"sie hat auch das talent, keinen bh zu tragen."

Außerdem passe auf diese Körper auch noch mehr Creme, was gut für die Verkäufe sei, fügt Nebel hinzu.

(Zu einem jungen Mann:) "Von hinten habe ich dich gar nicht erkannt, da hast du ausgesehen wie ein junger Mann."

m., marling, malo: u will like that

The after party was at Siberia, the skankiest bar I've ever been to, with "nightmarish bathrooms" (as advertised on Citysearch). John Cameron Mitchell was the DJ, "perhaps winning a small battle with his own diminishing relevance," observed one bitch, who nevertheless had "to give him credit for spinning some really cool tunes."

Wandering by one of the kitchens, there was nary a curry to be found, but I noticed through the window that two women had smuggled in a magnum of champagne, lending a gilded note to the plywood surroundings. Even the most jaded relational aesthete could not help but thrill slightly at what happened next. In a flurry of pale yellow chiffon, Paris Hilton made her entrance into the kitchen, completely annihilating any previous notion I had of "social sculpture." Her arrival initiated a celebrity avalanche, and the likes of Farrah Fawcett, Mariah Carey, and a smattering of rock stars—including David Gilmour and Roger Waters of Pink Floyd, Alex James of Blur, and Rod Stewart—punctuated the rest of my evening.

With music on my mind, I headed for the new pavilion, where arms were flailing and Jimmy Choo heels were breaking on the dance floor. From outside, with steam on the translucent panels beautifully refracting the light, the structure had taken on the air of a psychedelic Pentecostal rally. But paganism and aristotrash prevailed, and everyone danced in earnest under the building's sensual curves until the DJ closed the evening with Howard Jones's 1980s anthem "Things Can Only Get Better." And so we wandered off to the Groucho Club to see if it was true.

Petra announced that she was nervous, and took a swig of yellowish liquid from a plastic jug. "This is not pee—it's Throat Coat," she assured the audience, dashing any hopes of rock-star outlandishness. Nudged out of the procrastination routine by her Sell Outs, the nervous jitters suddenly gave way to the anthemic "Armenia City in the Sky." Blame it on Roger Daltrey, whose voice and hair and ego never did it for me, but I've never liked The Who, so I had high hopes for Haden's a cappella album when I heard Daltrey hated it. (Pete Townsend, for the record, totally digs it.) Somehow it makes sense that a group of ten women could get past macho rock star posturing in order to tease out the best parts of The Who's concept album, particularly the complex vocal harmonics, nutty Radio London jingles—"Drink easy, Drink easy, Drink easy/Puh-lee-zee"—and mild-mannered psychedelia. artforum: diary

You can quibble with Hornby’s faux populism, his rejection of a critic’s basic job description, or his complete misreading of a band’s recordings and appeal. But that would be missing the importance of his review: It showed other literary authors that you can get away with anything. All you need is a buzzy book and you too can be a rock critic.

brad! angelina! heilige familie in the making! domestic bliss

[banner: win a luxury spa vacation from botox cosmetic!]

martha stewarts prison nick name: m.diddy

[via gawker]

Woman #1: Oh! This guy is so hot. Woman #2: He's a druggie. Woman #1: He's so hot. Oh God. I can't even stand it! Woman #2: Maybe you'll meet him in rehab. --MTV Studios, Times Square

you're gonna make some plastic surgeon a rich man.

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