Everyone's phone just made the same noise, because, well, you know why. (Actually—make of it what you will—Gizmodo's phones made the noise a couple of minutes afterward.) So let's acknowledge the fact that everyone already knows the thing that everyone is talking about. SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW. Sometime. There.
Don't let anyone tell you what isn't art. But I'll tell you what this art is: delicious. Ernie Button is a Phoenix-based photographer who has been thinking way too much about his breakfast table recently. He's constructed landscapes, both natural and manmade, using Arizona backdrops and cereal foregrounds. And he's named it Cerealism, a term which is so obvious it doubles back to being clever.
Is your boss opening the office today and making you go to work? This is not a bad thing, necessarily, if you like your job, hate your kids, have cabin fever, or live in one of the dreaded Dead Zones, where no one has power and gangs of restless professionals roam the streets, wearing elaborate ceremonial jewelry crafted out of their now-useless electronics. No, the bad thing is getting to work.
I met Liván, Takeshi and the rest of their band of frikis—rock and metal fans of the punk-and-anarchist subcategory—around nine one Thursday night on the median of Havana's G Street. I'd come to Havana to write a book about what it was like to be a young adult in the post-Fidel city and, since G Street was the biggest party in town, it was where I began.
My friend Chaia and I are sitting on a low brick wall on the patio of a club in the West Village. An inebriated young man, late twenties, early thirties, introduced himself to me a few seconds ago as a representative from "the office of Chris Christie." I have just asked the inebriated young man why a representative from the office of New Jersey's Republican governor is attending a Fashion Week party being thrown by OK! Magazine in the West Village on a Monday night.
Here is Mercedes-Benz FashionWeek as explained by a construction worker across the street from Lincoln Center yesterday, on whom I eavesdropped because I was too scared to talk to anyone else:
It's that special time of year again, where we remember troops and solemnify 9/11, instead of reducing the whole of our overseas conflicts and anti-terror policy to some D-grade Seinfeldism about airport check-ins, taking our shoes off and whaaaat is the deeeaal with mini-shampoo bottles.
Cute new tat, Breezy! Except that from far away, it looks a little bit like a smudge. And when you get closer, the smudge starts to look like a skeleton from Día de los Muertos. And then, when you get even closer, it really comes into focus: This appears to be a tattoo of a battered woman, one that might very well resemble the infamous, horrible photo taken of Rihanna's face soon after then-boyfriend Chris Brown beat her in a car.
While regular-sized Mitt Romney stood inside the Tampa Bay Times Forum, telling regular-sized fables, his 40-foot-high head boomed from the side of a parking garage. The image called for blood-red banners and black bunting, for Dwight Schrute pounding the podium and yelling, "BLOOD ALONE MOVES THE WHEELS OF HISTORY." Instead, Mitt pulled an awkward smile, wincing and unconvincing, unctuously excusing himself into our hearts—the Jim Halpert of the annals American politics.
Last night, the Ronulans decided that they were gonna take their Paul and go home.
Earlier today, before he took on redditors from his basement office, President Obama was delivering a speech about how young people are the future (or something) to a bunch of mildly enthused rich kids at UVA. Not everyone was pleased to hear this, though, as he was interrupted by a few hecklers in the back, chanting something inaudible. Not to worry though, the hecklers were soon drowned out by shouts of "4 more years!" from the kids in the front. "Thank you," Obama said to the hecklers and kindly asked them to back their shit up come voting season.
Yesterday the Ron Paul rEVOLution was thrown out in the gutter, alongside the storm-bathed protesters carrying 99% signs. Thanks to the RNC's backroom rules changes, the good doctor's delegates were not seated. Supporters' chants of "point of order!" from the convention floor failed to incite a floor fight. Their overwhelming "nay" vote on the rules changes went ignored by John Boehner (R-Leatherette), who gaveled the faint "ayes" into the record books.
TAMPA, Fla.— There are many important things to take away from yesterday's Faith and Freedom Conference in the historic Tampa Theater. That Bono must have no idea that "Where the Streets Have No Name" and "Beautiful Day" are busy amping up a crowd of people who hold a Malthusian attitude toward his work in Africa. That the Tampa theater, while beautiful, exudes a slightly surreal gorgeous craftsmanship—like Muppet Rococo. And that a complete misunderstanding of the First Amendment will be a significant GOP plank for the rest of the election.
My grandmother married a beautiful brown troll named HaLester "Les" Myers 20 years ago. The Christmas before last, Les slumped across from me in Grandma's gaudy pink throne while she finished making supper. I watched the still water flooding the gutters of Les's sleepy eyes, the way his nappy gray chin folded snuggly into the top of those musty blue overalls, and I knew that the dusty joker really believed what he said the night before about Kanye West and the importance of treating females like cats.
Forehead Tyra Banks recently sat down with The Hollywood Reporter to discuss Cycle 19 of America's Next Top Model (all the judges and mentors you love—Nigel, Jay, and Miss J—have been fired and replaced with sandbags with frowny faces drawn on them), her hopes for the show's future (it's been moved to Fridays at 8 p.m., so: none), and what it's like being literally the most respected and best person in America.
