New Scent-Sation: Smell Me and...Run?
By: Alexa Camp On: 07/10/2008 19:30:04 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 0
Last weekend I was out at the club and men were hitting on me more than usual. I don't really have a hard time meeting guys, but they were approaching from all sides and were particularly aggressive this night. They bought me drinks, asked me to dance, practically begged for my number. It got so bad at one point that the doorman had to come over and ask a few of them to leave. Sure, I was wearing my freakum dress. Yes, I had just gotten a bikini wax earlier that day. But it wasn't until the bartender asked, "What's that beguiling vaginal scent I smell?" that it dawned on me. It was the new fragrance I picked up in Chinatown! While shopping for some bubble tea (a delicious iced beverage with engorged tapioca balls), I passed a man holding a sign that said "Free Sun Tan." I stopped and asked the man who Sun Tan was and why he was being held captive. He pointed to the tanning salon behind him. Well, you can imagine my embarrassment, so I did what anyone would do in that situation and went inside and got my cooter waxed, during which the man's wife asked if I had a boyfriend. When I told her, in between screams, that I was happily single, she shook her head and insisted I try this ancient aphrodisiac that had been passed down from generation to generation in her family. It was called Vulva. When I got home from the club that night, after being accosted by my cab driver and the homeless man who hangs out outside my building, I went online to do some research and discovered that Vulva wasn't an ancient Chinese aphrodisiac at all but a German fragrance that smells just like PUSSY! I don't know how I missed this one, especially since its ad campaign bears a striking resemblance to the one for Tom Ford for Men. Vulva's website is called Smell Me and Cum, and the company responsible, Vivaeros Special Products, describes it as "a precious vaginal fragrance filled into a small glass phial." Vile, indeed.
Last weekend I was out at the club and men were hitting on me more than usual. I don't really have a hard time meeting guys, but they were approaching from all sides and were particularly aggressive this night. They bought me drinks, asked me to dance, practically begged for my number. It got so bad at one point that the doorman had to come over and ask a few of them to leave. Sure, I was wearing my freakum dress. Yes, I had just gotten a bikini wax earlier that day. But it wasn't until the bartender asked, "What's that beguiling vaginal scent I smell?" that it dawned on me. It was the new fragrance I picked up in Chinatown! While shopping for some bubble tea (a delicious iced beverage with engorged tapioca balls), I passed a man holding a sign that said "Free Sun Tan." I stopped and asked the man who Sun Tan was and why he was being held captive. He pointed to the tanning salon behind him. Well, you can imagine my embarrassment, so I did what anyone would do in that situation and went inside and got my cooter waxed, during which the man's wife asked if I had a boyfriend. When I told her, in between screams, that I was happily single, she shook her head and insisted I try this ancient aphrodisiac that had been passed down from generation to generation in her family. It was called Vulva. When I got home from the club that night, after being accosted by my cab driver and the homeless man who hangs out outside my building, I went online to do some research and discovered that Vulva wasn't an ancient Chinese aphrodisiac at all but a German fragrance that smells just like PUSSY! I don't know how I missed this one, especially since its ad campaign bears a striking resemblance to the one for Tom Ford for Men. Vulva's website is called Smell Me and Cum, and the company responsible, Vivaeros Special Products, describes it as "a precious vaginal fragrance filled into a small glass phial." Vile, indeed.
New York Fashion Week: Fall 2008
By: Alexa Camp On: 02/22/2008 16:35:23 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 0
Sometime in early November while passing by Bryant Park, I noticed a mock-up Fashion Week tent. After a minor panic attack, I realized, no Alexa, it's not February yet; the girls from Sex and the City were shooting a scene for the upcoming movie. Stand down, Lipstick Jungle and Cashmere Mafia! Yes, the baddest bitches are back in town. Wanna see just how bad? Check out InStyle for a sneak preview of Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha's fresh fashions.
Day One
How ironic is it that I couldn't find a thing to wear throughout the week? There were mornings where I would stare into my closet with a glazed-over look, talking to it, coaxing it to magically put together a slammin' ensemble. Where's the Jane Jetson conveyor-belt closet we were promised would be a staple of the future? For yet another season, things have been so hectic that I've employed the assistance of Patty the Intern.
While I tried to find something to wear, Patty ventured over to the Salon tent to make sense of the Duckie Brown show. Known for their psychedelic colors, menswear designers Steven Cox and Daniel Silver turned the volume down on both their palette and their music. Blaring tunes gave way to pure silence as models clad in narrow somber black looks paraded down the catwalk. The eerie quiet gave the procession a bit of a slow- motion effect. Then again, Patty herself is a bit slow. I finally settled on an outfit and made my way to Nicole Miller. With Joan Jett, Karen Duffy, and Nigel Barker in the front row, Miller channeled Joan of Arc for fall '08. Unlike the French heroine, there was nothing "brave" or "powerful" about this collection. In fact, a heresy against fashion was committed by way of the designer's patchwork black leggings and ultra-sized cocoon sweaters. The play on dynamic proportions and sudden rocker grit from Miller, known for her casual feminine frocks, simply wasn't believable. Later, at the Roseland Ballroom for the Baby Phat and KLS collections, Tyra Banks, Vivica A. Fox, André Leon Talley, Star Jones, Joss Stone, and Amerie were on hand to witness the heights of ghetto fabulosity. Oh, I'm not talking about the clothing, which was a hodgepodge of faux old-Hollywood glamour and customary poom-poom shorts. I'm not even referring to the proximity in which Kimora Lee Simmons's ex-hubbie Russell Simmons and current beau Djimon Hounsou were seated, a step up in contrast to last year's awkward negative-space adjacency. Instead, I'm dishing about the disturbing Kimora Barbie Doll dressed in a hot pink mini halter dress, black fish net stockings, thigh-high pink boots, and floor-length fur coat with leopard-print lining found in select gift bags (pictured). Um, I don't plan on poppin' out a kid any time soon, but she's sure as hell not playing with that hoochie. Barbie Mariposa, on the other hand, I can get into. Unless I have a son, because those magical fairy lights that protect Flutterfield will surely turn him gay.
Day Four
Looking for some midweek cheer, Patty headed for the tents where Betsey Johnson was celebrating the big 3-0—30 years in the biz, that is. Joan Jett, Tyra Banks, and Russell Simmons were among the front-row dwellers. The fashion veteran set the stage as if it were a beatnik bar, complete with bongo
players at the end of the runway, Chianti bottles at the tables along the runway's perimeter, and models sporting berets (pictured). (Jack Kerouac, eat your heart out!) After the faux fur, leather, and fringe affair, Betsey showcased a retrospective of looks from previous decades. And then, of course, that cartwheel.
Day Five
Forgoing the confines of time, Cynthia Steffe creative director Waleed Khairzada opted for a "seasonless" collection where the layering of lightweight fabrics and leg/arm warmers prevailed. While I can appreciate the blend of textures and dimensions, Khairzada failed to come through on the "contemporary" manifestation promised in the run-of-show notes. Perhaps it would have helped to pick a damn season as opposed to being greedy and straddling them all. And can I ask, what was up with the back-of-house screaming louder than the music? "NEXT GIRL, NEXT GIRL! C'MON!" Sadly, the best part of the whole experience was the patent leather Manolo Blahnik booties. Nothing gets between me and my Manolos!
Day Six
Showing for their second season in a row at the New York Public Library's Celeste Bartos Forum, Hanii Yoon and Gene Kei of Y & Kei provided an enchanting Impressionist-inspired collection. What can I say? The duo consistently sends out the most striking prints and constructs the best silhouettes. Rock on with your bad Korean selves!
Since we're on the topic of what's in and what's out, have you guys been watching Project Runway? What am I thinking? Of course you have. The final five designers, Rami Kashoú, Jillian Lewis, Chris March, Christian Siriano, and Kathleen "Sweet P" Vaughn (who's already been aufed) showed their work to a packed house during Fashion Week. Heidi Klum, Nina Garcia, Michael Kors, and guest judge Victoria Beckham may get to make the final decision, but in my opinion, there is no contest. The Fierce Award should go to Christian because he's, well, kind of a big deal!
Speaking of judges, word around the Slant water cooler is that America's Next Top Model, now in its 10th season and back in New York City, is bumping Twiggy from the panel and replacing her with Paulina Porizkova. We're fine with the decision just as long as Tyra and Co.'s next move is to vote Marvita off our island! The contestant, who was cut before making it into the house in the ninth season, has found God (and a therapist) and yet somehow managed to pick a fight with standout Fatima. Let the catfights begin!
Auf wiedersehen!
Sometime in early November while passing by Bryant Park, I noticed a mock-up Fashion Week tent. After a minor panic attack, I realized, no Alexa, it's not February yet; the girls from Sex and the City were shooting a scene for the upcoming movie. Stand down, Lipstick Jungle and Cashmere Mafia! Yes, the baddest bitches are back in town. Wanna see just how bad? Check out InStyle for a sneak preview of Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha's fresh fashions.
Day One
How ironic is it that I couldn't find a thing to wear throughout the week? There were mornings where I would stare into my closet with a glazed-over look, talking to it, coaxing it to magically put together a slammin' ensemble. Where's the Jane Jetson conveyor-belt closet we were promised would be a staple of the future? For yet another season, things have been so hectic that I've employed the assistance of Patty the Intern.
While I tried to find something to wear, Patty ventured over to the Salon tent to make sense of the Duckie Brown show. Known for their psychedelic colors, menswear designers Steven Cox and Daniel Silver turned the volume down on both their palette and their music. Blaring tunes gave way to pure silence as models clad in narrow somber black looks paraded down the catwalk. The eerie quiet gave the procession a bit of a slow- motion effect. Then again, Patty herself is a bit slow. I finally settled on an outfit and made my way to Nicole Miller. With Joan Jett, Karen Duffy, and Nigel Barker in the front row, Miller channeled Joan of Arc for fall '08. Unlike the French heroine, there was nothing "brave" or "powerful" about this collection. In fact, a heresy against fashion was committed by way of the designer's patchwork black leggings and ultra-sized cocoon sweaters. The play on dynamic proportions and sudden rocker grit from Miller, known for her casual feminine frocks, simply wasn't believable. Later, at the Roseland Ballroom for the Baby Phat and KLS collections, Tyra Banks, Vivica A. Fox, André Leon Talley, Star Jones, Joss Stone, and Amerie were on hand to witness the heights of ghetto fabulosity. Oh, I'm not talking about the clothing, which was a hodgepodge of faux old-Hollywood glamour and customary poom-poom shorts. I'm not even referring to the proximity in which Kimora Lee Simmons's ex-hubbie Russell Simmons and current beau Djimon Hounsou were seated, a step up in contrast to last year's awkward negative-space adjacency. Instead, I'm dishing about the disturbing Kimora Barbie Doll dressed in a hot pink mini halter dress, black fish net stockings, thigh-high pink boots, and floor-length fur coat with leopard-print lining found in select gift bags (pictured). Um, I don't plan on poppin' out a kid any time soon, but she's sure as hell not playing with that hoochie. Barbie Mariposa, on the other hand, I can get into. Unless I have a son, because those magical fairy lights that protect Flutterfield will surely turn him gay.Day Four
Looking for some midweek cheer, Patty headed for the tents where Betsey Johnson was celebrating the big 3-0—30 years in the biz, that is. Joan Jett, Tyra Banks, and Russell Simmons were among the front-row dwellers. The fashion veteran set the stage as if it were a beatnik bar, complete with bongo
players at the end of the runway, Chianti bottles at the tables along the runway's perimeter, and models sporting berets (pictured). (Jack Kerouac, eat your heart out!) After the faux fur, leather, and fringe affair, Betsey showcased a retrospective of looks from previous decades. And then, of course, that cartwheel. Day Five
Forgoing the confines of time, Cynthia Steffe creative director Waleed Khairzada opted for a "seasonless" collection where the layering of lightweight fabrics and leg/arm warmers prevailed. While I can appreciate the blend of textures and dimensions, Khairzada failed to come through on the "contemporary" manifestation promised in the run-of-show notes. Perhaps it would have helped to pick a damn season as opposed to being greedy and straddling them all. And can I ask, what was up with the back-of-house screaming louder than the music? "NEXT GIRL, NEXT GIRL! C'MON!" Sadly, the best part of the whole experience was the patent leather Manolo Blahnik booties. Nothing gets between me and my Manolos!
Day Six
Showing for their second season in a row at the New York Public Library's Celeste Bartos Forum, Hanii Yoon and Gene Kei of Y & Kei provided an enchanting Impressionist-inspired collection. What can I say? The duo consistently sends out the most striking prints and constructs the best silhouettes. Rock on with your bad Korean selves!
Since we're on the topic of what's in and what's out, have you guys been watching Project Runway? What am I thinking? Of course you have. The final five designers, Rami Kashoú, Jillian Lewis, Chris March, Christian Siriano, and Kathleen "Sweet P" Vaughn (who's already been aufed) showed their work to a packed house during Fashion Week. Heidi Klum, Nina Garcia, Michael Kors, and guest judge Victoria Beckham may get to make the final decision, but in my opinion, there is no contest. The Fierce Award should go to Christian because he's, well, kind of a big deal!
Speaking of judges, word around the Slant water cooler is that America's Next Top Model, now in its 10th season and back in New York City, is bumping Twiggy from the panel and replacing her with Paulina Porizkova. We're fine with the decision just as long as Tyra and Co.'s next move is to vote Marvita off our island! The contestant, who was cut before making it into the house in the ninth season, has found God (and a therapist) and yet somehow managed to pick a fight with standout Fatima. Let the catfights begin!
Auf wiedersehen!
Spreading Some Pre-Holiday Cheer
By: Alexa Camp On: 11/11/2007 18:54:46 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 6
The holiday shopping season is upon us already…or so says Wal-Mart! It's been a while since I've done a reader mail column so I thought I'd dust off the ol' computer keyboard and bestow a little pre-holiday cheer on all those weirdos, crackpots, and self-delusional loonies who write to us like they think we care. Oh, and let this be a warning to you: The older I get, the less I give a shit about protecting the identities of racists, homophobes, and other nasties who sadly continue to populate the earth, so I have no qualms posting your email, mailing address, or picture whenever I feel like it. Here's a few psycho rants I felt inspired to reply to [Editor's Note: Some emails have been edited for gratuitous length and poor grammar]:
Subject: Jonathan Keefe
Dear Sal Cinquemani:
So, a 1/2-star album as reviewed by Jonathan Keefe wins the Grammy for Best Album of the Year. I think either he should stop writing for Slant or should issue an apology to the Dixie Chicks for writing such a stupid review. Sincerely,
Jon Simpson
Dear Jon:
Jonathan plans to issue an apology immediately following the Dixie Chicks' apology to George W. Bush. So in other words, never.
Alexa
Subject: Keefe
Well...I have been a professional musician for a couple of decades, and have suffered through many arrogant self-absorbed music critics in that time, but Mr. Keefe has donned the steaming-turd hat prize. Please...tell me which law school I can bribe to accept him so his ignorant, run-on sentence-laced bile can be directed in defense of Haliburton or Bechtel or Exxon...or maybe Disney! He is the anti-artist and should be shaved and dipped....
I feel better...please spill coffee on him...Thank you.
Renfreaux
Renfreaux,
Just to clarify, would you like us to shave and dip him before we spill coffee on him, or would you rather we spilled coffee on him first and then shave and dip him? Or maybe you'd like us to dip him first, then shave him and spill the coffee on him? Also, is this a freshly brewed cup of coffee or an iced coffee? And what exactly should we dip him in?
Alexa
Subject: Maybe your grandmother is not telling you everything?
"I thought of my now-91-year-old grandmother telling me how she used to go dancing at the Roseland Ballroom in the 1930s. I'm guessing it was nothing like this."
My grandmother, who would be 106 this year, also used to go dancing at the Roseland—and since she'd been to nursing school, she was much called on to inject cocaine into both fellow dancers and various band members. The place could get pretty wild! And LOUD. If your grandmother remembers a stunning redhead named Ruth who always wore a distinctive gold skull pin (surrounded by rubies, with pearl eyes) who carried a black leather hypodermic case in her handbag—that was my late Granny.
Margaret
Hi, Margaret. Yes, Sal's Nana remembers her, and she wants her soul back—not to mention her royal blue cache-misère turban!
Alexa
Subject: September Dawn Review
Ok, Nick Schager is a bone-headed moron. I recommend that he read Brevet Major Carleton's congressional report on the Mountain Meadows Massacre and then go watch the film again. My ancestors' relatives were murdered there by the Mormons and I don't think the film goes far enough in exposing this inbred, insane religious cult. The order came from Brigham Young, "Do not leave anyone alive who is old enough to tell what happened." I'm sorry for Mr. Schager that he is a moron, but he should do a little research before reviewing historical films.
Chuck Carroll
Carol,
I don't know where you came up with this idea that Nick is Mormon. And even if he was, that doesn't mean he was responsible for your ancestor's relatives' neighbors' in-bred cousins' deaths. Oh, wait, you said moron.
Subject: Transformers
I'll bet you are the kind of guy that would watch a boxing match or football game and wonder how the contestants are internalizing their pain and ultimately how fractured their psychic [sic] will be as they approach the dénouement of the event. (Insert fuzzy flashbacks here.) Damn! Buddy, did you forget how to have fun at the movies or did you just wear your lace panties?
Britt
Britt,
Please refrain from making me picture Nick in lace panties. Thanks.
Alexa
Subject: Syriana Review
Mr. Kipp:
I loved Syriana but I'm trying to learn as much as I can about the problems it addresses. In your review you said: "Syriana deals with vital subject matter that most Americans are unfamiliar with, offering a crash course that merits a deeper, richer, more cogent analysis—one hopes viewers will be encouraged to venture out to the library and do their homework." What's a good reading list?
Steve Macfarlane
Hi, Steve. Jeremiah is busy offering a crash course on vital subject matter that most Americans are unfamiliar with, so he asked me to suggest a good reading list. Here's my Top 10:
10. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst and Ray Cruz
9. So You Wish to Learn All About Economics by Lyndon LaRouche
8. Saddam Speaks on the Gulf Crisis by Saddam Hussein
7. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs by Judi Barrett and Ron Barrett
6. Title 26, United States Tax Code
5. Prescription Medicide: The Goodness of Planned Death by Jack Kevorkian
4. Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler
3. White Power by George Lincoln Rockwell
2. Barney: Sharing Is Caring by Mark S. Bernthal and June Valentine
1. Kill Without Joy: The Complete How to Kill Book by John Minnery
Subject: You can't give away movie endings in the review!!!
Giving away the ending to any movie, as was done in your review of Broken English, is a crime. I haven't seen the movie...and now I'm not going to!
Noam Mohr
Dear Noam,
The only thing worse than giving away the ending of a movie is giving away the reason for your hate-mail by putting it in the subject line! That takes all the fun out of it! It's like opening up an elaborately wrapped present on Christmas morning and finding a card attached that reads: "ADORABLE PUPPY INSIDE!" or "That argyle cardigan sweater you've always wanted! Love, Grandma." At least now we know a surefire way to get people not to go to movies we don't like though.
Alexa
Subject: My Fav Reviewer
I'm probably not the first person to tell you this, but Sal, you are a fucking genius! I somehow found my way to your review of Beyoncé's B'Day, and I was so very impressed. It's one of the most thoughtful, masterfully written, and perhaps most importantly, humorous review I've ever read. Honestly. After reading this review, I sought out all your other reviews, and yes, they are as gratifying. Dude, you rock! I'm a freshman at university (the University of Toronto, to be exact), where I write reviews for the university newspaper. Your reviews have inspired me to become a professional.
Respectfully yours,
Orane Carty (one of your (no doubt, many) fans)
Thanks for the kind words, Orane. I've passed your message on to Sal and he is greatly appreciative. However, we're afraid that your gratuitous use of parentheses will, regretfully, prevent you from ever becoming a professional journalist. Hopefully you have other interests or are the recipient of a lucrative trust fund.
Alexa
Subject: A Mighty Heart
Dear Mr. Gonzalez:
You wrote: "Winterbottom recognizes the actress's iconicity as a force that must be reckoned with". Who decided that Angelina Jolie is an icon? The UN? Entertainment Tonight? MoveOn.org? You should visit the message boards sometime: Bring up the name "Angelina Jolie," and you are met with cries of "ho" and "slut"!
I'm willing to overlook the fact that the woman slept with another woman's husband and subsequently had his child. Hell, I'm even willing to overlook the fact that she and Billy Bob Thornton did everything short of screw each others' brains out right in front of her father! But I am not willing to overlook the fact that she is an average actor at best, and that her humanitarian "work" is—as with so many other celebrities—a cynical ploy for PR points. I further am unwilling to overlook that this role should have gone to an actress that reflects Mariane Pearl's racial heritage—and one who could actually act!
Yours,
Lisa Davis
Hi, Lisa. According to dictionary.com, an "icon" is defined as "One who is the object of great attention and devotion." And maybe if you spent a fraction of your time doing as much for the world as Angelina Jolie has, you'd have less time to read Star and troll around sexist message boards. Whore.
Slut
Subject: Sherrybaby
I read Jason Clark's review of Sherrybaby and it actually was embarrassing to read it as he obviously did not get it. As a woman who was molested for a number of years as a young girl by my father, I found the movie unusually realistic in portraying what happens in an incestuous situation, or what can happen. The moment after her father molested her in the movie, she was running and running and then fell right back into drugs and I could TOTALLY relate to that as she was covering and hiding from her shame. There is so much more to it, but until you have to live it and it colors your whole life, you don't know anything. So Jason, don't write a review unless you know what you are talking about. Your review was so superficial and off base, it should never have been printed.
Betty
Hi, Betty. We encouraged Jason to go out and find himself a daddy to molest him real good before the screening but unfortunately deadlines prevented him from researching the subject of the film more thoroughly, and quite frankly, he's lazy. We'll make sure he follows through next time. Thanks for your valuable advice.
Alexa
Subject: Negative Film Reviews
I like the film reviews. They're almost all negative reviews which makes reading them fun. When other critics give a positive review of a film, your site usually gives a negative.
Jimm
Hi, Jimmm. Thanks for your email. I think I might keep this one for myself. Your disdain for individuality and critical thought, not to mention your dry sarcasm, gets me real wet.
Alexa
Subject: Aqua Teen Review
Someone must have had a lot more than a joint in hand to hire you as a critic, you cock-slobbering spic.
Don't mess with the Aqua Teens fruit-picker.
reptile329
Thanks to the wonders of MySpace, now we can all see what a bigot looks like!
The holiday shopping season is upon us already…or so says Wal-Mart! It's been a while since I've done a reader mail column so I thought I'd dust off the ol' computer keyboard and bestow a little pre-holiday cheer on all those weirdos, crackpots, and self-delusional loonies who write to us like they think we care. Oh, and let this be a warning to you: The older I get, the less I give a shit about protecting the identities of racists, homophobes, and other nasties who sadly continue to populate the earth, so I have no qualms posting your email, mailing address, or picture whenever I feel like it. Here's a few psycho rants I felt inspired to reply to [Editor's Note: Some emails have been edited for gratuitous length and poor grammar]:
Subject: Jonathan Keefe
Dear Sal Cinquemani:
So, a 1/2-star album as reviewed by Jonathan Keefe wins the Grammy for Best Album of the Year. I think either he should stop writing for Slant or should issue an apology to the Dixie Chicks for writing such a stupid review. Sincerely,
Jon Simpson
Dear Jon:
Jonathan plans to issue an apology immediately following the Dixie Chicks' apology to George W. Bush. So in other words, never.
Alexa
Subject: Keefe
Well...I have been a professional musician for a couple of decades, and have suffered through many arrogant self-absorbed music critics in that time, but Mr. Keefe has donned the steaming-turd hat prize. Please...tell me which law school I can bribe to accept him so his ignorant, run-on sentence-laced bile can be directed in defense of Haliburton or Bechtel or Exxon...or maybe Disney! He is the anti-artist and should be shaved and dipped....
I feel better...please spill coffee on him...Thank you.
Renfreaux
Renfreaux,
Just to clarify, would you like us to shave and dip him before we spill coffee on him, or would you rather we spilled coffee on him first and then shave and dip him? Or maybe you'd like us to dip him first, then shave him and spill the coffee on him? Also, is this a freshly brewed cup of coffee or an iced coffee? And what exactly should we dip him in?
Alexa
Subject: Maybe your grandmother is not telling you everything?
"I thought of my now-91-year-old grandmother telling me how she used to go dancing at the Roseland Ballroom in the 1930s. I'm guessing it was nothing like this."
My grandmother, who would be 106 this year, also used to go dancing at the Roseland—and since she'd been to nursing school, she was much called on to inject cocaine into both fellow dancers and various band members. The place could get pretty wild! And LOUD. If your grandmother remembers a stunning redhead named Ruth who always wore a distinctive gold skull pin (surrounded by rubies, with pearl eyes) who carried a black leather hypodermic case in her handbag—that was my late Granny.
Margaret
Hi, Margaret. Yes, Sal's Nana remembers her, and she wants her soul back—not to mention her royal blue cache-misère turban!
Alexa
Subject: September Dawn Review
Ok, Nick Schager is a bone-headed moron. I recommend that he read Brevet Major Carleton's congressional report on the Mountain Meadows Massacre and then go watch the film again. My ancestors' relatives were murdered there by the Mormons and I don't think the film goes far enough in exposing this inbred, insane religious cult. The order came from Brigham Young, "Do not leave anyone alive who is old enough to tell what happened." I'm sorry for Mr. Schager that he is a moron, but he should do a little research before reviewing historical films.
Chuck Carroll
Carol,
I don't know where you came up with this idea that Nick is Mormon. And even if he was, that doesn't mean he was responsible for your ancestor's relatives' neighbors' in-bred cousins' deaths. Oh, wait, you said moron.
Subject: Transformers
I'll bet you are the kind of guy that would watch a boxing match or football game and wonder how the contestants are internalizing their pain and ultimately how fractured their psychic [sic] will be as they approach the dénouement of the event. (Insert fuzzy flashbacks here.) Damn! Buddy, did you forget how to have fun at the movies or did you just wear your lace panties?
Britt
Britt,
Please refrain from making me picture Nick in lace panties. Thanks.
Alexa
Subject: Syriana Review
Mr. Kipp:
I loved Syriana but I'm trying to learn as much as I can about the problems it addresses. In your review you said: "Syriana deals with vital subject matter that most Americans are unfamiliar with, offering a crash course that merits a deeper, richer, more cogent analysis—one hopes viewers will be encouraged to venture out to the library and do their homework." What's a good reading list?
Steve Macfarlane
Hi, Steve. Jeremiah is busy offering a crash course on vital subject matter that most Americans are unfamiliar with, so he asked me to suggest a good reading list. Here's my Top 10:
10. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst and Ray Cruz
9. So You Wish to Learn All About Economics by Lyndon LaRouche
8. Saddam Speaks on the Gulf Crisis by Saddam Hussein
7. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs by Judi Barrett and Ron Barrett
6. Title 26, United States Tax Code
5. Prescription Medicide: The Goodness of Planned Death by Jack Kevorkian
4. Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler
3. White Power by George Lincoln Rockwell
2. Barney: Sharing Is Caring by Mark S. Bernthal and June Valentine
1. Kill Without Joy: The Complete How to Kill Book by John Minnery
Subject: You can't give away movie endings in the review!!!
Giving away the ending to any movie, as was done in your review of Broken English, is a crime. I haven't seen the movie...and now I'm not going to!
Noam Mohr
Dear Noam,
The only thing worse than giving away the ending of a movie is giving away the reason for your hate-mail by putting it in the subject line! That takes all the fun out of it! It's like opening up an elaborately wrapped present on Christmas morning and finding a card attached that reads: "ADORABLE PUPPY INSIDE!" or "That argyle cardigan sweater you've always wanted! Love, Grandma." At least now we know a surefire way to get people not to go to movies we don't like though.
Alexa
Subject: My Fav Reviewer
I'm probably not the first person to tell you this, but Sal, you are a fucking genius! I somehow found my way to your review of Beyoncé's B'Day, and I was so very impressed. It's one of the most thoughtful, masterfully written, and perhaps most importantly, humorous review I've ever read. Honestly. After reading this review, I sought out all your other reviews, and yes, they are as gratifying. Dude, you rock! I'm a freshman at university (the University of Toronto, to be exact), where I write reviews for the university newspaper. Your reviews have inspired me to become a professional.
Respectfully yours,
Orane Carty (one of your (no doubt, many) fans)
Thanks for the kind words, Orane. I've passed your message on to Sal and he is greatly appreciative. However, we're afraid that your gratuitous use of parentheses will, regretfully, prevent you from ever becoming a professional journalist. Hopefully you have other interests or are the recipient of a lucrative trust fund.
Alexa
Subject: A Mighty Heart
Dear Mr. Gonzalez:
You wrote: "Winterbottom recognizes the actress's iconicity as a force that must be reckoned with". Who decided that Angelina Jolie is an icon? The UN? Entertainment Tonight? MoveOn.org? You should visit the message boards sometime: Bring up the name "Angelina Jolie," and you are met with cries of "ho" and "slut"!
I'm willing to overlook the fact that the woman slept with another woman's husband and subsequently had his child. Hell, I'm even willing to overlook the fact that she and Billy Bob Thornton did everything short of screw each others' brains out right in front of her father! But I am not willing to overlook the fact that she is an average actor at best, and that her humanitarian "work" is—as with so many other celebrities—a cynical ploy for PR points. I further am unwilling to overlook that this role should have gone to an actress that reflects Mariane Pearl's racial heritage—and one who could actually act!
Yours,
Lisa Davis
Hi, Lisa. According to dictionary.com, an "icon" is defined as "One who is the object of great attention and devotion." And maybe if you spent a fraction of your time doing as much for the world as Angelina Jolie has, you'd have less time to read Star and troll around sexist message boards. Whore.
Slut
Subject: Sherrybaby
I read Jason Clark's review of Sherrybaby and it actually was embarrassing to read it as he obviously did not get it. As a woman who was molested for a number of years as a young girl by my father, I found the movie unusually realistic in portraying what happens in an incestuous situation, or what can happen. The moment after her father molested her in the movie, she was running and running and then fell right back into drugs and I could TOTALLY relate to that as she was covering and hiding from her shame. There is so much more to it, but until you have to live it and it colors your whole life, you don't know anything. So Jason, don't write a review unless you know what you are talking about. Your review was so superficial and off base, it should never have been printed.
Betty
Hi, Betty. We encouraged Jason to go out and find himself a daddy to molest him real good before the screening but unfortunately deadlines prevented him from researching the subject of the film more thoroughly, and quite frankly, he's lazy. We'll make sure he follows through next time. Thanks for your valuable advice.
Alexa
Subject: Negative Film Reviews
I like the film reviews. They're almost all negative reviews which makes reading them fun. When other critics give a positive review of a film, your site usually gives a negative.
Jimm
Hi, Jimmm. Thanks for your email. I think I might keep this one for myself. Your disdain for individuality and critical thought, not to mention your dry sarcasm, gets me real wet.
Alexa
Subject: Aqua Teen Review
Someone must have had a lot more than a joint in hand to hire you as a critic, you cock-slobbering spic.
Don't mess with the Aqua Teens fruit-picker.
reptile329
Thanks to the wonders of MySpace, now we can all see what a bigot looks like!
Dull Down Your Life
By: Alexa Camp On: 11/06/2007 12:29:35 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 0
I admit I was a wannabe. I modeled my life after Baby Spice. Okay, not really, but I loved the Spice Girls when they first hit the scene, back when I still bought singles and wore platforms. And I found their solo stuff even more amusing and rewarding. So it's sad to see my Girls having so little fun in the horrible video for their horrible new single "Headlines (Friendship Never Ends)":
They're wrong. Friendship does end. Sometimes tragically. And with little fanfare. And even less CD sales. But that's what happens when you name your last album Forever. And is it just me, or does the new video remind you of this:
Except there was something car-wreck fascinating about Wilson Phillips's ill-conceived and horrendously managed shift from wholesome California girl group dressed in mom jeans and shoulder-padded blazers to wannabe Victoria's Secret models, the once buttoned-up-to-here Chynna Phillips showing off her garter belt and spreading her legs to a cat-in-heat saxophone solo. Alas, there's nothing sexy or fascinating about "Headlines." While Geri Halliwell and Victoria Beckham (Ginger and Posh, if you're nasty) show off as much of their bodies as basic cable will allow, Melanie C is bathed in shadows and strategically hidden behind pieces of furniture. Yes, Sporty Spice is the new Carnie Wilson.
I admit I was a wannabe. I modeled my life after Baby Spice. Okay, not really, but I loved the Spice Girls when they first hit the scene, back when I still bought singles and wore platforms. And I found their solo stuff even more amusing and rewarding. So it's sad to see my Girls having so little fun in the horrible video for their horrible new single "Headlines (Friendship Never Ends)":
They're wrong. Friendship does end. Sometimes tragically. And with little fanfare. And even less CD sales. But that's what happens when you name your last album Forever. And is it just me, or does the new video remind you of this:
Except there was something car-wreck fascinating about Wilson Phillips's ill-conceived and horrendously managed shift from wholesome California girl group dressed in mom jeans and shoulder-padded blazers to wannabe Victoria's Secret models, the once buttoned-up-to-here Chynna Phillips showing off her garter belt and spreading her legs to a cat-in-heat saxophone solo. Alas, there's nothing sexy or fascinating about "Headlines." While Geri Halliwell and Victoria Beckham (Ginger and Posh, if you're nasty) show off as much of their bodies as basic cable will allow, Melanie C is bathed in shadows and strategically hidden behind pieces of furniture. Yes, Sporty Spice is the new Carnie Wilson.
New Scent-Sation Part Ew
By: Alexa Camp On: 09/28/2007 20:44:42 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 0
Just when you thought it couldn't get worse, here comes Mariah with her titties out, all breathless and moaning. The campaign goes something like, "An ethereal presence. Captivating like a song." And apparently the potent pheromone ingredients in M by Mariah Carey are only activated when you apply them to your décolleté…while masturbating…in Heaven:
I haven't smelled the stuff yet (my requests for samples were flatly denied), but something tells me M by Mariah Carey is not the start of the singer's fragrance industry domination. All of this has got me fiending for a simpler time…
Just when you thought it couldn't get worse, here comes Mariah with her titties out, all breathless and moaning. The campaign goes something like, "An ethereal presence. Captivating like a song." And apparently the potent pheromone ingredients in M by Mariah Carey are only activated when you apply them to your décolleté…while masturbating…in Heaven:
I haven't smelled the stuff yet (my requests for samples were flatly denied), but something tells me M by Mariah Carey is not the start of the singer's fragrance industry domination. All of this has got me fiending for a simpler time…
New Scent-sation
By: Alexa Camp On: 09/25/2007 08:15:40 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 1
Looking for a new scent-sation for fall? For starters, there's ever-yummy Tom Ford's latest fragrance Tom Ford For Men. The print ad campaign, shot by Terry Richardson, features a strategically placed bottle nestled in between a nude woman's labia. This much, we know: Ford's not a shy guy (he was also responsible for this Yves Saint Laurent M7 fragrance ad, a campaign both of us could certainly get behind, if you know what I mean). But picture it: A husband and wife are getting ready for a night out. "Now where did I leave my cologne?" the husband asks. "Oh, that's right. It's in my wife's vagina." The ad might make more sense if the bottle was in any way reminiscent of a phallus. Or even a loofah. Ironically, Ford's fragrance dares to go where Ford won't!
And then there's Diddy's commercial for his new Sean John scent Unforgivable Woman. Not your average 30- or 60-second spot, the three-minute commercial, starring Diddy and model Jessica Gomez, plays more like a horror film…or a PSA for date rape. After having watched every painfully unsexy minute, I imagine it was banned from MTV for its unforgivable duration rather than its supposed raciness. I've read Dickens novels shorter than this. Okay, that's a lie. I've never read Dickens. But I've always loved his name.
Looking for a new scent-sation for fall? For starters, there's ever-yummy Tom Ford's latest fragrance Tom Ford For Men. The print ad campaign, shot by Terry Richardson, features a strategically placed bottle nestled in between a nude woman's labia. This much, we know: Ford's not a shy guy (he was also responsible for this Yves Saint Laurent M7 fragrance ad, a campaign both of us could certainly get behind, if you know what I mean). But picture it: A husband and wife are getting ready for a night out. "Now where did I leave my cologne?" the husband asks. "Oh, that's right. It's in my wife's vagina." The ad might make more sense if the bottle was in any way reminiscent of a phallus. Or even a loofah. Ironically, Ford's fragrance dares to go where Ford won't!
And then there's Diddy's commercial for his new Sean John scent Unforgivable Woman. Not your average 30- or 60-second spot, the three-minute commercial, starring Diddy and model Jessica Gomez, plays more like a horror film…or a PSA for date rape. After having watched every painfully unsexy minute, I imagine it was banned from MTV for its unforgivable duration rather than its supposed raciness. I've read Dickens novels shorter than this. Okay, that's a lie. I've never read Dickens. But I've always loved his name.
New York Fashion Week: Spring 2008
By: Alexa Camp On: 09/22/2007 13:49:06 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 1
It's Alexa, bitch. As yet another fashion week fell upon us, I couldn't help but feel slightly nauseated by the unorganized front-of-houses, jaded editors, bitchy buyers, and seat-stealing stragglers galore in the form of wannabe-fashionistas, hipsters, and fashion students. "Why bother?" you ask. Well, the boys at Slant held a pair of my red patent leather Louboutins hostage. It wasn't so much the shoes I wanted, but the, um, Tic Tacs I had stuffed in the shoebox. Read on to see how I tackled things with alarming sobriety…I mean bad breath.
Day One
It wasn't enough that I didn't have…mints, but I had to wake up to the news that NYC cabs, a.k.a. my only mode of transportation, were on strike against the mandatory installation of GPS devices. Now I had to rely on the dirty-ass subway to get around. Can I just say that nobody quite understands how confusing Manhattan's underground is? On second thought, I guess some people do because the train was really crowded. I stopped by the New York Public Library to take in my first show of the Spring 2008 season. The husband and wife team of Y&Kei presented a whittled
down collection of about 15 "urban hippie" looks lined in a circle surrounding a high wooden ladder formation centerpiece. That was only a pit stop on my way to the L.A.M.B. show. I was as giddy as a Harajuku girl making her way to…well, a Gwen Stefani fashion show. The playful mod creations conjured up by our favorite platinum pop star were cute but not nearly as cute as Gavin Rossdale and Kingston James. Seated next to hubby and baby in the first row was Diddy, who apparently has, thank God, given up putting on his own fashion debacles. I watched in horror as Kingston reached for Diddy's glasses. I continued to watch in horror as said Diddy then grabbed the one-year-old's hand and kissed it.
Day Two
I missed the Miss Sixty show. (It was at 10 a.m. What do you want from me?) My spy (who we'll call "Patty the Intern") tells me that Demi Moore and Hilary Swank will be seeing flashbulbs for days due to the throngs of shutterbugs. Mischa Barton, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and Clive Owen were also on hand. And apparently nobody informed the designers of the death of the skinny jean. And may I ask just how much lower low-sung denim can go? Whitney said it best: Crack is whack. The yellow fuckers were still supposedly striking but I managed to coerce a cabbie to take me to the tents without enforcing the silly $10 per zone fare system. At the Promenade tent, I took my seat for Gottex's swimwear sextravaganza. Forgetting about the show, which started off with solid Bond-inspired looks, I instead focused on catching Nigel Barker's attention. It didn't work but I managed to get a nod from Matthew Knowles. Sources tell me that Daddykins is seeking a House of Diarrhea licensing deal. A massive amount of alcohol later, I chatted with some British jewelry designer who commented on how dirty New York is. I told her that Gotham is no dirtier than Amy Winehouse's ballerina slippers and the shoddy ragamuffin shot me a horror-stricken look, told me to "sod off," and stormed away. Next up at the Salon tent was Japanese designer Akiko Ogawa. Bored with her attempt at futuristic, I resumed making googly eyes at Nigel Barker. Post-Ogawa, I made a mad dash to the port-o-potties. Alas, I was denied by tent security. "They're closed," said the rent-a-cop. "Tell that to my vagina," I said.
A Conde Nasty gal pal came to my rescue allowing me to handle my business in the 14th floor facilities. After I relieved myself I came to a realization: "I'm drunk. I'm drunk at Men's Vogue." Hiccup.
Day Three
I don't care if you're tired of hearing my constant rants regarding the presence of children in the tents but Ports 1961 and Vera Wang were kid central. Unless you're Kingston James McGregor Rossdale—which, let's face it, you're probably not—then, to quote Donatella Versace by way of Maya Rudolph, GET OUT! At the Roseland Ballroom, I, along with (in order of importance) Mary J. Blige, Nick Cannon, young designer Esteban Cortazar, Mya, Ivana Trump, and Star Jones, bared witness to the hot mess that was Baby Phat. I'm not quite sure who organized the seating arrangements but in my book at least, placing ex-beau Russell Simmons next to Kimora's current boyfriend Djimon Hounsou is a big no-no. I guess one can't expect a Baby Phat show to account for taste, much less tact. Later, at the CK Underwear party hosted by Hounsou and two-trick pony Hilary Swank, everyone was damn near clad in white. Hotties scantily dressed in briefs served s'mores and cupcakes. Nothing gets between me and my Calvin's…well, except the socks they stuffed inside the fellas' undies.
Day Four
Exhausted from the previous evening's undie affair, I employed the help of Patty the Intern. At the Chelsea Art Museum, Patty furiously texted me asinine questions like "OMG! R u here?" and "Ms. Jackson, if ur nasty, is right in front of me! Can u c her?" Good grief. I wanted to punch the bitch through my phone, but alas, Verizon hasn't perfected the technology yet. Anyway, turns
out Janet Jackson paid a visit to Catherine Malandrino, as did a near-bald Mena Suvari. Patty said Madame M doled out orgasmic bonbons of femininity with avant-garde touches (not exactly in those words). Over on West 22nd Street, she nearly collided with Samuel L. Jackson on her way to Y-3. While it was sunny outside, inside the weather forecast called for rain as male and female models marched about on a drenched blacktop. Yohji Yamamoto's high-end, Adidas-backed sports collection was an athletic urbanite's wet dream. "I think Vincent Gallo, Veronica Webb + LL Cool J r here 2," Patty texted poorly. "Don't u just heart what Webb's wearing?!?"
Day Six
I skipped Day Five to help hold Patty's hair back while she vomited the seven watermelon martinis she sucked down the night before (she claims she got some good gossip but can't remember a thing). Lisa Marie Presley made her way to her seat last minute as "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" blared in the big tent at Anna Sui. Cheery, lively stunners in Sui's '70s, deco print creations (pictured) offered a refreshing break from the drone-like monotony of fashion week thus far.
Day Seven
I was supposed to go to Carmen Marc Valvo. But, then again, so was Vanessa Williams. She didn't turn up, and neither did I. Beefcake Patty told me that Deborah Cox was there, to which I replied, "Bitch, DC is not VW."
Day Eight
Officially the last show of the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week lineup, eveningwear designer Tadashi Shoji was veritable icing on the cake. While some of his looks bordered on costume-y, there were a few elegant numbers. Nary a starlet or child in sight, the show started on time and ended with a bang by way of striking Estonian model Tiiu Kuik. Now that, ladies and gents, is what fashion shows should be all about.
Overall, the voluminous balloon-like proportions of seasons past have deflated, giving way to a more shape-conscious silhouette. The dress continues to reign supreme as do prints and vibrant colors. And if you're Marc Jacobs, backwards is the new black (MJ, whose show went on a whole two hours late, reportedly thought it would be cute to flip the script and stage his exhibition in reverse order—designer bow first, model finale walk second, and individual model file last). Don't be surprised if you hear "How very Kris Kross-chic of you" next spring.
It's Alexa, bitch. As yet another fashion week fell upon us, I couldn't help but feel slightly nauseated by the unorganized front-of-houses, jaded editors, bitchy buyers, and seat-stealing stragglers galore in the form of wannabe-fashionistas, hipsters, and fashion students. "Why bother?" you ask. Well, the boys at Slant held a pair of my red patent leather Louboutins hostage. It wasn't so much the shoes I wanted, but the, um, Tic Tacs I had stuffed in the shoebox. Read on to see how I tackled things with alarming sobriety…I mean bad breath.
Day One
It wasn't enough that I didn't have…mints, but I had to wake up to the news that NYC cabs, a.k.a. my only mode of transportation, were on strike against the mandatory installation of GPS devices. Now I had to rely on the dirty-ass subway to get around. Can I just say that nobody quite understands how confusing Manhattan's underground is? On second thought, I guess some people do because the train was really crowded. I stopped by the New York Public Library to take in my first show of the Spring 2008 season. The husband and wife team of Y&Kei presented a whittled
down collection of about 15 "urban hippie" looks lined in a circle surrounding a high wooden ladder formation centerpiece. That was only a pit stop on my way to the L.A.M.B. show. I was as giddy as a Harajuku girl making her way to…well, a Gwen Stefani fashion show. The playful mod creations conjured up by our favorite platinum pop star were cute but not nearly as cute as Gavin Rossdale and Kingston James. Seated next to hubby and baby in the first row was Diddy, who apparently has, thank God, given up putting on his own fashion debacles. I watched in horror as Kingston reached for Diddy's glasses. I continued to watch in horror as said Diddy then grabbed the one-year-old's hand and kissed it.Day Two
I missed the Miss Sixty show. (It was at 10 a.m. What do you want from me?) My spy (who we'll call "Patty the Intern") tells me that Demi Moore and Hilary Swank will be seeing flashbulbs for days due to the throngs of shutterbugs. Mischa Barton, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and Clive Owen were also on hand. And apparently nobody informed the designers of the death of the skinny jean. And may I ask just how much lower low-sung denim can go? Whitney said it best: Crack is whack. The yellow fuckers were still supposedly striking but I managed to coerce a cabbie to take me to the tents without enforcing the silly $10 per zone fare system. At the Promenade tent, I took my seat for Gottex's swimwear sextravaganza. Forgetting about the show, which started off with solid Bond-inspired looks, I instead focused on catching Nigel Barker's attention. It didn't work but I managed to get a nod from Matthew Knowles. Sources tell me that Daddykins is seeking a House of Diarrhea licensing deal. A massive amount of alcohol later, I chatted with some British jewelry designer who commented on how dirty New York is. I told her that Gotham is no dirtier than Amy Winehouse's ballerina slippers and the shoddy ragamuffin shot me a horror-stricken look, told me to "sod off," and stormed away. Next up at the Salon tent was Japanese designer Akiko Ogawa. Bored with her attempt at futuristic, I resumed making googly eyes at Nigel Barker. Post-Ogawa, I made a mad dash to the port-o-potties. Alas, I was denied by tent security. "They're closed," said the rent-a-cop. "Tell that to my vagina," I said.
A Conde Nasty gal pal came to my rescue allowing me to handle my business in the 14th floor facilities. After I relieved myself I came to a realization: "I'm drunk. I'm drunk at Men's Vogue." Hiccup. Day Three
I don't care if you're tired of hearing my constant rants regarding the presence of children in the tents but Ports 1961 and Vera Wang were kid central. Unless you're Kingston James McGregor Rossdale—which, let's face it, you're probably not—then, to quote Donatella Versace by way of Maya Rudolph, GET OUT! At the Roseland Ballroom, I, along with (in order of importance) Mary J. Blige, Nick Cannon, young designer Esteban Cortazar, Mya, Ivana Trump, and Star Jones, bared witness to the hot mess that was Baby Phat. I'm not quite sure who organized the seating arrangements but in my book at least, placing ex-beau Russell Simmons next to Kimora's current boyfriend Djimon Hounsou is a big no-no. I guess one can't expect a Baby Phat show to account for taste, much less tact. Later, at the CK Underwear party hosted by Hounsou and two-trick pony Hilary Swank, everyone was damn near clad in white. Hotties scantily dressed in briefs served s'mores and cupcakes. Nothing gets between me and my Calvin's…well, except the socks they stuffed inside the fellas' undies.
Day Four
Exhausted from the previous evening's undie affair, I employed the help of Patty the Intern. At the Chelsea Art Museum, Patty furiously texted me asinine questions like "OMG! R u here?" and "Ms. Jackson, if ur nasty, is right in front of me! Can u c her?" Good grief. I wanted to punch the bitch through my phone, but alas, Verizon hasn't perfected the technology yet. Anyway, turns
out Janet Jackson paid a visit to Catherine Malandrino, as did a near-bald Mena Suvari. Patty said Madame M doled out orgasmic bonbons of femininity with avant-garde touches (not exactly in those words). Over on West 22nd Street, she nearly collided with Samuel L. Jackson on her way to Y-3. While it was sunny outside, inside the weather forecast called for rain as male and female models marched about on a drenched blacktop. Yohji Yamamoto's high-end, Adidas-backed sports collection was an athletic urbanite's wet dream. "I think Vincent Gallo, Veronica Webb + LL Cool J r here 2," Patty texted poorly. "Don't u just heart what Webb's wearing?!?" Day Six
I skipped Day Five to help hold Patty's hair back while she vomited the seven watermelon martinis she sucked down the night before (she claims she got some good gossip but can't remember a thing). Lisa Marie Presley made her way to her seat last minute as "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" blared in the big tent at Anna Sui. Cheery, lively stunners in Sui's '70s, deco print creations (pictured) offered a refreshing break from the drone-like monotony of fashion week thus far.
Day Seven
I was supposed to go to Carmen Marc Valvo. But, then again, so was Vanessa Williams. She didn't turn up, and neither did I. Beefcake Patty told me that Deborah Cox was there, to which I replied, "Bitch, DC is not VW."
Day Eight
Officially the last show of the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week lineup, eveningwear designer Tadashi Shoji was veritable icing on the cake. While some of his looks bordered on costume-y, there were a few elegant numbers. Nary a starlet or child in sight, the show started on time and ended with a bang by way of striking Estonian model Tiiu Kuik. Now that, ladies and gents, is what fashion shows should be all about.
Overall, the voluminous balloon-like proportions of seasons past have deflated, giving way to a more shape-conscious silhouette. The dress continues to reign supreme as do prints and vibrant colors. And if you're Marc Jacobs, backwards is the new black (MJ, whose show went on a whole two hours late, reportedly thought it would be cute to flip the script and stage his exhibition in reverse order—designer bow first, model finale walk second, and individual model file last). Don't be surprised if you hear "How very Kris Kross-chic of you" next spring.
5 Reasons Why Avril Lavigne is an Asshole
By: Alexa Camp On: 09/07/2007 10:39:18 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 77
In the latest issue of Q Magazine, Avril Lavigne submitted a retarded list of her "Ten Commandments." I was originally going to counter with a list of reasons why I hate the girl (I mean, I'm taking a break from Fashion Week to write a column about it), but then I realized that simply reprinting some of the items from the feature would speak for itself. At first I thought someone at Q was playing a joke on us (and Avril), but it turns out the bitch is just dumber than she looks ("Selling 24 million albums hasn't really affected me, but it has changed things," the oh-so-wise sage observed). Here are some of the other potent quotables:
"PARTY HARD. BUT NOT TOO HARD. When I go to a party, I am the party! I'm the girl doing shots, jumping on tables, screaming and getting wasted."
So, basically, you're the asshole who's going to have butt sex with the entire Varsity Blues team and then claim you were gang raped, right? Nice.
"PRACTISE GOOD KARMA. I am a very giving person. When the hurricane thing happened, I went to my closet, filled six boxes of stuff and said to my assistant, 'Take it to Katrina!' I also like to give stuff to people who are my 'workers,' especially if they don't make much money."
Wow, you really are an asshole. I'm sure your "workers" are making really good use of that dart board and that old issue of TigerBeat you gave them last Christmas.
"BE GRATEFUL. It's important to be thankful, even if you're poor. I mean, come on, we all have clean water—well OK, not people in the developing world."
You mean like how the developing part of your brain lacks oxygen? Stupid bitch.
"EXTEND YOURSELF. I want to get into movies next, a lead role in a super cool indie flick. I've been looking at scripts for the past two years now and most of them have been shit, but I know I could be real good at it. I have an agent now, and everything."
Hey, Avril, there is nothing "super" nor "cool" nor "indie" about you, but I hear you didn't make audiences want to scratch their eyes out in Fast Food Nation. Looks like showering your pimp—I mean agent—with all those gifts from your closet really paid off.
"LOVE YOURSELF. People love me and people hate me, but I'm comfortable in my own skin and that's what counts. And anyway, if you do hate me, you're the loser, not me."
Ladies and gentleman, this must mean that we here at Slant are the biggest fucking losers on the planet. And we're, like, totally cool with that.
In the latest issue of Q Magazine, Avril Lavigne submitted a retarded list of her "Ten Commandments." I was originally going to counter with a list of reasons why I hate the girl (I mean, I'm taking a break from Fashion Week to write a column about it), but then I realized that simply reprinting some of the items from the feature would speak for itself. At first I thought someone at Q was playing a joke on us (and Avril), but it turns out the bitch is just dumber than she looks ("Selling 24 million albums hasn't really affected me, but it has changed things," the oh-so-wise sage observed). Here are some of the other potent quotables:
"PARTY HARD. BUT NOT TOO HARD. When I go to a party, I am the party! I'm the girl doing shots, jumping on tables, screaming and getting wasted."
So, basically, you're the asshole who's going to have butt sex with the entire Varsity Blues team and then claim you were gang raped, right? Nice.
"PRACTISE GOOD KARMA. I am a very giving person. When the hurricane thing happened, I went to my closet, filled six boxes of stuff and said to my assistant, 'Take it to Katrina!' I also like to give stuff to people who are my 'workers,' especially if they don't make much money."
Wow, you really are an asshole. I'm sure your "workers" are making really good use of that dart board and that old issue of TigerBeat you gave them last Christmas.
"BE GRATEFUL. It's important to be thankful, even if you're poor. I mean, come on, we all have clean water—well OK, not people in the developing world."
You mean like how the developing part of your brain lacks oxygen? Stupid bitch.
"EXTEND YOURSELF. I want to get into movies next, a lead role in a super cool indie flick. I've been looking at scripts for the past two years now and most of them have been shit, but I know I could be real good at it. I have an agent now, and everything."
Hey, Avril, there is nothing "super" nor "cool" nor "indie" about you, but I hear you didn't make audiences want to scratch their eyes out in Fast Food Nation. Looks like showering your pimp—I mean agent—with all those gifts from your closet really paid off.
"LOVE YOURSELF. People love me and people hate me, but I'm comfortable in my own skin and that's what counts. And anyway, if you do hate me, you're the loser, not me."
Ladies and gentleman, this must mean that we here at Slant are the biggest fucking losers on the planet. And we're, like, totally cool with that.
Fashionably Late
By: Alexa Camp On: 05/22/2007 22:09:06 In: Letters From Camp Comments: 0
In the immortal words of topless-model-turned-'80s-pop-star Sam Fox (who, according to a source not so close to the singer, is a total lesbian), it's hard to keep a good woman down, but, then again, maybe that could be fun! In other words, it's me again, Alexa Camp, and I'm back from my extended vacation. Yes, I'm fashionably late, and I'm not just talking about my period. No, I wasn't preggers (at least not that often, and not for long) and I wasn't in South America getting cheap massive reconstructive surgery. It's just that with Slant getting a hot makeover (the purple was my idea, thankyouverymuch) there hasn't been much room for Auntie Alexa. My inbox was stuffed with emails from all of my pretty babies asking where I've been and you know how I hate to disappoint my public. So now that I'm back I've thrown myself into contract renegotiations. I guess I'm the Rosie O'Donnell of the Internet. I told the boys at Slant that I wanted my own section with fuscia background and purple text, a fuzzy Hello Kitty Trapper Keeper, a year's supply of SmartWater, and a 25% stake in the magazine. They said I could relaunch my Letters From Camp column in the blog, limited my entries to once a week, and offered me a glass from the tap. But whatev. I'm not hard to please.
With that out of the way, I've got some serious dirt to dish from Mercedes Benz Fashion Week. Granted, it's not very dirty and it's a little stale (fashion week was three months ago). First off, let's talk VW. For those not familiar with my column, that's Ugly Betty's Vanessa Williams, who is apparently one of those people because when I tried to get her attention as she was being whisked down the runway to her seat at the Carmen Marc Valvo show, she stopped, turned around to look at me, and asked, "Did you just call me 'VW'?" "Yes," I answered. She thought for a second and then said, "I think I like that." Yes, it was a close one. You do not want to cross Wilhelmina. When I asked if she was wearing CMV, she said, "Of course," but I didn't buy it.
I got shut out of this season's Red Dress show by the Secret Service because the First Lady was attending—simultaneously the best and worst reason to be turned away. I did, however, gain access to Reem Acra, where I stole a moment with potty-mouthed Amber Tamblyn: "I really fucking love Reem's use of velvet. I think that velvet is so fucking underutilized. And that last guipure lace gown was the shit! I'm going to have to high-five Reem when I get back there! I wore Reem at the Golden Globes when I was up for best actress in a TV series in a drama. My next project is a film called Spring Breakdown with Parker Posey. I think it will come out sometime in the fall. October maybe." Uh, yeah, I'm there.
I forcibly made my way through the post-Max Azria crowd to talk to John Legend. I figured that once he caught a glimpse of me, he would instantly propose marriage. Not the case. In fact, he barely looked at me while I was grilling him, mainly due to the paparazzi's blinding cameras:Me: Did you come to the shows to see the models or the collection?
Him: [Snicker] A little bit of both.
Me: Is this the only show you plan on attending?
Him: [Pushing a camera out of his face] Yes. First ever and last. I 
John Legend.
At Y&Kei, I spotted Aisha Tyler, who told me she's got two movies coming out soon (Death Sentence and Balls of Fury with Christopher Walken). "I don't plan on going to any more shows," she said. "I just want to go home to L.A." You're not John Legend, Aisha. I'll take your front-row seat, thanks.
I ran into both Alicia Keys, who was wearing a black trench and probably nothing underneath, and Kelly Rowland, who was taking a break from recording her new album, at the Tracy Reese show. Kelly told me the title of her album (Ms. Kelly) and the release date (June) [Editor's Note: It's been pushed to 7/3]. A few months ago that was some serious inside info, people! Now the hot new single, "Like This," is out but it hasn't exactly been heating up the charts. No, I didn't think that Ms. Kelly could bump like that. And she looks smokin' in the video. Eve? Not so much. Check it out:
Kelly's already on to a new single, produced by Scott Storch, who seriously makes me gag…and not in the good way. I have to run but you can still read all of my old columns here. TTFN!
In the immortal words of topless-model-turned-'80s-pop-star Sam Fox (who, according to a source not so close to the singer, is a total lesbian), it's hard to keep a good woman down, but, then again, maybe that could be fun! In other words, it's me again, Alexa Camp, and I'm back from my extended vacation. Yes, I'm fashionably late, and I'm not just talking about my period. No, I wasn't preggers (at least not that often, and not for long) and I wasn't in South America getting cheap massive reconstructive surgery. It's just that with Slant getting a hot makeover (the purple was my idea, thankyouverymuch) there hasn't been much room for Auntie Alexa. My inbox was stuffed with emails from all of my pretty babies asking where I've been and you know how I hate to disappoint my public. So now that I'm back I've thrown myself into contract renegotiations. I guess I'm the Rosie O'Donnell of the Internet. I told the boys at Slant that I wanted my own section with fuscia background and purple text, a fuzzy Hello Kitty Trapper Keeper, a year's supply of SmartWater, and a 25% stake in the magazine. They said I could relaunch my Letters From Camp column in the blog, limited my entries to once a week, and offered me a glass from the tap. But whatev. I'm not hard to please.
With that out of the way, I've got some serious dirt to dish from Mercedes Benz Fashion Week. Granted, it's not very dirty and it's a little stale (fashion week was three months ago). First off, let's talk VW. For those not familiar with my column, that's Ugly Betty's Vanessa Williams, who is apparently one of those people because when I tried to get her attention as she was being whisked down the runway to her seat at the Carmen Marc Valvo show, she stopped, turned around to look at me, and asked, "Did you just call me 'VW'?" "Yes," I answered. She thought for a second and then said, "I think I like that." Yes, it was a close one. You do not want to cross Wilhelmina. When I asked if she was wearing CMV, she said, "Of course," but I didn't buy it.
I got shut out of this season's Red Dress show by the Secret Service because the First Lady was attending—simultaneously the best and worst reason to be turned away. I did, however, gain access to Reem Acra, where I stole a moment with potty-mouthed Amber Tamblyn: "I really fucking love Reem's use of velvet. I think that velvet is so fucking underutilized. And that last guipure lace gown was the shit! I'm going to have to high-five Reem when I get back there! I wore Reem at the Golden Globes when I was up for best actress in a TV series in a drama. My next project is a film called Spring Breakdown with Parker Posey. I think it will come out sometime in the fall. October maybe." Uh, yeah, I'm there.
I forcibly made my way through the post-Max Azria crowd to talk to John Legend. I figured that once he caught a glimpse of me, he would instantly propose marriage. Not the case. In fact, he barely looked at me while I was grilling him, mainly due to the paparazzi's blinding cameras:
Him: [Snicker] A little bit of both.
Me: Is this the only show you plan on attending?
Him: [Pushing a camera out of his face] Yes. First ever and last.
John Legend. At Y&Kei, I spotted Aisha Tyler, who told me she's got two movies coming out soon (Death Sentence and Balls of Fury with Christopher Walken). "I don't plan on going to any more shows," she said. "I just want to go home to L.A." You're not John Legend, Aisha. I'll take your front-row seat, thanks.
I ran into both Alicia Keys, who was wearing a black trench and probably nothing underneath, and Kelly Rowland, who was taking a break from recording her new album, at the Tracy Reese show. Kelly told me the title of her album (Ms. Kelly) and the release date (June) [Editor's Note: It's been pushed to 7/3]. A few months ago that was some serious inside info, people! Now the hot new single, "Like This," is out but it hasn't exactly been heating up the charts. No, I didn't think that Ms. Kelly could bump like that. And she looks smokin' in the video. Eve? Not so much. Check it out:
Kelly's already on to a new single, produced by Scott Storch, who seriously makes me gag…and not in the good way. I have to run but you can still read all of my old columns here. TTFN!
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