Eat the rich

Have you ever wanted to
kick a cartoon's ass?

I really, really, really, really don't want to write about Gwyneth again. But what Gwynnie wants, Gwynnie gets. And she obviously wants me to keep writing about her because she keeps topping herself with stupider and stupider shit.


So with that we have another edition of lifestyles of privileged and assy, starring GP and her famous friends. ld;skfhjkhnmdjfhklwejn...oh, sorry, I just vomited and passed out for a minute on my keyboard. Get ready to do the same.


You may have seen our pretty, pretty princess in the news a lot lately. That's because she's bestowed more of her valuable Secrets to Life upon us vassals in the form of a cookbook entitled My Father's Daughter: Delicious, Easy Recipes Celebrating Family & Togetherness. "In the last 10 years or so, cooking has become my main ancillary passion in life," she gushes in the introduction. Annoying us all by way of GOOP isn't enough for this woman. No, she must come at us from all angles: the television, the movie screen, the computer, Books-A-Million... she won't be satisfied until we see her in our sleep like a specter or incubus cackling manically and quoting Shakespeare. 


The New Yorker's recent profile of GOOPy will give you a little glimpse of what that nightmare might look like (Come to think of it, she should divorce Chris and marry Eustace Tilley, that cartoon prick that serves as The New Yorker's mascot. They could polish their monocles, eat Italian truffles and sniff haughtily about the gauche bourgeoisie.)

It’s tough for some people to accept Gwyneth Paltrow’s transformation from movie star to domestic goddess. Something about the combination of her willowy looks, her glam life style (she is married to Chris Martin, the Coldplay front man), and the unlikely food tips in her e-mail newsletter, Goop—“I was stationed at the deep fat fryer (Delight! Fried zucchini! Fried anchovies!)”—produces cognitive dissonance. 

OK, I already want to begin slowly sawing away at my eyelids with a cheese grater. Being married to Chris Martin, the Coldplay front man, makes her glam? That's like saying soysage is glam. 

Paltrow, who was hosting a dinner party to celebrate her publication, was not yet drinking, but she had a glow.... Dinner guests included people who do know her: Jay-Z, Cameron Diaz, Alex Rodriguez, the Seinfelds, and assorted food-world worthies. Most guests saw nothing unusual about getting cooking advice from a stick-thin actress; in fact, many said that they associated Gwyneth Paltrow with food. Mario Batali, in pink cargo shorts, was talking to Ruth Reichl. “She eats like a truck driver,” he said of Paltrow. He recalled being in Valencia, Spain, and “watching her eat an entire pan of paella as big as a manhole cover.” Michael Stipe added, “Once, a duck she was cooking caught fire, and she threw it in the pool.”

Oh, pa-hahahahahaha! Michael Stipe, do tell us again about the time Gwyneth tossed the flaming duck into the pool! Muffy, Wilhelm, you realllllly must hear this delightful story! I could hear it a thousand times and still laugh and laugh!


Seriously, can you imagine anything worse than being at a party with Mario Batali in pink cargo shorts and Michael Stipe telling some "amusing" anecdote about a Gwyneth Paltrow and a flaming duck? I mean, I want to think of something funny that could be worse, but I can't. That is as bad as it gets. That can't even be called a party; it's Dante's purgatory. 


Oh, wait a minute...it can get worse. God help us.

Christy Turlington looked on. “We are lucky in that we have been the recipients of many meals with Gwyneth Paltrow,” she said, and mentioned a stuffed-lobster dish that Paltrow and Martin had served in Amagansett. “They do everything themselves, including the killing of the lobster,” she said. “It’s not the boiling-in-the-pot-and-screaming lobster thing. It’s a different, faster approach. I could never do it.”

Was there ever a more perfect time for a recreation of Waco? 

A financier at the party said that he associated Paltrow with scungilli: “My family and I were conch-diving down in the Bahamas. They’d cook the conch right there on the beach. And they had a TV in the little hut there, and that’s where I watched the Oscars this year.” 

Readers, I could start railing about how people are starving in the world, how people in Japan are struggling to pull their lives back together, how just 60 cents a day could buy condensed milk for an entire village. But you don't need me to appeal to your sense of compassion to realize these entitled, self-important tallywhackers need to take their conch-diving and little beach huts with TVs and go fuck themselves. God!

At 9 p.m., the guests went out to a pair of long tables on the terrace. Diaz, A-Rod, and Batali sat near Chris Martin, who had arrived looking cranky. (A publicist warned, “He doesn’t want to talk.”) Paltrow sat a few seats away, flanked by Jerry Seinfeld and Jay-Z. (The next day, she and the rapper posted reciprocal interviews on their websites. Paltrow: “I could sing to you every single word of N.W.A’s ‘Fuck tha Police.’ ”) 

This is another portion of the story that intends to make us all think Gwynnie is cool and hip. She's down with N.W.A. and Jay-Z. Are they really fooling anybody here? Cripes, if Jay-Z had any kind of street cred left (hint: he doesn't, but let's pretend), it all went bye-bye when (a.) he dined with Seinfeld at Gwyneth's, and (b.) he interviewed Gwyneth on his website. 


And Chris Martin cranky? I don't believe it! I thought that frosty, ostentatious demeanor was all just part of his big, rich rock star persona and he's really a happy-go-lucky guy.


Just kidding. Chris Martin is a total dick.

Paltrow announced the menu: roasted red peppers with anchovies, escarole salad, pasta with duck ragout. Jessica Seinfeld made a toast: “There is no one who is more comfortable or more capable in the kitchen, naturally, than you,” she said to Paltrow. “I don’t know how you do it.” She turned to the assembled guests. “And you are all so lucky to be part of Gwyneth’s world. Because this is the real deal. And she’s invited all of you good people in here. I would never do that.”

Um, haha? Guests, Jessica Seinfeld just said would never have all you filthy animals dropping your cooties all over her kitchen like Gwyneth does. Is it possible there is someone at this meeting of the minds who is more priggish than the hostess? Ooh, maybe I should start blogging about little Jessi S. 


Despite what Mrs. Seinfeld says, not everyone at the monster's ball felt lucky to be a part of Gwyneth's world.

Wendi Murdoch, sitting nearby, had said that she is a reader of Paltrow’s blog: “Only one thing comes to mind—healthy and organic.” She listed her favorite recipes: “Pumpkin soup, grilled market vegetables. It’s good. I get my chef to cook it.” 

“But you’re directing the chef,” Kelly Behun, a friend of Murdoch’s, interjected. Behun, an interior designer, was the only guest who didn’t have a Paltrow-related food memory. 

“Gwyneth?” she said. “When I see her, I don’t think of food.”

OK, I don't throw around the C-word too much, but it really is the only appropriate description here. This party has officially made the Guiness Book for having the largest gathering of cunts per capita in the world. Congratulations! Ug, what a bunch of vapid snobs! It's like the rich kids in an John Hughes movie, but real. They may as well be carrying opera glasses and discussing junk bonds. 


What would have made this story better is if the duck caught on fire again, except this time Gwynnie throws it on Michael Stipe. Because of all the acrylic hair, the fire spreads quickly. And then the sprinkler system comes on, but it malfunctions and showers everyone with electricity. And then Eazy E's ghost drives by in an Impala and sprays the whole group with AK-47 bullets and they all die screaming in a pile of linen, summer-weight cashmere and burnt anchovies.


God, I'm so annoyed by this article. I think I'm having an aneurysm. sdf;lkj;eklrmn,n;glkad;m

Pretty hate machine

Due to a recurring midlife crisis, posting around here has been scant. Did anyone even notice? If you did, please indicate this in the comments. I need validation.

Anyhoo, in between watching SVU episodes I've seen 50 times already (but no Michael Pitt episode! Why don't they ever rerun that one?), drinking and brooding, I've spent a lot of my valuable free time surfing the web. This activity has opened up a whole new world of feeling inadequate. I hate it when other bloggers think of funny things to write about before I do. We all know that hasn't kept me from stealing ideas before, but I have this ongoing dream of being a blog topic pioneer. Let's be realistic: nothing is original anymore. So I say fuck it.


I'm going to steal today's subject from the blog I'm the most jealous of this week: You Just Made My List. Wanna know what I did last weekend? Read this website. Every single post. And alternated laughing my head off and turning Hulk green with insane jealousy. Why haven't I thought to write about my abject hatred for comedy troupe photos? Every week, the C-bus free papers run ads for the city's most prolific "performance troupe." I was under the impression that this group only did screwball comedy routines, because every ad and billboard features ak-toors in goofy costumes hanging all over each other and making wacky faces. I guess these ads are supposed to make me laugh or want to come and see their performance, but really just make me want to swallow battery acid. It's like those obnoxious theater kids in high school who were always "on," only they stayed that way into adulthood. And they're still far less funny than they think they are.


So anyway, I thought I'd list a few things I hate, in honor of You Just Made My List.


The teaser links on Yahoo! homepage stories
The following appeared on Yahoo! today:

Big-name actor cast as John Gotti 

An Italian-American star is set to

play the Dapper Don in a film about his

family's troubles > Gotti Jr. approves

I can't explain it, but that three-word teaser text line at the very end completely enrages me. There are only three lines of description text here. Why not just add three more words into the text and make the headline the only link? Oh wait, I know why: because people are stupid and they might not realize the headline is the link! Plus, the lowest common denominator can only digest sentences of 15 words or less before their heads explode. (In case you're wondering, Travolta is playing Gotti, which is totally hilarious.)


Here's another example from this week:

Chatty twin babies become Web sensations

These two brothers carry on an excited

conversation—but only they know what it's

about. > Watch their hand gestures

First of all, I made it through about five seconds of that video before wanting to rip my toenails out. The "excited conversation" consists of the babies looking at each other and babbling incoherently. Babies talk to mirrors. And the "hand gestures" Yahoo! is trying to lure us in with consists of a kid holding a hand out and sometimes flapping it. Not cute, not funny, NOT WORTH WASTING THREE-QUARTERS OF A LINE OF TEXT FOR.


What's even worse is when the teaser link text lures me into the story. How can I not click when they taunt me with "See her bad hair" or "Cat duet?" Fuckers.


People who use astrology to explain shitty behavior
"Scorpios are feisty and tell it like it is!" Translation: I insult everyone I come in contact with under the guise of "keeping it real." Get it? They're scorpions! Geminis are moody—they have two sides, like Jekyll and Hyde! Capricorns are controlling—because goats are assholes! Leos have self-control issues! So it's not really their fault when they murder your whole family and made wind chimes out of their bones!


Using "ask" as a noun
Fellow corporate whores, back me up on this. Ask is not a fucking noun. Ask is a verb. You don't have an "ask," you have a question. And when you say you have an ask, I have a sudden urge to broadside you with Merriam-Webster's 11th edition (it's heavier than the 10th).


The Real Housewives' children's names
There's no question that everyone who has ever appeared on any incarnation of this show is about as stable an escaped mental patient. So it's really not surprising that people who think they're better than everyone else would name their kids things like Capri, London, Kairo, François, Kennedy, Mason (girl), Brielle, Ryley (boy) and Colton. But who am I to talk? My kids are named Constantinople Djibouti, Millard Fillmore and Lynyrd Madysyn Skynyrd. And they're all girls.


Cigar Aficionado
Why, hello there! I was just polishing my dinosaur egg and didn't see you come in! Pleased to meet you. I'm the editor of an obscure little digest I like to call Cigar Aficionado. Ha ha, just kidding—it's not obscure. Everyone knows CigAf! Every two months, our cover features an A-list celeb (and Jim Belushi for some reason) with a just-barely-lit cigar poised lovingly between the first and middle finger, Photoshopped smoke curling around the smarmiest expression they can possibly muster. Inside, you'll find titillating prose on such topics as truffle hunting in Piedmont, cashmere socks and silver humidors. If you'd like a subscription, we ask that you make it on your black card so we know you're worthy of reading our journal of sophistication. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go count my Astin Martins. Ta-ta! (Actually, I have no idea if this magazine is really as pretentious as it looks. All I know is the sight of it makes me want to push the magazine racks at Barnes & Noble until they fall like so many dominoes.)


Nerdy teens asking for dates via video
There's an onslaught of these lately and I blame Glee. Has this happened on Glee? I've never seen it. Anyway, why does everyone fawn all over these things? They're creepy! Hi, I'm going to sing an original song I wrote for you to ask you to prom—and I'm videotaping it in the hopes it will go viral and I can go on Good Morning America. You can come, too, and sit next to me looking really uncomfortable. You couldn't say no unless you want to be harassed by bloodthirsty strangers online! Strongarming at its best. People, stop rewarding this behavior, unless you really, really want to see a rise in school shootings.


Blogger's new web editor
Wondering why the layout of this post looks particularly shitty today? It's because I had to redo it about 10 times because of Blogger's stupid fucking new, "improved" web editor. WYSIWYG, my ass. What I see is NOT what I get! There are huge gaps between each paragraph. I wanted the text to be white, not HIGHLIGHTED! The Cigar Aficionado header kept disappearing. When I looked in the HTML, there were about 900 spaces randomly showing up. I hope you like that picture—it took about two fucking hours to place it. I hate you, new Blogger. I hate you and your ass face!