The streets felt emptied Saturday afternoon, after the news broke that Bill Cunningham would no longer be out in them, taking photographs of people and their clothing. Cunningham died at the age of 87, apparently about as well as one could have hoped—quickly, after a stroke, less than three weeks after his last set of photos had run in the New York Times.
Remember French blue shirts?
What good is a work of art that sits in a storage space, unseen by anyone? No good at all!!!
My kids were talking at dinner about the fictional characters Butterbean and Sparkleface.
As you approach the entrance to the church property, eerie noises waft out of its windows. At first, you might think what you're hearing is the native noise of the parsonage house itself—built in 1853, it sits, paint chipping and distressed, adjacent to an overgrown graveyard—but as you get closer, you realize the sound is coming from inside the building. It is the unsettling, sweeping theme from the film Psycho, played on loop.
Critics haven't been especially kind to Disney's adaptation of Stephen Sondheim's musical Into the Woods. But children will listen.
Twenty-five thousand people of all ages, drunk on cuteness: That was Hello Kitty Con.
BRANSON, MO—Among the things that I dislike most in this world are patriotism, religion, tourist traps, country music, and the Walmart corporation. So I traveled to the one area of this nation that captures them all. It did not go as planned.
The first thing everybody at Lake Como Nudist Resort seems to want to tell me is they're not like those creeps over at Caliente, the resort up the street. "They're not even nudists," says a nurse in her late 40s, with a red sarong around her waist and grand breasts that rest just short of it, as she drinks a beer at the Butt Hutt, the resort bar. "They're swingers," she hisses softly.
"The fun thing about clown sex is there's really no rules," says Jay, a 33-year-old from Chicago and expert on the subject. Jay shared his fetish and many of its accompanying toys—greasepaint, rubber noses, clown pants that you can wear with nothing under them, a cat o' nine tails made of uninflated balloons—on an episode of Logo's sex therapy reality show Bad Sex last night.
Did you know that the Disney villain Maleficent isn't a bitch? I didn't know that Maleficent isn't a bitch. I went to the movie bearing her name expecting to watch a bitch. I did not get a bitch. Life, though, for those 97 minutes was a bitch. I guess that's something.
"When I met Taylor and when we got married, he looked like a Backstreet Boy," said Kim, 28, a marketing director at a local airport near Fredericksburg, VA. She meant that as a compliment. You see, her relationship has since been hijacked by her husband Taylor's barbecue-sauce trap of a beard that he grew, "fell in love with," and then launched a Facebook campaign to keep after she told him to get rid of it. He kept it and named it Beardimus Maximus.
Come August 27, there will be no female late-night talk show hosts on U.S. TV. In a press release, E! announced Chelsea Handler's vehicle Chelsea Lately will end with an "hour-long live event" on Tuesday, August 26.
Before performing her Top 5 hit "Fancy" on last night's Jimmy Kimmel Live, Australian rapper/drag queen Iggy Azalea helped prep the squares in Kimmel's audience by rephrasing the lyrics of the song's first verse and hook. Her in-between accent as she recites (but doesn't quite rap) her lyrics is utterly bizarre, and Kimmel's translations are for the most part hilarious.
After 53 years on television, Barbara Walters is retiring today (or something). For the 84-year-old's final appearance on the show she helped create and will continue to executive produce, The View, about two dozen women in broadcast journalism joined her onstage to honor the woman who helped pave their way in broadcast journalism, and tell Walters, "Goodnight, Moon!" one last time in front of cameras (maybe). Oprah was there! So was Gayle (of course). Kathie Lee and Hoda seemed sober. Elisabeth Hasselbeck wept.
