Saturday, 8 December 2012


committing the unpardonable sin of being attractive
 to the opposite sex. Never mind that she is the 
only artist to spend 69 consecutive weeks in the 
top ten and has sold 11 million albums. None of that 
stuff matters, because Camille Paglia gives her a 
feminism "fail." 

Alexandra Glen/Featureflash

I saw an article in UK's Daily Mail in which Camille Paglia slams Katy Perry and Taylor Swift for being "insipid bleached personas" who are dragging us all back to the 1950s with their "man-pleasing" personalities.
"Are Katy Perry and Taylor Swift killing feminism?" the article asks.
No, Camille, I reply. YOU did that with your relentless haranguing. Your acidic, attack-dog persona made feminism about as appealing as a bubbling bowl of bile.

See, here's the thing: the brand has evolved. Feminists these days are smarter. Softer. And stronger. Today's feminists know they can giggle and wear dresses and false eyelashes and heels and perfume and, guess what, still be the boss of themselves.
We support ourselves, we have babies, we rest up for as long as we can afford to and then we go back to work; or we just stay single. Either way, we have fantastic careers if we want them. 

You think Beyonce isn't a smart, strong woman? Really? I'll lay down a grand right here, right now, that says that woman calls the shots in her marriage to one of the most powerful men in music. 

You think Katy Perry isn't a smart, strong woman with a record-breaking, kick-ass career, of which she is solidly in charge? 
You think Taylor Swift (age 22 and thus still growing up, btw) isn't a major talent who is only now getting a taste of her incredible power? 
Then perhaps you are stuck in the delusion that strong women have to look butch, act butch, talk butch and, above all, always be ready to attack and emasculate those whom nature intended to be our partners.
How deeply unattractive. 
And that, Camille, is why no young woman in her right mind wants to call herself a "feminist" these days. Even if she is one.

There is a very wise, very old expression, wiser and older even than you, Camille, that says, "You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar."  Honey is on trend these days. Vinegar? Mmm, not so much. So take your tart-smarts and leave these young ladies alone, will you? 
Women are the shit, Camille. Always have been, always will be. The last thing we need is to be attacked by one of our own.


Do anything long enough and eventually, it becomes a trend.  

This is not something anyone important ever said, but it could be. Because for years, I have taken gratuitous pictures of myself: Here's me holding a flower. Here's me looking pensive as I sip a cappucino. Here's me sticking my tongue out as my unsuspecting daughter smiles earnestly beside me. Gratuitous. Pictures. Of. Myself. 
And suddenly, GPOY. 

It's a hot new trend, the latest buzz-cronym that symbolizes how lazy we are that we cannot even take the time to say the words those letters stand for. "Gratuitous Photo of ... *gasp* ...Yourself: OMG, let me lie down and take a nap after that linguistic workout. LMAO!"

Google "GPOY" and you will be inundated with annoying images of self-absorbed teens who think pictures of themselves are the reason Google was invented. Spare yourselves this thrombosis-inducing aggravation and just go directly to my "GPOY," at left. There is no subtext, no background story, no explanation at all. Just pure, red-filtered, gratuitousnous. LOL. LOL. LOL.

Thursday, 6 December 2012


Don't ask where I spotted this sad display, because I'm not a tattle (Brampton, Ont.)

You know how well-meaning parents will tell their kids, “That is a BEAUTIFUL drawing, Jason! I am so proud of you!” even when it’s a piece of crap? Yeah, that rule doesn’t apply to Christmas decorations, folks. If your lights suck, you don’t get an “E” for effort. You get an “F.” In fact, you might even get a G or an H. This homeowner is blighting up the neighbourhood with a scraggly string of lumieres he probably put up six years ago and never, ever plans to take down again. It doesn’t matter that half the bulbs are burnt out. It doesn’t matter that they have come loose and dangle like a hanged man at the right edge. It does not matter. Because he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care if you care, and he never plans to get up on that damn ladder again. When this house gets sold, those sickly lights are getting sold with it.

Neighbour: Hey, Jim, you got a few lights out up there eh? 
Jim: So? 
Neighbour: Well I just thought you . . . 
Jim: What are you, the neighbourhood light patrol?
Neighbour: No, I just . . . 
Jim: You’re in charge of the decorating committee or something? 
Neighbour: No, I . . . 
Jim: You know what? People like you are the reason I don’t even bother trying anymore! I put up a beautiful set of lights six years ago, damn near broke my neck falling off that ladder, and did anyone say “Oh, Jim, those lights are BEAUTIFUL! We are so proud of you!” No! Not one word. But a coupla lights go out and you come running and screaming “JIM! JIM! YOUR LIGHTS ARE BURNT OUT! IT LOOKS AWFUL. YOU SUCK, JIM!” 
Neighbour: I’ll just be going now. 
Jim: Yeah I guess you will! MERRY FRIGGIN' CHRISTMAS!


So do ya think, maybe . . . ?
You know why I was happier than almost anyone when Katie Holmes dumped Tom Cruise? Because if there's one thing I can't abide, it's the sight of a tall woman with a short man. 
Oh, I'm sorry, does that sound shallow? Yeah well I don't give a rat's ass. Because I'm a tall woman who has been through hell ... HELL, I tell  you! ... trying to find someone tall enough that I can wear stilettos and not make him feel like I just neutered him with my bare hands.

Yet for some reason, I seem to be attracting a lot of short dudes lately. I'm not talking one or two inches shorter than I am. I'm talking Danny de Vito. Maybe it's wanting what you don't have. Maybe it's the fact that they can see up my skirt without even having to wear their mirrored shoes. I don't know and I don't care. If you can't look me in the eye when I'm talking to you, it is not gonna happen.

It's not like I've never dated shorter men. But I found that certain things that were important to me often became a problem. And then they became a power struggle. And then they became a deal-breaker. Because if, as one short-lived boyfriend once did, a man says to you: "Must you ALWAYS wear shoes that make you look like a transvestite?" it is only a matter of time before you start to resent that he made you hate your favourite shoes.
Recently, I dated a man who, at 6’2'', was taller than I am in even my tallest heels. We were very happy together for more than a decade. I can’t remember his name anymore, but I do remember the way wearing heels again made me feel. Bloody fantastic.

Seriously, short men, if THIS is what you see 
when you are trolling for dates, you are
 in the wrong aisle. Run along now ...

You may be asking yourself, “Why, when there is so much strife in the world, is she nattering on about short men and shoes?” Ahem. Please refer to my indepth coverage of several fantastically important news items, directly at right. Hello? Aretha exposing herself to the president? The Olsen twins turning under-cover drug dealer? You want more than that? I'll give Christiane Amanpour a call and see if she's got anything for me.
(Sheesh. Does it say The Economist up there on the masthead? No it does not.)

Editor’s note: In related news, Danny de Vito says he and Rhea Perlman are "working it out." 
My note: Did he use that terminology? Gross. 

Wednesday, 5 December 2012


by the fact that she has a stalker. 
One would think it would take a little more 
than that to faze a woman whose skin has 
survived a gallon of ink and Jesse James' fingers.

It's  hard to believe that a wholesome, clean-living young lass like Kat Von D would attract weirdos, but apparently she is being stalked by some guy who sends her "creepy messages" and shows up at her home.  

Kat even knows his name  ... Michael Nunn (and I don't know about you but that does NOT say "stalker" to me; he needs a much more sinister-sounding name if he ever expects to be taken seriously) ... although Kat just calls him "dude." Which, if you ever watched her eerily fascinating show Miami Ink, you are aware she calls everyone. Even her mom. "Whoa! DUDE! You rock! Totally love that friggin' birthday python you sent me!"

Anyway, Kat and her 700 tattoos are so spooked by the stalker's behaviour that they've gone to court to seek an injunction against him. And I'm like, dude, seriously? Because you'd think that a woman  who willingly endured 3,000 needles and sex with Jesse James would immediately recognize this guy as what he so obviously is: husband material! 

Editor's note: I can't decide if I am repulsed or intrigued by those temple tattoos. Also, is it just me or is this woman a dead ringer for the naughty version of Neve Campbell?
My note: It's just you. 


Breezy toke took in the sights and bongs of 
  the freewheeling city during a concert stopover.  
Afterward, he developed a near-paralysing case 
of the munchies, toured a stroopwafel factory and 
had 3,023 of the syrupy treats sent to his hotel room
And then asked, "Where the hell did THESE 
come from?"
Paul Smith/Featureflash

And from our "Did Chris Brown Even Have Any Parents?" files, we bring you the latest shenanigans of a young star who is disintegrating faster than Octomom's abdominal muscles. Chris is in Amsterdam today to subject its residents to one of his concerts. And to help get himself in the right frame of mind, he visited the city's fabled "coffee shops" and posted pix of himself smoking three gaggers at once, followed by a photo of himself taking a hit from a medicinal bong the size of a didgeridoo.  

Click here to see the pix of Chris Brown spending his money wisely. Good, clean fun.

Editor's note: I have just viewed the photos and I am bitterly disappointed. Rihanna does not make a naked appearance in any of them!
My note: That's probably cuz she was back at the hotel   waiting for the stroopwafel delivery to arrive...

Tuesday, 4 December 2012


Playmate Crystal Harris, 26. Who genuinely 
loves him and is a natural blonde.
Proving that his luge ride to senility is ramping up to warp speed, Hugh Hefner (age two hundred and eleventy) is engaged to be married. To his "Number One,” playmate Crystal Harris, 26. 

Harris was his number one last year too, but for some unfathomable reason that probably has a lot to do with looking at Hugh Hefner naked, she called it quits five days before the wedding, narrowly averting a traumatizing wedding night romp. 
But Crystal has grown up a lot since then. Not enough to change her name to something less stripperish, perhaps, but enough to realize that marrying a liver-spotted gumper a full 60 years older than she is is exactly what she wanted after all.

The happy, not-at-all-creepy, perfectly normal couple will wed at the Playboy Mansion on New Year's Eve. Unless Hef dies before then. True love! 

Editor's note: We have obtained a copy of the wedding announcement for the blessed event, below. Yeah, that's right, tmz. THE ACTUAL WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT!

Hef and Crystal
request the honour of your smirking presence 
at the farcical 'beginning of our new life together.'
 (Estimated duration, 6 months to 2 years, max.)

The happy couple is registered at 
Caskets Glorious (him) 
and Toys 'R' Us (her). 
Date: New Year's Eve, 2012
 Location: Playboy Mansion
 Ceremony: 3 p.m.
Dinner: 4 p.m.
Dance:  5:30 till 6:45 p.m. (groom's bedtime)

 *Note: The bride may be available 
for continued revelry after 7:15 p.m.

We ask that you make sure you are on time,  
as Hef is 86 and it's pretty much moment-to-moment now.

Monday, 3 December 2012


Instagram posted and captioned by Chris Brown

Words to describe Chris Brown: Talented. Smoker. Exhibitionist. Cocky. Fate-tempting arrogant unrepentant little shit who appears to have learned nothing from horrific domestic violence incident.
Words to describe Rihanna: Ditto.

Editor's note: What would music sound like today if these kids didn't exist? Hmm. Well let's see. It might sound like . . . Alicia Keys. And Beyonce. And Justin Bieber. And Jay-Z. And Usher. And Madonna and Lil Wayne and Lady Gaga and Christina Aguilera and Drake and Taylor Swift and ... whew. Out of breath. Next question? 



But Ricky Martin's boyfriend proposed to me once 
when I was wearing these bad boys. True story.
Most of us girls know a thing or two about the incredible power of shoes. They have sex appeal. They have allure. They have the power to turn an average girl into a hottie and an average outfit into a knockout ensemble. 

But something happened to me the other day that made me realize shoes may have a whole other level of heretofore undiscovered power. The power to make a man “switch sides.

So I was wearing my brand new Temptress Red six-inch stilettos. The miserable fuckers bit into my feet like rusty claw-foot traps, but they are so hot I endured the pain for hours before finally crawling to the ladies' room on my hands and knees to change into flip-flops.
However, during those few crippling hours, those red-hots drew bags of compliments . . . including a peculiar one from a young gay acquaintance. 

As I walked past him, I could feel his eyes glomming onto my shoes and caressing them like a crazy cat lady caresses her cats.
"I LOVE your shoes, Marie!" he said.
"Thank you," I grimaced. "They're really comfortable!"
"They make you look so hot!" he said, and I swear he was blushing. 
I blinked and gave him a confused smile. "Uhhh ... thank you?"

Show me a man who can resist 
a pair of pink feathered shoes and 
I will show you a man whose eyes 
were pecked out by blackbirds.

Yeah. So that on its own, not exactly world-altering. But it reminded me of a time last summer, when I went to a Mary J Blige concert. The crowd lined up for a good hour outside beforehand, and as always, you get to know people in the lineup. I met a friendly young man from Montreal and he told me about his recent breakup.
"Some day you'll meet the right woman," I soothed.
He smiled and said, "Well thanks, but I'm gay, so I doubt that."

We got along so well he hung around with my crew once we were inside. As the night progressed and he had a few beers, he became friendlier. And at one point he leaned in close and said, "Those shoes make your legs look amazing!" 
In a way that made me, even in my advanced stages of beer ingestion, snap to attention. 
"Are you sure you're gay?" I asked him. AND HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY.

So I'm thinking, is it possible to be not all the way gay? I thought it was like being pregnant: either you is or you ain't. Now I'm wondering.
I'm also wondering, can shoes make you switch sides?  

Of course, it may not be the shoes that are doing this. It may just be me. I have long suspected I am the sort of catnip that can drive straight men mad and gay men straight. But the shoes definitely help. And if they are, in fact, the missing ingredient, then I just bought me a pair of size 7-and-a-half, gay-marriage homewreckers. That's right: Christian Louboutins. 
Gay men, you'd better hang on to your husbands.