that for which I am thankful

Just a note of warning: this post is really long and boring and scant on celebrity references.  Proceed if you dare.

Thanksgiving is a lovely, really lovely, holiday, isn’t it?  At least in thought, if not in action.  There’s nothing too lovely about being stuck on a tarmac at Laguardia for three hours and missing your connecting flight to Detroit where you will spend the remainder of the long, very long, weekend with various and sundry members of your extended family, including your stultifyingly boring cousing Kori who wants you two to “hit the great Black Friday sales at the Oakcreek Bridgewood Mills Mall, especially the one  at Boscovs, ooh and at Fredrick’s of Hollywood so I can get something special to wear for me and the hubs’ two-and-a-half-year anniversary” (although as far as you can tell, the “hubs”, i.e. your cousin-in-law Kurt the accountant, hasn’t looked in Kori’s general direction since the NFL lockout ended) and your great-uncle Herbert who smells like urine.  But in principle, Thanksgiving is an entire day given wholly over to thanking people for stuff.  Continue reading


Vanity Fair’s Proust Questionnaire as answered by the cast members of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Adrienne: Being buried alive and then breaking out of my coffin and scratching my way to the surface of the earth. Like that scene in Kill Bill. Can’t you just feel the splinters in your knuckles, the dirt under your fingernails? God that scene makes me hard.

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pop culture sonnets


Britney, our national nighthawk, dulcet

Songbird of the dark: your melodies pump

On Red Bull wings, video body wet

With oil, while in backs of bars, we dry hump.


Sometimes we recall your salad days: your

Pigtails, promise rings, sports bras.  E-mail my

Heart, you warbled in twang on your mall tour,

In fact innocent, not knowing, that by


And by, you would dance down roads of madness,

In a diamond jumpsuit, with snakes, slaves, strange

Toxic lovers, your face full of sadness.

You shaved your head, swung umbrellas, deranged.


Confess: your loneliness was killing you,

Our little bird with the pink dice tattoo.




Up goes a collective national sigh:

Oh Kim, must we see your face everywhere?

We wait for sweet release, our last goodbye,

We tire of your drama, your lips, your hair,


Your hips, your eyes– they repeat on newsstands

As if reflected in funhouse mirrors.

Your makeup Van Gogh-thick, your wedding band

Ring Pop-big, a Pigpen-swirl of rumors


Surrounds you. An American Marie

Antoinette for these recessionary

Times, beware!  Ryan says, Let them watch E!

But a Reign of Terror approaches thee—


Off with her head, cable customers vote,

Making guillotines out of their remotes.




I swoon for Laguna Beach, paradise

Found: Pacific vistas, infinity

Pools, caramelized highlights so precise

Hairstylists must be part divinity.


Kristin Cavallari is its Venus,

Her hoarse laugh and monotone inflections

Somehow bewitching to ev’ry penis:

She surfs the sea; they all get erections.


High school bitch priestess wielding her power,

Ruling her heaven with a shearling boot,

Her stretch palanquin rented by the hour—

The limo, her throne, her prince, always cute.


Then graduating, she moves to L.A.,

Where The Hills will take her power away.