There’s nothing noble or heroic about running around at three in the morning with a backpack full of paint cans and a hard-on in your pants.
According to Swedish blogger Johan Palme, Liljeroth had two choices when she approached the cake — either she could participate in the performance piece by cutting the cake and smiling for the cameras, or she could refuse and become, once again, the culture minister who just doesn’t understand “provocative” art.
… In the age of Facebook and the constant need to be “likeable,” I suspect there’s a great deal that we (and writers/bloggers in particular) could learn from Hitchens’s contrarian example, lest we all turn into polite, vacuous, inauthentic zombies in the quest to amass as many “friends” as possible.
For some reason I’ve been on a classical music binge, annoying my neighbors with all the waltzing around the apartment I’m doing, in high heels and cat suit no less, to the doom and gloom of Prokofiev, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Smetana. I don’t know what it is but I’m really drawn to pieces in minor keys that sound next to impossible to play—my friends say it’s because I like aggressive Russians dudes which, whatever.
In “The Anthony Weiner Weiner Collection,” on display through July 21st, we are asked to follow New York artist Anthony Weiner through an uncut, sexually-charged, erotic journey into his self—and loins. It’s a myriad of raw self-portraits, drawing from Weiner’s throbbing ego and drawers. But, once we’ve felt his work, like a high-profile tryst splashed on the cover of tabloid rags, there is no satisfaction.
Throughout the film, Phoenix treats his loyal entourage like dirt, and on the whole, acts like a narcissistic, drug addicted pig. Maybe he was trying to satirize celebrity and what it has become.
I got invited to this fabulous party last night in the Hollywood Hills, but instead of going I ultimately decided that seeing Lady Gaga on the VMAs was much more pressing. How could I miss her white carpet arrival…