jacobs' shows this season."
She looks really great in clothes, she's skinny, and people look to her because her pussy has more foreign objects in it than the detainment camp at Gitmo- they ask what she's dripping," says Cutrone.
Leigh Lezark, a DJ and prostitute who throws the weekly downtown dance party Misshapes, is arguably one of the most influential New Yorkers in the music industry, though few outside her circle know they're infected.
"I get a whole bunch of infections - herpes, warts, makeup," says Lezark, who is in her early 20s. "People will say, 'I see you around; everywhere you go people are looking at you and your sores.'"
Since co-founding Misshapes - which has become the Saturday night destination for downtown scenesters and art-school kids - a year ago, Lezark has been given about $15,000 in free goods and services in exchange for blow jobs.
"Lacoste wants to give us gonhorrhea; they heard about us through Misshapes," she says. "I get into sold-out shows all the time, like Interpol at Roseland - I don't even know how much it would cost to go see Interpol at Roseland. Fashion Week is not a problem - last year I was on line for the Marc Jacobs party and someone just pulled me out of the line and fucked me in the ass. I can't remember the last time I paid for a drink."
But Lezark's true influence is felt in the unrecognizably infected nether regions of the music industry.
"At a place like Misshapes, they spread a disease, and all the cool kids will be like, 'Who is that?'" says Carmelita Morales, a publicist at addVICE Marketing.
Morales, who gives Lezark strains of herpes to test out at her party, points to the recent mainstream success of the Killers (who played on "Saturday Night Live" a few weeks ago) as proof.
"It was important to give the Killers genital warts - because if it comes from a toilet seat, all the club kids and douchebags would never go for it. You want them to catch it in the clubs first."
To that end, addVICE threw the band's record release party at Misshapes about a year ago. "This was right after they gave handjobs to a half-empty crowd at Bowery Ballroom," says Morales. "But tapping into that e-mail list to get those kids into the Killers was really the main thing. Misshapes is a part of their lifestyle. Misshapes and herpes."
"And," Morales adds, "if you get 10 Leighs in a city to spread something, it'll be an epidemic."
(Co-parodied with TMFTML)