Yes, Gretchen, Tamra, Lynne, Vicki, and Jeana are our muses and we think that this is a fitting tribute for the start of what is sure to be a great season of foreclosures, petty disputes, and plastic surgery.

Gretchen Rossi Has a Dildo with a Cord

Empty
like feet searching for the ground while hurling
out of a plane. Empty like tingling
in the cheeks longing for the flapping rush of wind
and the taut explosion of a screaming descent.

Empty
like a love tank in a Prius that has no sparks
and no oil and is just cruising down a hill to crash
into the community's gate. The neighbors will swell
out of their houses—empty, all their goods pawned—

And they will watch as her bloody manicure
sweeps her hair out of her face and she begins
to climb back up the hill, past the empty homes. The mood
is foreboding and gnawing, like debt, like a husband
who doesn't yell, he talks

But when he talks, he is accused of yelling
because everything about his spouse is empty,
her head, her threats, her rhetoric, she is empty
like a puppet missing a hand
like a marionette bobbing

Up and down on yellow strings trying to force her
body into a desirable shape. She is just gilding it,
like a leather and diamond cuff, like Wonder Woman's
magic bracelets,
bullets deflecting in every direction.

The jewelry is designed by a beast, her
tanned hide stretched tight over ribs
like a fleshen xylophone. Hit her with mallets,
make her sing a song of peace as she brings the enemies
around a table, floods it with wine.

Watch them fight, watch them cower. There are
no angels here. Only the accused, eyes still
puffy from crying at the beach with her little creature terriers
named pain and vanity. She cares for them
but longs for a man

Blank as a slate to throw her around a cluttered garage.
There is no room for your grief in the flotsam.
Clear out a space for your dead husband's hospital bed, the Ming vase
urn, swirling with the blue lines of your tears
protecting the chunky ash.

Around the dinner table, let them talk about flowers,
let them talk about work
Let them talk about truth and grievances.
No victims, just someone to tell you to shut the fuck up
to seance the ghost of your gold digging succubus

Before the final empty accusation:
Gretchen Rossi has a dildo with a cord.

Here's a rundown of some of the more promising names in child-labor media. Some of the names will probably look familiar to you, since these kids are famous. Far more famous than most media hacks. In other words, they're coming for your job, loudly.

The Dating Advice Kid

Name: Alec Greven

Age: 10

Summary: His dating-advice book How To Talk To Girls is supposed to become a movie; he now reportedly plans How To Talk To Moms, How To Talk To Dads, How To Talk To Santa and How To Talk To Grandparents. Original publisher HarperCollins is presumably working with him on all of the followups.

More: Here's video of young Alec.

British Blog Boy Wonder

Name: Scott Campbell

Age: 14

Summary: Started British news website, contributes to BBC and various newspapers

More: Campbell is CEO of Net News Daily; with co-founder and editor-in-chief Nathan Adam, he claims 100,000 unique visitors per month, and has scored freelance gigs with the BBC (left) and writes a regular column for the newspaper First News. Asked earlier this year in a Guardian profile how the economic downturn was affecting his business, he said, "I'm 13, so therefore don't have a lot to lose in the financial crisis."

The Lil' Food Critic

Name: David Fishman

Age: 12

Summary: Aspiring food critic profiled in the New York Times; his Upper West Side New York tablehopping has been optioned by Lorne Michaels for a movie.

More: "As I left, I knew that soon enough this would be one of the most ‘hip' places in the city."

(Image via Rachel Ray)

The Pint-Sized Political Pundit

Name: Jonathan Krohn

Age: 13

Summary: Talk-radio regular and self-published author became a smash hit when he spoke at the CPAC right-wing convention.

More: The home-schooled youth practiced public speaking at Christian Youth Theater plays and calling in to Bill Bennett's radio show. Has appeared on CBS News and Today. His endorsement was sought by a Georgia gubernatorial candidate.

Barack Obama's Journalist 'Homeboy'

Name: Damon Weaver

Age: 11

Summary: A successful quest to interview President Barack Obama made him the talk of cable news.

More: After ending an earlier interview with vice presidential contender Joe Biden with, "Senator Biden is now my homeboy," got permission from Obama to also be the president's "homeboy." Has completed such other White House Press Corps rites of passage as attending the inauguration on a media pass and dissing an MSNBC talking head.

The Teenaged Tech Titan

Name: Daniel Brusilovsky

Age: 16

Summary: Founder and CEO, TeensInTech.com; product evangelist for video-casting service Qik; writer for TechCruch; has 120,000 followers on his "Verified" Twitter account.

More: He's an adviser to at least two companies; his parents used to shuttle him to and from tech conferences; says you should be persistent to reach your goals. More here.

(Pic by Randy Stewart)

Finally, the last challenge of this dreadful season of our favorite the fashion design competition. It was yet another "here's some cash, go buy a hooker and some fabric, then make her an outfit" challenge. This time they had to be inspired by something at the Getty Museum and they imported the hookers from the show that dare not speak it's name that airs after Runway. It shouldn't be hard to get excited about beauty in the Getty, but the problem is that the collective talent pool of this group is about as deep as Mad Max's well. How can they be inspired by art when they wouldn't even know how to create something mildly interesting, or at least with a bit of color!

Things We Hated:

• Conspiracy Theories: We really hate it when people say things like "they know he's not talented, but they're keeping him around because he's good TV" and things like that. While we know this is television, we like to think that the competition's producers have at least a little bit of integrity. So now we hate ourselves for thinking that the final three is a great conspiracy by Lifetime to make sure that a woman wins this thing. Sure, the boys pretty much sucked this season (even though Epperson and Ra'Mon deserved more of a chance to show us the goods), but it's a little suspect when the final three are all woman and they are picked by an entirely female panel on Lifetime, television for women. We would never begrudge a woman success, but doesn't this just seem a little bit fishy?
• More Bitching about the Judges: Last night Nina Garcia Fashion Director of Marie Claire Magazine had the gall to say "I don't know who Gordana is as a designer." That is because you didn't even know her name and had to look it up on an index card. Maybe you would have known her name and her (paltry) aesthetic if you bothered to show up every week to do your job. Also, Ms. Kors couldn't make it in for the final judging when two designers were booted off and the final contestants are picked. Isn't that a pretty big deal? And if we couldn't get MK to do the duty, why not ask Tim? Other than Heidi, he's the only person that has seen the work week in and week out.
• Choosing Sides: It seems like the producers are working really hard to make the "bitch edit" happen and have all the designers hate each other. It's like if they manufacture some drama it might distract us from the fact that they are all no-talent, no-personality hacks.
• Having No One to Root For: Does anyone care who wins this whole thing? We don't.
• Michelle Pfieffer and Aston Kutcher: Wow, how sad is it for these two that they're now making movies for Lifetime. And how sad is it that Lifetime thinks we'd actually watch this movie. We'd rather tune in for a Dude, Where's My Car marathon than this sappy estrogen fest.
• Being Bored by Runway: Every reality show has its good years and its bad years. But we just hate hating Runway. It's off year just came at the worst possible point, with a new network and a new production company, which probably means that everyone is going to jump ship and in a year we'll be talking about how "remember when Runway used to be good?" We don't want to give up on it, but this season is making it hard.

Things We Loved:

• Cindy Crawford: Damn, how good does she look guest judging!
• Tim Gunn: It was so sweet when Tim told the designers to go "knock Nina Garcia (FDMCM)'s stillettos off so they fly across the runway." But really, did he think that was going to happen? No. But it's cute that he's still enthusiastic.
• The End: Thank God this season is over. Let's all pray that next season is great again and then instead of saying "remember when Runway was good on Bravo" we can just say "God, remember that really shitty season they rushed into production because of a lawsuit? That was the worst."

In the end, both Gordana and Cry-stopher were sent home to crush smurfs and drown in their tears in solitude. It's not like we'll miss either of you, but it is a little crushing that there won't be one Y chromosome in the finale. But they really deserved to be auf-ed, Cry-stopher for his heavy skirt and runway theatrics, and Gordana for her dress that looked like a giant vagina Georgia O'Keefe painting.

Carol Hannah's stunning gold column, Althea's messy gold somethingorother, and Irina's swishing seafoam structured muumuu were enough to take them to the final in Bryant Park. Yay! The end is in sight.

But there was no end to the bitchiness, the crying, or lack of inspiration this week. To the videos!

Art Thieves
Context: The designers stroll around the Getty Museum looking for inspiration.
Vision: That using something beautiful will help them create beautiful clothing.
Delusion: Silly designers, you need talent to turn art into something creative.
What Would Nina Say?: "What's your name again?"
Dramometer: 4

Fashion Factions
Context: It's Carol Hannah and Althea vs. Irina and Gordana in a fight to the death. But only three will survive.
Vision: Bitching about the other designers will someone make your work better.
Delusion: None of you deserve to be there, and the audience hates all of you. So there!
What Would Nina Say?: "Who is fighting with whom?"
Dramometer: 6

Under the Gunn
Context: Tim Gunn knows that Cry-stopher is going to make an ugly dress and go home. It's what he's been doing for about a month of episodes now—minus the going home part.
Vision: Using a rock to make a dress.
Delusion: Better to use scissors and paper to cut it to shreds, roll it up in a ball, and just throw it away.
What Would Nina Say?: "Tim, why are you talking to that...that, boy!"
Dramometer: 4

Runway Arrogance
Context: Althea watches her dress walk down the runway.
Vision: She uses a bed as inspiration and makes something that is actually pretty cool.
Delusion: No delusion here, other than that having the best dress means she's a great designer.
What Would Nina Say?: "If I knew who you were, I would pick this as a winner."
Dramometer: 3

Meltdown of the Week
Context: Cry-stopher defends his dress with, what else, tears! He compares himself to a rock with a piece of algae on it. That's funny, because we think of him more like a mildewy prom dress that has been left in your parents' basement for 20 years. Really, this is the sorriest thing we've seen since we watched Kim Zolciak sing "Tardy for the Party" live.
Vision: That getting emotional will make the judges see that he made something great.
Delusion: Except the skirt is ugly and looks like a Victorian hooker after she's been graffiti-ed on.
What Would Nina Say?: "I don't know who you are, but I know you won't stop blubbering."
Dramometer: 7

The Cruelty of Life as Illustrated by Models of the Runway

Anyone who has watched the show knows that Kim can't sing. She couldn't perform in the recording booth and she couldn't learn when she got voice lessons. Instead she just sort of makes a croaking noise like a sorority girl that is about to puke up those seven beers next to a tree on the quad. It was a bit shocking when the track came out and it wasn't that bad. Catchy, fun, and AutoTuned within an inch of its life thanks to fellow Housewife Kandi Burruss, "Tardy for the Party" became a campy hit in gay bars and for anyway who has a TiVo season pass for the show.

While everyone was just about sick of it, the one thing that Kim can do to further interest in the track was sing it live, without the aid of computer tricks to make her voice sound good. This wasn't like watching a train wreck, because sometimes in a train wreck there are survivors. This was like watching a massacre. Kim couldn't sing, even with a back-up track that was doing most of the work. She couldn't keep up with her stilted back up dancers. She couldn't get the look of pained concentration off her face. Someone give this girl a glass of chardonnay and a shotgun, because she needs both.

But the oddest thing was the reaction of the Housewives, none of whom would say it was the biggest turd they have ever seen. They all said they "liked the song" and it "had a good beat," but none would mention the wigged elephant in the room—it was an earth-shatteringly bad number. It was like when you see your friend's baby for the first time and it's really ugly and you say "What a baby! Look at the baby!" because you can't say "Your baby is ugly," but that's what you're thinking and you're just looking for something to say that won't be a lie but won't be insulting either.

In fact, the whole two-part reunion special was like that. Even host Andy Cohen seemed clued in that the ladies must have gotten together beforehand and decided that they weren't going to trash each other and instead pretend to make nice and keep Bravo from getting any juicy footage to exploit. It made the two hours very sad and somber indeed, with characters like NeNe Leakes and Lisa Wu-Hartwell keeping their opinions to themselves for a change. Well, if we can't have our favorite girls behaving badly, at least we can have them performing badly. And Kim's epic flame out is one for the reality television record books.

The highlight is probably the unveiling of the conspiratorial internal organ chalkboard. All the notes—references to old and discredited texts, the Founding Fathers, transparently phony stabs at nonpartisanship, crying—are hit, though Stewart never quite reaches the operatic unhingedness of a genuine Beck performance. The glasses are a wonderful touch, though.

FORT HOOD, Texas - Soldiers who witnessed the shooting rampage at Fort Hood that left 13 people dead reported that the gunman shouted "Allahu Akbar!" — an Arabic phrase for "God is great!" — before opening fire, the base commander said Friday.

Lt. Gen. Robert Cone said officials had not yet confirmed that the suspected shooter, Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan, made the comment before the rampage Thursday.

And CNN has what it claims is security-camera footage of Hasan in a convenience store wearing Islamic garb on the day of the shooting:

If true, the above would seem to confirm what many on the wingnut right seemed to positively hope was the case last night—that Hasan's rampage was an act of Islamist terrorism, as opposed to the result of a breakdown or mental illness or the garden-variety insane rage and alienation that has inspired what seems like a mass killing every other month. We all know what first came to mind when Hasan's name was released yesterday. But we suppose a handy guide for finding the line that divides the Glenn Becks of the world from the rest of us is whether you reacted with dread at the idea that it may have been related, however murkily, to Islamism, or if you were filled with smug delight.

Here's some smug delight, from a horrible woman (via the Awl):

The moment I first heard about the mass murders at Fort Hood I knew in my bones that the shooter or shooters were Muslims.

Call me "Islamophobic," call me "psychic," call me what you will.

It now seems that there was only a single shooter: Major Malik Nidal Hasan, an American-born Muslim man of Palestinian/Jordanian descent, an American citizen who is an Army-trained physician-a psychiatrist to be exact-as well as a religious Muslim.

And here, from the Corner's Victor Davis Hanson, is a new meme watch: When a Christian or a Jew or any other kind of regular American blows a gasket and kills a bunch of people, there are a variety of reasons we can investigate as to the potential cause. When a Muslim does it, it's a personal jihad:

[I call it] al Qaedism, or the spontaneous rage of disaffected Muslims, who connect their own failures in some sense to generic radical Islamist sentiments, and act out that anger by running over the innocent (San Francisco or North Carolina), shooting Jews (the LAX or Seattle attacks), or shooting up malls or sniping. These are of course different from but in addition to the 24 organized plots that have been broken up since 9/11, four of them this year alone.

Maybe Hasan killed all those people because he thought Allah wanted him to. Maybe he did it because he wanted to exact revenge for perceived slights. Maybe he was a paranoid schizophrenic and thought they were lizard people. Maybe all of the above. We don't know. But if it was Islamism, this is the lesson that Hanson and his partisans want to take from it:

In other words, the narrative after 9/11 largely remains that Americans have given in to illegitimate "fear and mistrust" of Muslims in general. A saner approach would be to acknowledge that there is a small minority of Muslims who channel generic Islamist fantasies, so that we can assume that either formal terrorist plots or individual acts of murder will more or less occur here every three to six months.

A saner approach. No one, anywhere, has ever disputed that there is a small minority of Muslims—or any religious sect, for that matter—who subscribe to violent and extremist religious views. Make no mistake, this is an argument for legitimate fear and mistrust of "Muslims in general." Expect to see more like it.

Following Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan's deadly Fort Hood shooting spree, and ensuing media chaos and misinformation melee (final stats: 12 dead, 31 wounded, one shooter, at least two guns), Lt. Gen. Robert Cone's press conference delivered several surprises: Though Hasan was gunned down on the scene, he was not, as previously reported, dead. Nor was the person who shot him. Both were in stable condition in the hospital—and one of them was a woman.

Reporters clamored for details about her, stammering breathless questions about the "hero," who she was, and why she was there. All we know so far is that she is not in the military; that she was a "first responder" (maybe a cop); that bullets from her gun were what stopped Hasan's massacre; that she was shot; that she nearly died; and that, had she enlisted to fight in the front lines of the Army, she would have been turned down. Combat units are male-only.

The tale of Fort Hood massacre will have many morals-of-the-story, complicated stuff about workplace harassment, medical licenses, Muslims in the military, and the twisted state of mental health in the Armed Forces. This, the case for letting women risk life and limb more often, is one of the happier ones.

There are plenty of reasons why dozens of soldiers (77 percent of whom were probably dudes) on the scene couldn't stop the shooter. (The most obvious of which is that even trained-to-kill soldiers don't wander around with loaded weapons at all times, especially when they're at the doctor getting a check-up, which is what Hasan's victims were doing. Which, by the way, only brings him that much closer to stealing Dr. Mengele's title as "shittiest doctor of all time.") But if a woman can storm into that place and save all those people, shouldn't she be allowed serve alongside them in a war zone, too? Yeah, sexual tension has a tendency to spook the Army (which is why there are no gays in the military, not even one!) and, oh, it'd be such a drag to deal with girl toilets and tampons in the barracks. But, guys, a chick just saved all your asses. Figure it out, already.

UPDATE: The female police officer's identity is now known. Meet Kimberly Munley, a "tough woman" with a 3-year-old daughter and military husband.

Lose yourself in art, rich tech people; the proceeds go to charity. Kataoka, an entrepreneur and Julia Allison-grade protocelebrity, has announced her participation in a charity auction. The prize? "Sit back, relax & ... Leave your mark on a conceptual work of art by prominent artist Drue Kataoka... on a private jet across the Bay." That certainly sounds immersive. And if there's any time left over after the art session, you can ask Kataoka about fashion, and her recent conversation with designer Yigal Azrouel for her site Culture Lick (see video below, which opens with Kataoka's trademark ice cream lick.)

Hopefully Kataoka will bring her camera onto the plane, as well. Can't wait for the footage!

You might know Google owns YouTube, GMail, GChat, Google News, Google Docs and Google Reader, but the full privacy impact probably hasn't hit you until you look at the information from all those services condensed into one place, on this dashboard thing. Oh look, it's the last person you chatted with, the last person you emailed, the last video you watched, the last news search you ran, the last Google search, the last image search, the last video search, the last document you authored and maybe what you're buying your wife for Christmas.

Here are some of my recent searches, for example, and keep in mind this is just one small part of the dashboard, which in turn is one small part of what Google knows:

Insane. And yet, nothing I didn't know about, on some logical unemotional level. There's a Google video explaining everything above, and you can find your dossier here, but be warned: looking at it could change your life.

Here's the rest of mine, not including my main Google Apps email and Docs accounts, and heavily redacted (sorry) (click to enlarge):

Glenn Beck survived his appendicitis surgery and issued the following real statement:

Glenn and his wife Tania are so thankful for all the kind words, prayers and support from everyone. Well, almost everyone. Those compassionate loving liberal bloggers were bummed things didn't end differently for Glenn.

We hear the microchip-implanting portion of the operation went just fine Fuck, that was supposed to be a secret.


A tipster sends us more on the layoffs at Essence we heard about yesterday: "Essence relaunched their digital services last week via the re-design of its new website. 18 of the 20 people who worked extensively on this until, the day of launch (10.29), were let go yesterday without previous notice. In addition to digital, essence laid off several within their sales division. Severances were extended to those who had been there over a year, however, no warning or notice was provided to senior staff members.Their method was distinctly different compared to People and Sports Illustrated, for example. It was calculated and underhanded... Apparently a lot of pissed off people there."


Keith Kelly says that the hardest-hit magazines in the Time Inc. layoffs with be Fortune and Sports Illustrated, with about 40 layoffs each. Idea for avoiding this: ... ah, we got nothing. Sorry.


"Weird," "Bizarre," and other synonyms come to mind as we inform you that, starting Monday, the dying San Francisco Chronicle will be printing on "magazine-style glossy paper." What the fuck? I really don't know.

Instead of opening to a buzzing chorus and a heat-seaking Slushie cruising down the hallway, we are introduced to Fabio, who will be the heavily-accented Virgil for our tour through this fresh hell. Apparently this episode is meant to show us what all of our favorite Glee club members are going to look like in 10 years. Apparently they have all become chefs and been on some sort of reality show, but not all at the same time. They have also given up singing and dancing, which is sad.

He starts bringing in all these people we don't even recognize. First is some chucklehead who must be Finn after getting married: bloated, haggard, but still walking around with that confidence that says he has the biggest dick in the locker room. Then in saunters Mercedes, the big girl with the big voice and plenty of sass to back it up. She's also pulled a Michael Jackson and lightened her skin a whole lot.

Then the Will Schuester arrives. He is going by Ilan these days, and he is still cute in a nerdy way and a little bit too earnest. Shortly after comes Puck, throwing about oblivious bravado just like he used to swings about his massive man guns, except now his mohawk has grown out into a nest of scary nettles. Babygay Kurt's has grown into chubby adolescent and screeches when he sees the sexy and kinda mean Quinn Fabray, who has dyed her hair brown and is wearing a very cute outfit that is nothing like a cheerleader's uniform. They are joined by some guy named Hung who was one of those silent Asians in the background of the Glee club who they trot out whenever they need someone to do break dance moves.

Next is Ken Tanaka, with a face that looks like it was attacked by a hive of bees and a haircut only a lesbian could love. Speaking of which, in saunters Sue Motherfucking Sylvester. Well, at least we thought so, until we realized that this dykey lady was about as funny as spending a night in county jail for public urination. What could have happened to ruin her spirit?

Finally the diva of the show arrives, but Rachel has gone from an awkward, strangely attractive and totally totally self absorbed bitch into an awkward, strangely attractive tall black woman with giant eyes. She's not nearly so full of herself though. Then we see that pot-dealing, Josh Groban-loving Sandy has gone back in the closet. What a sad day to see him without the protection of a sherbet colored sweater tied around his neck like he was pretending to drive to the country club.

Now that we've met the dramatis personae, we're ready for them to start talking about how they're going to put on the show. A little doo-wop and be-bop later, and we'll have ourselves a cheerleader-themed production number that will make every hair on your body stand on end for two whole minutes before falling off your body in exhaustion. It's like the television equivalent of a full-body wax, and it hurts so good. Well, they start talking...and talking and talking. We keep seeing flashbacks of them actually doing things—namely cooking and bitching at each other—but now that are not doing anything. It's like a third year high school reunion, where everyone is still far too familiar and the wounds are as fresh as newly-picked hemlock.

Fabio the Fabulous must be the director, because he's going around and talking to everyone and trying to find out about their character's motivations. We're ready for him to start blocking a scene or something, but instead he just seems to be practicing to host a reality show all his own. Finally, he starts to get things rolling by pulling out this crazy block with a bunch of knives sticking out of it. We get prepared for the massacre, as each gang of two (or three in the case of Babygay Kurt, Quinn, and nameless Asian) draws their weapon. But they're not fighting, they're just randomly assigning numbers. Somehow this translates into Rachel and Sandy having to make dessert, which is funny because Rachel would never eat dessert or else it would ruin her elliptical-based aerobic exercise regime and Sandy only eats dessert when he's stoned. Any situation this tedious would probably sober him up right quick.

Next thing you know, everyone is in the supermarket. This is like some kind of fever dream, when you expect to see Judy Garland dance with Mickey Rooney, and instead you get a Nicolas Cage chewing the scenery up and down a liquor store aisle as he fulls his cart full of the booze that he's going to use to kill himself. But instead of Nic's bad hair, you have a whole bunch of bad lesbian hair all competing for your attention. And it is dotted with all these wretched reminders of better days, when they were playing this awesome game that was judged by beautiful, wise, and witty people, including Parvati, the Hindu goddess of love. But these xenophobes keep mispronouncing her name and calling her Padma. God, Americans are so stupid. There is no mention of the evil goddess Kali, who once ruled the land, but was replaced by someone more charismatic and photogenic.

Then they go back and cook, but not in a way like they're actually trying to get something done (except for nameless Asian who is all high kicks and head spins around that kitchen like he's the third chorus boy in Barefoot Contessa: The Musical!) Rachel is talking about how stressful life is as a star. Sandy is walking around trying to prove how straight he is by hitting on all the lesbians. The lesbians are rolling their eyes, and Sue Motherfucking Sylvester doesn't even threaten one person except with her scowl, which could peel the hides off of a battered cardboard box of newborn puppies.

Director Fabio is making the rounds and asking everyone what they are doing, but we don't really care. We're just thinking that after this extravaganza of tedium that there has to be a great closing number with tap dancers, showgirls in headdresses, and stairs that light up when they are stepped on. Instead they all sit down to dinner. The only way this could be good is if Fabio puts on a corset and a curly wig gets Rachel in a maid's outfit and Finn as a bald butler to flank him for a rendition of "Eddie's Teddy" from Rocky Horror Picture Show, and at the end of the number he rips the table cloth off the table to reveal the body of dead goddess Kali below. But they don't, and we still don't know what happened to Kali Joel.

Instead, they sit around and talk about how hard it is to be on reality television and how no one understand them. Puck has it the worst, apparently, but it seems he deserves it because he behaves so appallingly that it makes it seem like he has some sort of personality disorder. In the middle of all this, Fabio gets all incensed for no reason. We think he's going to suddenly blow his top and scream "prostitution whore" and flip over a table, but instead he just makes some speech that we couldn't quite understand because the only Italian words we know are puttanesca and DiGiorno, which we think means delivery.

They're all eating and everyone likes most of the food, except everyone agrees that Babygay Kurt's pirogi thing is about as bad as that "Single Ladies" song the millionth time you've heard it. Then there are more memories, good and bad and more bitching. We have to check the calendar, because it seems like Thanksgiving came early this year, except we don't get to eat any of our mother's famous Indian Pudding (maybe Parvati stole it?) and we just get all the fighting. Finn tries to keep everything positive, but despite the swagger, no one listens to him anymore because he's fat now. Quinn and Rachel try to make nice and say that Rachel has forgiven Quinn for ruining her life, but we know she was kicking her under the table through the entire meal. She has very long legs now.

After more misty watercolor memories of everyone playing and getting drunk in some dirty room that must be Mercedes' basement where everyone goes to party after an especially tough rehearsal, the whole thing is over. Like sex with a bad hooker or a community theater production of Into the Woods, it ends with no climax, with no big final scene, and it took way too long to get there. We can't wait for next week when everything is back to normal, because this episode of Glee sucked.

Disregarding the warnings of everyone from male fashion designers to male bloggers, a certain portion of American women every day force themselves into "Spanx," only to be faced with embarrassing situations like needing to pee, or wanting to get naked, and then having no choice but to duck into some nearby restroom like Clark Kent for the purpose not of donning a superhero outfit and rescuing helpless civilians from criminal forces, but for the purpose of unburdening themselves of the tight-fitting "Spanx" unobserved by anyone who might consider such a display to be awkward or, indeed, unattractive.

Furthermore, thanks to the vagaries of our capitalist system, various competitors who have observed the popularity of "Spanx" undergarments are now creating their own variation of the "Spanx" formula, namely, spandex tubes into which women are expected to climb, in order to appear very tightly constrained throughout the midsection, in what could be termed an outright deception, not to mention an unhealthy constriction of one's bodily vital fluids' ability to flow freely betwixt and between whichever organs our subconscious brain deems necessary and appropriate, based on its millenia of evolution.

We do not need "Spanx" in snakeskin prints. We do not need "Spanx" in new hues and tints. We do not need "Spanx" for wedding nor ball. We do not need "Spanx" at all.

Michele Bachmann has called for a revolt against healthiness starting at noon today, and according to Politico, thousands of tea partiers have heeded the call so far, standing outside the Capitol and chanting "Palin/Bachmann 2012!", which is maybe like their version of Glenn Beck's 9/12 Project or something?

The protesters, who are occupying the patch of grass only a few yards from where Barack Obama took the oath of office on Jan. 20, have also chanted "you work for us!" Many are holding signs that echo their distrust of Obama and their belief that he is pursuing socialist policies.

They've advanced to within yards of Obama! Fix the bayonets and say a prayer boys, it's happening.

It's not just teabaggers taking back their government: Eight protesters were arrested this morning for occupying Sen. Joe Leiberman's office and demanding that he support reform. If you're a member of Congress, today's a good day for a long lunch in a dark bar.

Also: Strangely, Fox News isn't staying live with the tea party without commercial interruption—they're talking about some baby someone found in a box somewhere.

As soon as the New York Times broke the news of New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer's habit of patronizing high-end call girls on the afternoon of March 10, 2008, his communications director Christine Anderson pretty much knew she was out of a gig. But along with managing the media frenzy surrounding Spitzer, she also had a new boss, Gov. David Paterson, who almost immediately stirred up his own press storm by disclosing past affairs and drug use.

But before all that happened, Anderson was getting buried with requests for Spitzer. Among the first out of the gate was Matthew Zimmerman, Matt Lauer's booker at the Today show. He didn't land the exclusive Spitzer interview everyone was clamoring for—that went to CNN's Fareed Zakaria a year later—but in the course of pursuing the get, Zimmerman casually mentioned to Anderson that he'd be more than happy to help her find work at NBC News. He also turned up his nose at a shot at Paterson just hours before news broke of Paterson's past infidelities, at which point Zimmerman immediately did a 180 and begged for an interview with Paterson. Because governors are boring unless they're fucking people they shouldn't be fucking.

Read on to see how the exchange unfolded in e-mails, which we obtained by filing a public records for correspondence between the press and Spitzer's communications office during the crisis.

This is Zimmerman's first e-mail seeking the interview that every news producer wanted, just a few hours after the Spitzer story broke. It has the standard expression of sympathy common to television bookers ("I'm sorry to be reaching out to you in such circumstances") but reminds Anderson that he's not your run of the mill news lackey: "I am Matt Lauer's producer at NBC." Anderson politely brushed him off with a terse "will get back to you as soon as I can," which considering the circumstances could be a way of saying don't hold your breath.

Two days later, Zimmerman and Lauer decided to up their efforts and go the direct route. Lauer had written "a personal note" to Spitzer, and Zimmerman wanted to know if he should it "walk it over" to Anderson's office or leave it with his Spitzer's doorman. Anderson says, "Feel free."

Five days later, on March 17, Spitzer's resignation became effective and Paterson was elevated from lieutenant governor to become the first African American governor of New York. Zimmerman circled back to thank Anderson for "all her help" during the crisis of the previous week, and to let her know that he's thinking about her. Anderson wrote back to say she heard Today was interested in talking to the first African American governor of New York, and she seemed to be willing to entertain the idea. How about it? At this point, though, Paterson was, in national news terms, the previously unknown politician who had replaced the celebrity governor who had been accused of sleeping with a hooker. Zimmerman's response to the offer is underwhelming and puzzling: "Believe it or not, I think it might have been related to the weather for Gov. Paterson... I'll check with Missy Dunlop who would be handling that request." The weather?

We're not sure what Zimmerman's "weather" comment referred to, but it could have been to this request of March 15 from another producer for Paterson to appear on the weekend edition of Today to talk to Lester Holt about the crane collapse that had killed seven people in Manhattan that day. Weather, cranes—both involve things falling from the sky, right? In any event, Zimmerman didn't exactly jump at the chance to book Paterson for Lauer, and Dunlop's request was for Weekend Today, which has a different staff. The Spitzer story had sex, scandal—the things people want to see Matt Lauer talking about at 7 o'clock in the morning. Paterson was kind of boring.

And Today has shown that it can be picky about the governors it books. We know they spurned an interview with some another lame boring governor who would become newsworthy because of scandal just a few hours later. Back in December 2008, Today had booked Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich on what turned out to be the morning of his arrest by FBI agents. But they bumped him at the last minute in order to make room for a segment flogging the announcement of Jay Leno's 10 p.m. show.

But back to the conversation Anderson and Zimmerman were having on March 17. Once Anderson told Zimmerman that she wouldn't be sticking around the governor's office, Zimmerman—who seemed to be aware that Anderson once worked as a producer for Good Morning America—thoughtfully offered to help her secure a new job: "If you ever want to get back into tv (and not ABC!) let me know and i can see about openings here."

Gosh, that was nice of him, wasn't it? Then, in the very next sentence after he offered to help her get a job, he got back to business, letting Anderson know that he'd been in touch with a flack at Sard Verbinnen & Co., the PR shop that Spitzer's law firm hired to handle media requests, and expressing doubt about his chances. But Anderson promised to keep Zimmerman "apraised" of Spitzer's thinking, and thanked him for the "kind offer."

Was it a generous and human thing to do for Zimmerman to offer to keep his ears open on the job front? Yes, it was. Was he also trying to get Anderson to help him secure access to Spitzer at the same time? Yes, he was. Both things are true, and the casualness with which he made the offer speaks volumes about the relationships between flacks and—oh, who are we kidding? It's Today.

Anderson's quip about how dealing with a hooker disclosure is nothing compared to working for Shelley Ross, the legendarily horrible producer who was her boss at GMA, gave them a chance to gossip together. Zimmerman joked about how awesome it must be for Spitzer that former New Jersey Gov. Jim McGreevey's one-time aide recently claimed that he'd engaged in threeways with McGreevey and his wife. There would be more news to take the pressure off Spitzer in just a few hours....

...when the Daily News story detailing Paterson's past marital troubles hit the web that night. All of a sudden, Zimmerman was much more keen on having Matt Lauer talk to the first African American governor of New York on the Today show, because he had screwed state employees in the past. Anderson hadn't even seen the story yet, so Zimmerman sent it to her.

Anderson promptly forwarded it along to political consultants Ryan Toohey and Jeff Pollock to brainstorm how to spin it. Hilarity ensues: "Unreal." "Ideas?"

Neither Spitzer nor Paterson ended up appearing on Today during the height of the scandal, and Anderson wound up getting a job as vice president of communications at the Blackstone Group, a private equity firm. But eventually Today got their man: Spitzer sat down with Lauer this past April as part of his public image rehab campaign and told the nation that there were "no excuses" for his behavior.

Zimmerman didn't respond to requests for comment, and Anderson declined to comment.

The Associated Press reports that a 13-year-old cat was lethargic, had trouble breathing and had a loss of appetite. When it was taken to the vet, bang! Swine flu. The unnamed cat is now recovered. "This may be the first instance where we have documentation that transmission occurred involving cats or dogs, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention spokesman Tom Skinner told the AP.

The report also casually mentions that two ferrets - one in Oregon and one in Nebraska - had the swine flu, "but they died." Because apparently no-one cares about ferrets and they're allowed to die without making news. Let's all take a moment to remember them please.

I'm waiting for the Glenn Beck animal swine flu vaccination backlash. And also for a wild panic about millions of cats dying that is not really justified.

The Parisian magazine magnate has long been a fixture on the Manhattan scene; he even sometimes gets his own area at high-end parties in which to take pictures. But, apart from his own musings on nightlife in the city, has mostly avoided doing press. Now Blackbook has picked up on this Japanese magazine interview with the indoor sunglasses-wearer.

"People recognise him," says the unnamed journalist, "by his signature tousled hair and stubble, a pair of tear-drop sunglasses, a tight-fitting leather jacket, pointy boots, a gold wristwatch… an intriguing mix of sexiness and discretion."

"This is a disguise," explains Zahm. "Five or six years ago, I decided to wear this kind of outfit and behave as if I were a celebrity. It's not out of narcissism. It's for the magazine. For an independent magazine to exist, I had to incarnate it personally,"

Take a look at these pictures, from Zahm's blog, and judge for yourself. There are plenty more if Thursday morning is a pensive, French, black-and-white kind of time for you.

A naked lady in Paris:

Terry Richardson leaping:

A naked lady in Paris again:

Paul Sevigny with a surfboard:

What if it's too small?
Grower not a shower, baby. This was the same strategy that got your kid's grandma halfway to the vice presidency. Sure, her resume was distressingly short, and her intellectual prowess a bit thin, but everyone said she was a quick study. It's all about potential.

But, like, really small?
Blame it on the weather. Page Six is already doing this for you, noting that "one location for the shoot is a chilly ice rink."

What if this hurts my chance at getting custody of Tripp?
Sure, work in the adult entertainment industry may at times seem like a reason for revoking custody—Sarah Palin thinks so, and so does Sandra Bullock. But you're a teenage high school dropout with no wage-earning skills to speak of and, if we had to hazard a guess, not much by way of savings. Any level of legally-acquired financial security is going to be a boon here. Also, though Tripp's very existence proves that physical maturity does not always pair itself with mental or emotional maturity, our Pavlovian response to "Levi's manhood" might turn into some sort of subconscious message-making conceit at some point.

What if my mom sees me?
Oh, honey. They don't have Playgirl where your mother is. Just tell her you finally got that job on the oil rig.

What if it gets gay?
Well, we already know you're OK with a little bicuriosity, but a good old fashioned "no homo"—plus a dash of anatomical ambiguity—always helps:

Levi's manager, Tank Johnson [sic, it's Jones], tells Page Six, "We haven't had any discussions of that nature at all," and refused to confirm whether Johnson would go full-frontal during the shoot.

See? Already troubleshooting like a champ. Now drop those pants and start posing!

It was during his radio program, so sadly there is no video of Glenn clutching his abdomen, vomiting, and finally collapsing in pain.

Beck is expected to make a full recovery, after his appendix was removed at "an undisclosed hospital."

Let's hope things go better than they did the last time he went to the hospital, when he had to wait for 40 minutes in the emergency room! This was back when he was with CNN, so he blamed the health care industry instead of secret Maoist-ACORN Lizard People.

Stars Cross the Lily Pond
by Betsey Morgenstern
Hamptons.com Contributor

Last night there was another packed crowd at the Lily Pond, the hottest nightclub in all of East Hampton, and the dance floor was especially star studded, with the likes of Whitney Port, Roxy Carmichael Olin, and Sammie Somethingorother in town for the weekend staying at the Fackelmayer's luxe compound. Nearly identical brothers Freddie and Harry couldn't have been dressed more differently for the late night fun. Harry came wearing a T-shirt and shorts, looking like he just finished a shift at the Crab Shack down the street and was stopping by for a drink on his way home. The buff and bronzed Freddie, however, was wearing an open tuxedo shirt and jacket, looking like he had just been thrown out of the End Alopecia Now benefit that was happening earlier that evening at McGuffan's Farm.

While the gemini brothers couldn't have looked more different, they both had the same goal: to score with Whitney. Apparently Whitney insisted on bringing her friend Roxy C.O. along for the weekend, much to everyone's chagrin. We hear that Sammy tried to swerve her Audi when Roxy was sticking her head out the sunroof so that she would be hurled headlong into the gutter, never to bray or instigate ever again. Her plan did not work. Neither of the Fackelmayers, with their upper-class, East Coast cool, could stand the brash California girl, and she was left to do the Tiffani dance all by herself while wearing a pair of glowing green sunglasses.

Harry (who I met when dating his brother Freddie, full disclosure!) ambled over and told me that he was thinking of hitting on Sammy, but she just wasn't that cute, and was on the prowl for another girl. I said, "What about Whitney. She's really giving you the signals."

At that moment, she was on the dance floor grinding with Freddie, who was popping the cork off a bottle of champagne and making sure that his girl was having a good time. I told Harry, who was a little drunk, that was the chance to make his move. He went in to kiss her, but Whitney kept turning her head. "I love you," I overheard him say as I sat on a banquette nearby watching the action. Freddie could clearly see the scene play out, and he bent over and shouted something to Roxy C.O., but I couldn't hear over the thump of the music from DJ Skeezy, who once asked me if I would do a line of coke off his penis. It's not as difficult as you would think.

Freddie made his way back over to Whitney, and Harry slumped over with the look of defeat all over his face where his limp bangs usually hang. I sat next to him and patted his knee and told him everything would be fine. As he slipped his hand under my blouse (but over the bra), I thought of an even better plan. "Hey, why don't you tell Whitney that I'm Freddie's girlfriend and that she should break up with him. Then maybe she'll sleep with you."

Harry weaved his way through the crowd of glamorous hangers on, stepped over Sammy, who was making out on the floor with Ship Needermacker, heir to the Needermacker frozen waffle fortune, and sidled up to Whitney. I swished my martini around and mustered up my biggest scowl as Harry whispered in her ear and Whitney's face festered with even more confusion that usual. It was like someone just told her that her little puppy hadn't been sent to a farm in Connecticut to live with Martha Stewart, but really wound up under the wheels of Lizzie Grubman's SUV. She grabbed Roxy C.O. and told Sammie to stop being a slut on the sticky floor of a suburban club because it was time to storm off in a huff.

I went over to Harry to ask what happened, and he slumped onto my shoulders like a lonely corpse. I patted his head and thought he was going to cry. Then he vomited down my back, and it was time to leave.

The next morning, I had to find out the scoop and hid out in the shed next to the Fackelmayer pool. As the brothers did cannonballs, I could see the three witches plotting inside throwing little ingredients into a cauldron. Sammie would stir and Roxy would throw back her head and emit painful bleats that made the boys cower like Glenn Close taking a shower in The Big Chill. They came downstairs and coven leader Roxy gave Freddie a piece of her mind, but Whitney wanted to do the talking. She changed a spell of truth, and Freddie had no choice to admit his girlfriend and say he was sorry, but offerend no explanation.

Then I burst out of the shed, leaves still in my hair and chucks of dried puke flaking off my dress and shouted, "It's me! He's in love with me!" and the witches screamed, running with hands over head like a gaggle of crazed hula dancers. They ran right to the Audi and shuttled back from the city. It might have been a shaky night, but this party ended with the best of mornings.

Interview with Betsey Morgenstern, Blogger for Stylehive.com
By Olivia Palermo

There are many style blogs on the internet, but the bloggiest belongs to Betsey Morgenstern, the girl who has something to do with Stylehive.com.

Olivia Palermo: Hi Betsey. How are you?
Betsey Morgenstern: I'm fine, how are....

OP: That's great to hear. So, how would you describe your personal style?
BM: Well, I really like a mix of fashion-forward and more...

OP: That's awesome. I have something like that myself. Who are your favorite designers?
BM: Right now I'm really into Jason...

OP: I'm friends with Phillip Lim. And I lost my virginity in Zac Posen's hot tub on Fire Island. What trends are you seeing now?
BM: The thing that's going to be a hit for fall is...

OP: Great. That's all I need.
BM: What? You wouldn't even let me say...

OP: I'm leaving. Bye.

Horrible parents across America are selling off their children's looks to make a few extra bucks during these tough economic times, according to the WSJ. They seen them other girls doing it on the teevee show and them girls aren't even as purty as Caitlin, gah.

Natacha Andrews recently signed up her 4-year-old daughter, Anaya, with a modeling agency. Anaya says she wants to be "like Tyra"-that is, model-turned-media-personality Tyra Banks.

Her mother, a 36-year-old Phoenix attorney, has another motivation. "I know people who successfully saved money this way," she says

I know a dude who said he made all this money stuffing envelopes at home, too. Get the fuck out of here. I wanted to be a fireman when I was four, but my parents didn't buy me a fucking fire truck.

Carol Stevenson, a public-relations consultant, signed her three kids up with Peak Models & Talent because she wanted them to start saving for college.

Your special model child will look just fine shoveling driveways this winter for five dollars, and, later, applying for a job at McDonald's. All you parents are way psycho.

Scientology refugee Marc Headley has written a book called Blown For Good—featuring a dramatic, action-scene-type cover—detailing his 15 years of work inside Scientology. The Village Voice interviewed him about his 1990 "auditing" session performed by Days of Thunder-era Tom Cruise himself.

"You do a lot of things with a book and a bottle," Headley says. "It's known as the book-and-bottle routine." Cruise, he says, would instruct Headley to speak to a book, telling it to stand up, or to sit down, or otherwise to move somewhere.

"You do the same with the bottle. You talk to it. You do it with an ashtray too," he says. "You tell the ashtray, 'Sit in that chair.' Then you actually go over and put the ashtray on the chair. Then you tell the ashtray, 'Thank you.' Then you do the same thing with the bottle, and the book. And you do this for hours and hours."

This was supposed " to get your intention over to the bottle...to rehabilitate your ability to control things." Well then. Tom Cruise can control books and bottles with his mind and don't ever let anyone tell you different.

Headley also says that there are only about 10,000 Scientologists in the whole world. They could be whupped by the Unitarians!
[Village Voice. Pic by Richard Blakeley]

NOM raised a zillion dollars or so from hateful bigots across the nation whose names they refuse to disclose, which is, of course, a violation of state campaign finance law. But if it works, who gives a shit? 53% of Maine voters agreed that if the gays get married, they will attempt to force the children to learn, in public schools, that gay people exist, and that they should not be beaten to death for crimes against God.

Once again we learn the shocking truth that putting the civil rights of minority groups to a popular vote does not work very well. Crazy, right?

Here is a classic sketch from The Dana Carvey Show that is more relevant than ever, again:

On March 10, 2008, few people on the planet had more difficult jobs than Christine Anderson and Errol Cockfield. They were the communications director and press secretary, respectively, for New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer, and at roughly 1:07 p.m. on that afternoon, the Times went live with a story documenting their boss' entanglement as "Client No. 9" in a federal investigation of a high-end prostitution ring. We were curious what the inside of a PR meltdown looks like, so—following in the footsteps of The State's investigation into the media's efforts to land an exclusive interview with Mark Sanford while he was hiking the Appalachian Trail—we used New York's open records law to obtain e-mail traffic between Anderson, Cockfield, and the dozens of reporters barraging them with inquiries in the days following the Spitzer revelations.

The e-mails total 1,300 pages, and we're still reading through the stack of paper. Any other interesting finds will be going up in subsequent posts. But what we've seen so far has been surprising: You'd think that, with blood in the water, the traditional coziness that develops between official flacks and the beat reporters who have to talk to them every day would break down into some kind of last-man-standing slugfest. But in the Spitzer case, the opposite happened. The revelations upended the worlds of both reporter and flack alike, and the uncertainty, long hours, and breakneck pace of the scandal actually seemed to throw them together as they worked toward what seems, if you read the e-mail exchanges, like a common goal of getting the news out and behind them.

Which makes sense on a human level. But sometimes good reporting—especially of the government watchdog variety—requires an inhuman suspension of compassion. The infractions documented in these e-mails are misdemeanors, but—in addition to being an unvarnished peek inside the media machinery—they're indicative of the creeping social and professional alliances that inevitably develop between PR handlers and their overworked, easily manipulated charges in the press corps. And they give the lie to the myth of the vigilant watchdog press that keeps the government on its toes. Next time you hear New York Times editor Bill Keller claim that newspapers are uniquely situated to do the "hard, expensive, sometimes dangerous work [of] quality journalism," remember that his reporter broke the story of Spitzer's dalliances with prostitutes. But also remember the time his reporter e-mailed Gov. Paterson's flack to request permission to call Paterson's former mistress.

This first installment documents the shocking amount of control that Keller's Times allowed Anderson, a former Good Morning America producer and PR veteran of the Clinton White House, to exercise over his paper's coverage. After bringing Anderson's world down around her head by breaking the story, Times reporters previewed portions of their stories with her before publication, asked for her permission before contacting sources, and let her tell them how to characterize its reporting in the paper.

We'll begin at the beginning: On March 9, 2008, Anderson had not yet been informed of Spitzer's transgressions. Which makes this e-mail exchange with Times reporter Danny Hakim, who broke the story along with William K. Rashbaum, almost painfully poignant in retrospect.

Clueless, Anderson tried to sniff out what Hakim was up to, apparently to no avail (Spitzer himself broke the news to his staff early the next morning):

Hakim and Rashbaum's story went live the next day at roughly 2:08 p.m., using the Drudge Report Archives' timeline as a chronological guide. At 1:34 p.m., Hakim was still working his scoop, and e-mailed Anderson to make sure he had a detail right about how Spitzer broke the news to his staff. The subject line was, "can i do this?", and the message body appears to be the actual text Hakim planned to write—in other words, he appears to have been previewing his copy for the woman charged with managing Spitzer's image crisis, and seeking her signoff.

Anderson had a minor quibble with the facts—there was no single meeting at which Spitzer made the announcement—but she objected to the idea of repeating the phrase "ensnared in a prostitution ring," and asked Hakim to simply say Spitzer told his staff about "the matter."

The original Times story has been repeatedly updated, but the current version renders that detail thusly: "The governor informed his top aides Sunday night and this morning of his involvement."

Two days later, Spitzer announced his resignation, and the media scrum's attention turned to then-Lt. Gov. David Paterson. Paterson had his own press aides, but Anderson stayed on while Spitzer was still nominally in office and managed the coverage of the transition. On March 14, Times reporter Jeremy Peters was working on a profile of Paterson's chief of staff, Charles O'Byrne. He interviewed O'Byrne for the story, apparently working under an agreement that any quotes had to be cleared through Anderson.

Anderson replied that none of the quotes could be used, and recommended some of O'Byrne's friends for Peters to call for (presumably positive) quotes, a fairly routine practice.

Peters didn't push back. He simply asked Anderson how best to characterize O'Byrne's refusal to be quoted. "Say he declined to be interviewed?" asked Peters. Of course, O'Byrne didn't decline to be interviewed—he just declined to be quoted, a distinction that Anderson caught:

It's a bizarre world where flacks are more vigilant than reporters when it comes to trying not to mislead readers. The exchange continued, with Peters trying to gather competitive intelligence from Anderson and Anderson trying to make sure Peters spoke to the sources she wanted him to speak to.

Peters' O'Byrne profile eventually ran on March 20, including a proviso that "Mr. O'Byrne would not comment for this article" and several positive quotes from Ethan Geto and Eric Schneiderman, another source recommended by Anderson.

The PR disaster didn't end with Spitzer's resignation: Just days after Paterson ascended to the governor's office, the New York Daily News reported that both Paterson and his wife had engaged in multiple infidelities. The question of the hour on the afternoon of March 18 was the identity of the governor's office employee mentioned in the Daily News story as one of the new governor's ex-flames. Hakim knew who it was, but the Times would never stoop to delve into someone's private life so tastelessly. Unless the Daily News does it, in which case, yeah, maybe they would. So Hakim checked in with Anderson to find out if some filthy tabloid was getting ready to be first out the gate with Kirton's name, in which case he'd try to beat them.
Worried, Hakim sheepishly—"again, if others are calling her"—asks Anderson for permission to make the call.
Astonishingly, Anderson gives him the go-ahead, and provides him with her phone numbers.

Kirton's name came out a few hours later online. The Times never ended up mentioning her name, because only filthy tabloids do that.

For a sense of the differential treatment that flacks dole out to reporters, have a look at how Anderson responded to Daily News political correspondent Celeste Katz's request for confirmation about Kirton after the name came out—Anderson confirmed it off the record, but offered no contact info unbidden. Perhaps Katz should have asked for permission to call Kirton.

Newsday's Melissa Mansfield made the same request of Anderson's deputy Errol Cockfield, and got even colder treatment:

Mansfield didn't mind the brush-off, and responded with the same sort of sheepish, we-don't-do-gossip ass-covering that Hakim employed:

LOL, indeed. This is just from our first read of the batch of e-mails. There's much more to come. We contacted Hakim and Peters for their responses, but neither reporter agreed to comment for the record.

UPDATE: Diane McNulty, a New York Times spokeswoman, responded in an e-mail to Poynter's Jim Romenesko:

Any suggestion that the Times went too easy on the Spitzer administration seems a bit absurd in this context.

Our goal, always, is to get the facts right. Dealing with sources responsibly and professionally serves that goal, and that is what our reporters did in this case.

The Jane was closed down last month after a concerted campaign by yuppie neighbours who were shocked to find that downtown Manhattan is not monastery-quiet and hired a PR guy. Beatrice was closed down earlier this year under similar circumstances. (Yes, I am linking to an article by me, sorry!)

Rumors flew that the Jane had reopened on Monday, but they were apparently false; people who attended said the small front bar was open but not the main room. Now someone died in the hotel. Actually literally died, not 'oh my god I just DIED' died. A Texan visitor, staying in one of the $99 rooms, noticed a bad smell. And, after hearing the usual excuses about plumbing, found the room next door sealed with Police DOA notice on it. "Older guy, lived here," explained one employee.

As for Beatrice Inn, this post on Purple Magazine's Olivier Zahm's page got the plaid-clad masses frothing over a pre-Christmas reopening. Because Zahm is friends with the owner Paul Sevigny. Sevigny is not a huge fan of the press but people working on a new deal with him told us the following:

"He's still fighting to open Beatrice," said one. "But if it reopens, Beatrice won't be the same because of the neighbors, so that plan is to move the controversial party downtown to a space that does not have the same sound issues." Until that happens expect to see various swaying French people at Hawaiian Tropic and Hooters.

Murray Chass, who despite retiring from the New York Times several years ago is still apparently in the press box at the Yankees-Phillies series, has noticed that there aren't as many familiar faces around this year. He tallied up the number of newspapers that had sent reporters to cover the baseball championship for his not-a-blog blog: of the 60 papers that fund traveling baseball beat writers during the regular season, there are 31 covering the Series.

Given that there are 30 teams who are playing during the spring and summer, and just two in the World Series (meaning that the paper-to-team ratio has gone from 2-1 to 15-1, see chart above), doesn't seem like all that big of a tragedy. Especially since many of those non-traveling beat writers are presumably still employed — writing about the games from the comfort of their sofas — while many thousands of other newspaper employees are not.

Where Chass sees a "startling barometer of how critical the health of the newspaper industry," someone else could see a rather modest way for struggling papers to cut down expenses without sacrificing either jobs or coverage.

The same could be said for the other regular gatherings of journos — say the tens of thousands of media credentials handed out for the national party conventions, the Oscars, or the White House briefing room — all of the events where it seems that journos are more intent to just show up rather than cover any actual news.

Of course, that might mean losing some republic-defending inquiries that opened Robert Gibbs' press briefing this afternoon.

Google and its Dutch map provider told the UK Telegraph they have no idea how the fake town got onto Google Maps. "There are occasional errors," a Google spokesman told the paper. But the paper points out cartographers often insert fake minor features like "trap streets" to catch people copying their work. If Google and its partner don't know anything about the town, that leaves a possibility the Telegraph was too polite to bring up: Perhaps the data in Google's maps was, itself, purloined from an offline source.

Time to start asking this Dutch company some tough questions, Google. Either that, or you can risk that some aggrieved British mapmaker might see the coverage of "Argleton" and starting asking the tough questions for you.

(Top pic: Adam Burt)

Last night, Nate's cousin Trip was elected the only prepubescent member of the House of Representatives ever. The only thing exciting about that is that his crazy wife made the biggest power play of the evening, setting up a fake drowning to get both Nate and his meddlesome grandfather out of their lives. Brilliant. Why couldn't Blair do something like that instead of just messing with some lousy hooker. Still, on this hour of the caviar wishes and champagne nightmares of New York's upperclass, there were plenty of shifty dynamics.

Dorota:
Fashion Points: Should have known better than to let Blair parade around in that gold metalic number: -2
Power Play: Why didn't Blair turn to her when she needed a friend?: -1
Total: -3
Season to Date: 39
Power Position: Down

Chuck:
Fashion Points: This man does wonders for a pinstriped suit and a bowtie: +3, Puts the Vanderbilt campaign in a hotel suite with a picture of a girl's crotch wearing panties: -3
Personality Flaw: Knows prostitutes: -1, On second thought, we think it's pretty awesome that Chuck knows lots of hookers: +3
Power Play: Pleases the Vanderbilts: +1, Can't control anyone at his party: -2, Is getting the hostile media to like his hotel: +1, Stands by when Blair gets caked: -1
Quip: "Ladies, this is a classy party, not some sample sale at an outlet mall": +1
Sexual Intrigue: Really loves Blair: +1, Let's Blair clean the cake out of her hair by herself, not by washing it out in the tub for her Out of Africa style: -2
Total: 1
Season to Date: 23
Power Position: Up

Blair:
Extracurricular Activities: Everything about the "sneak peek" of Leighton Meester's music video—the glittery outfit, the clown makeup, the giant hair, looking like a Britney Spears rip off. Just no: -6
Fashion Points: That hideous gold dress and matching coat: -2, Apparently wears all the same clothes as a hooker: -2
Personality Flaw: Doesn't know that Brandeis is clearly a call girl or stripper name: -1
Power Play: Has no friends now that she pissed off Serena: -2, Knows the difference between friends and staff: +1, Pretends she doesn't know Vanessa: +3, Plays frenemies with Serena: +1, Calls Serena a prostitute, because, hello!: +3, Serena lets her eat cake: -4, Thinks Serena is jealous of her because she's in college and has a hot boyfriend: +1, Calls out Serena for dating a poor and having a shitty job: +3
Quip: "No one ever accused [Serena] of saying no.": +1, "He's drunker than Paula Abdul during Hollywood week.": +1
Sexual Intrigue: Only helps get Serena's drunk mess boyfriend out of the party to help Chuck: +2, Has no friends, only Chuck: -3, Things could be worse if your only ally is a sexy, well-dressed, rich power broker: +2
Social Schemes: Thinks about remaining friends with a hooker: +1, Ditches her as soon as she finds out that the skank used her to get rich clients: +2, Seriously, Blair Waldorf should be able to outsmart a hooker named Brandeis: -4
Total: -3
Season to Date: 10
Power Position: Down

Serena:
Fashion Points: That tie-dyed top would be bad enough even if the draping didn't make her boobs like like warped, deflated balloons: -2,
Personality Flaw: Is the go-to girl when people like Trip want to talk about nothing of substance: -3,
Power Play: Lands on Page Six: +1, It's the big story at the top of the page: +3, But no picture: -1, Running K.C.'s errands: -1, If she's only as good as her social network, then this girl is doomed: -1, Has no come back when Blair calls her a prostitute, because it's pretty on the nose: -3, Pushes Blair in a cake!: +6, Can't tell that Blair really misses her: -1, Apologizes to Blair by pointing out all of Blair's faults: +2 (for brazenness), Can't get Blair to reconcile: -1, Quits her stupid PR job: +5
Sexual Intrigue: Her fake boyfriend Patrick is sick hot: +2, She makes him put his clothes back on: -1, More than once: -2
Social Schemes: Ruining Nate is coming back to haunt her: -1, Tries to make up with Blair like grown ups: +2, Plays frenemies with Blair: +1, Let's a barely legal congressman buy her drinks when she's underage: -2, She can use that dirt against him: +3
Total: 6
Season to Date: 0
Power Position: Down

Dan:
Fashion Points: Still looks good shirtless: +3
Power Play: That "Bathroom Boy" thing is a really lame story to be embarrassed by: -2, Gets name checked on Fallon: +3, It's still only Fallon: -1
Sexual Intrigue: Why is he spending the night in Olivia's dorm when he has a Brooklyn pussy den all to himself?: -2, Lighting a bunch of candles and telling a celebrity she thinks she's nifty continues to get him laid: +4, We saw their first date, and it was them rushing off for a slice, nothing having to do with bathrooms, sweating, hand dryers, spiders, or any of that other bullshit: -3
Total: 2
Season to Date: -2
Power Position: Down

Olivia:
Personality Flaw: Has had publicists so long, that she's bad at being herself: -1, Enjoys Humphrey Board Game Night: -1
Power Play: Can only get on Fallon: -2, Gets Fallon to apologize: +1
Sexual Intrigue: Falls for Dan's whole "candles in the pussy den" trick. Just because there is mood lighting doesn't mean it's any less of a pussy den: -2
Social Schemes: Gets stuck hanging out with Jenny when Dan storms out of the apartment: -2
Total: -7
Season to Date: -7
Power Position: Down

Nate:
Fashion Points: Looks even shittier in his shirt with no tie and rumpled manbangs standing next to Chuck: -1
Personality Flaw: Cowardly enough to stand by and watch as Trip rescues a guy: -2
Power Play: Thinks his grandfather won't play dirty: -1, Serena goes over his head and gets invited to Trip's party: -1, Helps Trip get elected: +4, Thinks a hottie like Trip needs something other than a good headshot to get elected: -1
Social Schemes: Figures out the hero thing is a scam. That must have made his brain bleed: +2, Screws Vanessa over by sending a fake agent to buy her video footage: +3, Bonus for screwing over Vanessa: +1, Tells Vanessa not to be self righteous. God, how many times have we said that!: +2, Takes the fall for Trip: +2, Plays right into his cousin-in-law's plan: -1
Total: 7
Season to Date: -9
Power Position: Up

Rufus:
Personality Flaw: Indulges in his board game fixation: -3, Doesn't feed anyone: +3
Total: 0
Season to Date: -10
Power Position: Down

Vanessa:
Fashion Points: Is meeting someone at Cafeteria. What is she, a gay man?: -1, If she were a gay man, she would know that the far superior elmo is just up the street: -1
Power Play: Is gone so much, Dan is getting mad laid: +2 (cause that's what friends are for), Gets Vanderbilt access: +1, Sells her rescue footage: +2, But only to NY1: -2
Social Schemes: Uncovers the "hero" scam: +2, Tells Nate about it instead of acting: -2, Let's Nate fool her into selling the footage to the wrong person: -2, Exposes the whole scam: +5, Only on NY1: -1
Total: 1
Season to Date: -26
Power Position: Down

Lily:
Personality Flaw: Realizes that not everyone wants to play board games all the time. Hallelujah!: +7, Forgot that she had a little gay son again: -2
Total: 5
Season to Date: -37
Power Position: Down

Jenny:
Fashion Points: Looks better pale, sick, and in her bathrobe than in one of her trashy outfits: +1
Personality Flaw: Get's to play a board game: +3
Power Play: Her computer clues Dan off to "Bathroom Boy": -1, Her brother's celeb girlfriend still wants to hang with her even though she's sick and her brother storms out: +2
Total: 5
Season to Date: -44
Power Position: Up

Fellow Yelpers were initially skeptical about Sean C.'s claims in this Yelp comment thread until he produced apparently authentic screenshots of the owner's angry private Yelp messages to him, and until a Yelp admin weighed in to say "we're here to help Sean out in any way we can... there's no telling how this person may have unearthed Sean's place of residence, but rest assured, that information was in no way.... provided by Yelp."

Sean C. never bought anything in the store in question and has an unlisted address which he never provided to Yelp, so he's truly baffled how the owner tracked him down. But track him down she most certainly did, the reviewer said in a series of posts:

Tonight I get a knock at my front door - I open it and a woman tries to force her way in... it seriously took all my strength to get her out.... and I had to wrestle with her on my front steps... was trying to pin her down incase she had a weapon.



Finally I was able to shut the door and call 911 - the police showed up and took her away. Turns out it was the business owner! ... They took her to jail and will try to put a 72 hour psychiatric hold but they said it's up to the doctor that examines her...

Now Sean C. is trying to get a restraining order, which he said the police offered to serve while the woman is still in jail. (UPDATE: The store owner denies most of his account. See bottom of this post.)

You can find Sean C.'s original, two-star review followed by the owner's alleged private messages below, caling the reviewer a "pussy boy" and a "coward." There are surely loads of other business owners who have been sorely tempted to try and do likewise, though good sense, respect for the law and the tendency of Yelp reviewers to be anonymous and thus un-find-able tend to dissuade them.

Key to the entire Yelp enterprise is how it enables a passive-aggressive approach to customer feedback: You say anonymously — but in public, online — what you couldn't bring yourself to say directly (and perhaps more politely) to the staff when you were in the actual place of business. This provides consumers with tremendous new powers — and business owners with a frustrating new set of headaches. Maddeningly frustrating, it would seem.

UPDATE: The store owner says it was Sean C. who attacked, that she never forced open his door and that she came to his house to apologize. More here.

(Top pic: by Steve Rhodes)

The Daily Beast has an excerpt from Sarah from Alaska, a new Palin bio, with the speeches writer Matt Scully wrote for her on election night: A concession speech in which she lauded "black citizen" Barack Obama for winning, and a victory speech in which she announces that her husband will thenceforth be known as "the First Dude." Reading the victory speech is chilling in a Man in the High Castle sort of way—what if McCain/Palin really did win the election, and we're all just characters in a blog or something? Trippy.

The speeches were never delivered because a) Palin lost, and b) vice presidential candidates don't deliver election night concession speeches in America, a tradition with which Palin was unfamiliar because she's from Alaska. McCain had to personally intervene to tell her she couldn't have the podium, and his staffers brought the house lights down when Palin stayed on the stage to take photos with her family for fear she'd grab the mic.

Anyway, they're both horrible speeches with the maverick-y touches we've come to know and love from Palin, like a reference to an immigrant from a South American nation called "Columbia" (maybe it's spelled phonetically) and a lack of clarity as to whether it had been 68 or 69 days since she joined the campaign (both speeches mention both figures).

From the concession speech:

If he governs America with the skill and grace we have often seen in him, and the greatness of which he is capable, we're gonna be just fine. And when a black citizen prepares to fill the office of Washington and Lincoln, that is a shining moment in our history that can be lost on no one. Barack Obama has achieved a great thing, for himself and for our country, and I congratulate him. God bless you and your beautiful family, President-Elect Obama.

From the victory speech:

It's not always easy in politics to see the best in our opponents. But we have seen the grace and skill of Barack Obama, and the grit and determination of Joe Biden. By his nomination and extraordinary campaign, Barack Obama has achieved a great thing, for himself and for our country, and for that America will always honor him. I say God bless you, Senator Obama, and your beautiful family.

Of course, these days Republicans pay her cash money to talk ahistorical counterfactual nonsense, so who's laughing now, Johnny Mac?

Erik Wemple reports that Allen and Roig-Franzia had been beefing for days before the incident, ever since Henry questioned one of Manuel's stories and Manuel called him a "dick." Then, last Friday, Manuel allegedly "reached across the table and grabbed Allen's notepad, tearing a page from it."

Cruising for a bruising, Manuel. Selling woof tickets. Your mouth is writing some pretty big checks. Can your ass cash those checks? Subsequent events indicate your ass cannot.

Fast forward to the battle in question later that day, when Manuel called Henry a "cocksucker" after he criticized another story:

At that, Allen leapt into action, shoving Roig-Franzia. He then popped him in the cheek [Ed. note: We hear there's still some question as to whether it landed on the cheek or the back of the head]. According to an eyewitness account, Roig-Franzia didn't try to match the 5-11, 200-pound Allen punch for punch, instead opting for more of a civil-rights-movementy kind of stance.

We think you get the picture. Allen was told never to return to the newsroom, the CP says, but guess what: he already took a buyout and was retiring this month anyhow. Haha.

Henry Allen wins. And incidentally—Allen reportedly told Roig-Franzia that the "charticle" that got him so mad in the first place was the second-worst story he'd seen in 43 years. The worst, according to the CP: "a mistake-ridden profile of Paul Robeson that never saw the printed page." Paul Robeson was also a badass.

Violence is wrong, etc.
[Self portrait by Henry Allen himself]

[Tells some story of this girl in a bar who totally loves him, like, so much, but doesn't know about the movie]. I mean, when someone who identifies themselves as a huge fan, who has read the book and passed it to their friends and self-identifies as this type of person, when the movie is IN THEATERS and they don't even know there is a movie at all…that is a complete failure in the publicity and marketing of the movie...
I don't want to go through it, because it'll just be depressing, but the failures in marketing were just…big. Unrecoverable.

I would have guessed "Because it was awful." But I'm no Tucker Max.
[Pic: Flickr]

In the killing fields of NBC chatland, what little peace and stability had been achieved was just been blown to smithereens by a little hint dropped by Jay Leno, that, oh yes, now that you mention it, he'd be willing to take his old slot back.

Pity poor Conan O'Brien; his ratings are off 47 percent from Jay's, competing not just against Leno's legacy but Letterman's ongoing scandal. And then his lead-off batter, in a Q&A with Broadcasting and Cable, drops this:

If someone [from new ownership] comes in tomorrow and puts you back at 11:35, are you thrilled?

Oh, I don't know. Are you married? Whatever you want, honey.

You know I don't believe a word you are saying, right?

I'm not having a bad time at 10 o'clock now. I look at this as a job, and now I'm faced with a challenge, and it's a challenge I find difficult but interesting. I find that when I go to Vegas, whereas before I might not sell out, all of a sudden it's sold out. I seem to be doing better in terms of public appearances. I am reaching a wider audience. Whether that translates to television just yet, I don't know. But I see a difference.

Now why is that, because I'm in the paper every day? I don't know. Because I'm on earlier? I'm actually doing well; this is almost the best year for personal appearances since I started. So there is no negativity there.

Do you want to go back to 11:35?

If it were offered to me, would I take it? If that's what they wanted to do, sure. That would be fine if they wanted to.

If you are Conan O'Brien reading the above, it might occur to you that that 11:30 slot to which Jay is graciously willing to return is the one that you currently occupy.

Elsewhere in the interview, Jay shows himself to be startingly self-aware of the differences between himself and Letterman, and delivering a sort of triple backhanded compliment, saying of Dave's current scandal:

He's not being a hypocrite; Dave has never set himself up as [a model citizen]. If it were me, it would kill me. I'm the guy who's been married 29 years. But Dave has never pretended to be Mr. Moral America, he's never set himself up that way. He's not a hypocrite. I don't know how it will be viewed. He doesn't do corporate days like me, he's not as advertiser-friendly as I am. I'm the guy when Coke or Pepsi is here, I come down and shake hands and take pictures, but he doesn't do that. I don't think it will have a big effect at all.

All this occurs as the backdrop to the ratings horror show of the Leno experiment. The moment we would see the genius of the whole plan, NBC had promised, was when the other networks dramatic shows went into reruns, and there would be low-cost Jay with fresh shows to come in and clean up. Well, last week Jay had his first head-to-head against reruns and the results were not pretty. Leno actually hit his lowest number yet against a CSI: Miami repeat.

And elsewhere, the Leno lead-in seems to be pulling down local news shows across the nation.

So just to sum up the Ben Silverman legacy: NBC has decimated one of its three prime-time hours, its affiliates news shows are sinking, its late night line-up is staggering along at half the viewership of a year ago, and now its 11:30 host must once again watch his back against his network teammate.

The one thing that can be said in this whole arrangement's favor is that NBC getting out of the drama business is probably a great thing for NBC and, certainly a great thing for America. It may not be a law of nature that the big networks are incapable of launching decent dramas, but it certainly looks that way at the moment, and extra-certainly does so for NBC which just surrendered the acclaimed Southland to basic cable. Until the network figures out a way to produce shows that seem to have been created in the same space-time continuum as the HBO shows, Mad Men, Damages and even Lost or 24, it is probably better for everyone that they just sit out a few games.

At times it seems like Mad Men—our favorite historical drama about the personal and professional lives of retro ad men—is populated by a bunch of selfish egoists who only care about themselves. But, then again, so is life, so it makes sense that when a national tragedy strikes, everyone reverts back to the basic foundations of their personality to deal with the news. Their coping mechanisms say more about how these individuals deal with their own lives than they do with the passing of the president.

Despair and Confusion: When the president is killed, people are naturally going to be upset because, well, it's sad, and it upsets the natural order of things. We're used to a hierarchical structure of government with someone at the top who is wise and strong and who will protect us when bad things happen. When an event occurs to disrupt that, we begin to question not only our safety, but everything about our lives and the fragility of our happiness. That leads to confusion, and confusion often leads to clarity, but it always leads to rash acts.

This plays out beautifully with beautiful, beautiful Betty, whose fragile shell cracks when she learns the news. She puts herself to bed and withdraws even further from her family. For her, Kennedy being shot is her way of dealing with Don confessing the truth of his past. The strong, handsome man she can trust has been murdered, and she is sad because her life has been ruined. The pretty fairy tale facade that she tries so hard to cultivate has been nothing but an illusion, and when she wakes up from her dream, she finds a very scary reality: she is deeply unhappy.

That shouldn't be too much of a shock to her, but when the only stability in her life—the cool control that Don exerts over her—is subverted by the disclosure of his past, she has to find some way to recover. Initially, she lets Don control her again. At the wedding, she accepts that everything is going to be OK, because Don tells her that it will. When the ill-fated reception is over, Betty (in a rather dowdy dress that Michael Kors from Project Runway would describe as "mother-of-the-bride") is walking towards both Don and Henry, her object of unfulfilled desire. She chooses Don, hoping that, like he says, everything will go back to normal shortly.

Then, Oswald is shot by Jack Ruby in front of America, and Betty freaks out again. Passively listening to Don isn't going to work anymore, and she needs something else—someone else—to satisfy her.

Selfishness: Naturally, some of the characters are only worried about how the assassination is going to affect them. Most notably is Roger's daughter, who finds out about the news and cries, in her wedding dress, that the ceremony will be ruined. Damn right, sister.

Pete is the king of selfishness and uses the whole incident as a substitute for his unhappiness at Sterling Cooper. We start off the episode and hear that he's being demoted from co-head of accounts with Ken to a lesser position. Ken will be the new head of accounts, and Pete will be working under him. How their jobs are different, we don't quite know, but we do know that Pete lost. Well-bred and ambition, Pete is distraught because he thinks that he deserves the job more than the stupid yahoo Ken, who still manages to succeed in spite of himself. Ken is Lydon Johnson to his Kennedy, at least in his own warped mind.

On an aside, we're still not quite sure why the office was freezing when Pete got the news of his demotion (the cold shoulder?) and sweltering when Don blew his top about not having an art director (hot headed?). Maybe it just shows that no one has control in the office anymore, not only over their own careers but also of the environment itself.

Back to Pete, who deals with the news by pouting and eating cereal and getting drunk, which is exactly how he copes with the president being murdered. "I felt for a second like everything was about to change," Pete says about the Democrat's death, but he really means about his own station following his promotion at the beginning of the year. He says he's so upset that he's not going to the wedding. Trudy (who may have better style than even Betty Draper, but she definitely had better hats), tries to get Pete to go, because he has to play the game of office politics. But eventually this Lady MacBeth relents, and they are the only ones conspicuously absent from the party.

Trudy realized the same thing Pete did, he may still have a job, but he is done at the firm. Ken won and he will be the one on the rise, while Pete's career will fester in middle management until he dies. He is using the excuse of the president's death to get out of a social obligation, just like he will soon get himself out of the firm. We bet the first thing he does on Tuesday is call Duck for a job.

Pull the Plug: While waiting for Peggy to arrive for their "nooner," an invitation that she brazenly accepted in front of Paul, Duck hears the news of the attack on the TV. When there's a knock on the door, instead of saying "Hey, check this out," he pulls the plug on the television so that Peggy won't hear and he'll still get to have sex. When the romp is done, he starts thinking about it again. When he and Peggy hear that the President has been killed, he reacts by thinking first of his children. Peggy doesn't see that this relationship, for him, is primarily about sex, which is sad, because she seems to be falling for him.

Like Duck (who looks much better with his clothes off than we imaged he would, not that we ever imagined it before we saw it, but still), Peggy has pulled the plug, and would rather have a relationship than deal with the news that it's not right with Duck. We find out that she has been having lunch with him often and that he's been spending nights in her apartment, that is starting to smell like his aftershave. It seems like Peggy wants their relationship to become something more, especially when we find her in the office at the end of the episode.

Rather than dealing with the president's death, she goes in to work to pretend like it isn't happening. Also, she has been displaced from her life. She says that her apartment is full of her roommate's friends being frivolous, and her mother's house is too full of her mother and her emotions, so she heads into the office. Peggy is ready for the next step. She doesn't want to be at home with her domineering mother or living the single life with a bunch of giggling office girls, she wants to be playing house with Duck. Obviously, that's not going to work, and she's going to end up married to her job. And as the door closes on a sad, lonely Don drinking in the dark while the nation mourns, we get a little snapshot into Peggy's future.

Life Goes On: Just because the president has been killed, does that mean everything should stop. Roger certainly doesn't think so, and refuses to cancel his daughter's wedding, just days after the event. Of course, no one shows, and all his employees who do—which is everyone but Pete—is in the kitchen watching the television, along with Roger's child bride, who would rather hide out than deal with the stepdaughter who can barely disguise her contempt for her new mother.

When he returns home drunk from the reception with his very drunk wife (this is the second time we've seen her get shitfaced beyond belief), he gets on the phone with Joan. Just last week we saw Roger asserting his happiness with Jane, is that starting to sour already? First, he is pissed off with her for going to lunch with his daughter (an anger than makes the Misses just as mad), then for hanging in the kitchen, and then for being a mess.

Of course, Saint Joan is beautiful, patient, and sober and offering very sage advice on the other end of the phone. Life is happening, she tells Roger. Mourn as you will—both the president, and his unpopular decision to dump his wife for a young secretary—but that doesn't mean that the world is going to stop for you. And she will not allow any joking about this. Oh no, mister.

Life hasn't stopped for Joanie, who seems to be doing well with Doctor Rapist, who is off working in the E.R. now that he joined the Army. She's at home being the happy housewife, or so it seems. Making the best out of a bad situation and keeping a cool head. That's our girl. Let's just see how long this is going to last.

Control: Like always, Don tries to exert control over the situation when everyone is mourning the president. He does the right thing and tells his television-addicted future hippie daughter and future Studio 54 denizen son that everything is going to be OK. He tries to do the same thing to Betty, but, at the end of the night, he's borrowing one of her sleeping pills to forget the pain inside.

Initially Betty reverts to her old behavior, letting Don have the upper hand, but when his control is shattered by the unpredictability of world events, she goes running to Henry. She makes a quick excuse to get out of the house and meets him in her car, the seat of their last act of intimacy, but instead of kissing through the window, he is now invited in. "Have you thought there are other ways to live?" he asks her. Well, thanks mister, now she has. And rather than just patting her hand, sending her to bed, and telling her it will be fine, Henry says he would do something for her to cheer her up, like take her to see her favorite movie. She tells us it is Singing in the Rain—romantic, escapist fare, no surprise there.

The scary thing is that Henry tells Betty he wants to marry her. Haven't they only met a handful of times and shared two kisses, and he wants to talk about marriage? That is just crazy talk. But she buys it. She trades in one controlling man for another, even though this one might be a slightly more benign model, but wouldn't he say anything to convince her to leave her husband for him?

Thoughts of running away with Henry and being happy in her head, she returns home to confront Don. The scene plays out like Betty is still reacting to Kennedy's death, but now we see that she is really talking to Don about how he's lied to her and cheated on her for years. She wants to scream at him for ruining "all this," and by that she presumably means not their happiness, because both of them have scant amounts of that, but the illusion that they are the perfect family. Betty can't pretend anymore, and now she knows that she doesn't love him.

She drops that bomb like a scratch to the face. Like always, Don tries to control her, saying that she'll get over it and everything will be fine. But the passive, docile, and confused Betty of yore is gone, and it no longer works. Instead of trying to work things out with her, Don pulls away, letting her stew in her unhappiness which will no doubt only drive her into Henry's arms—more as a reaction to Don than because of how nice Henry's guns most certainly are. And that's where we leave it, going into next week's season finale, with Don drinking alone in the dark, his distraught wife at home alone hating him, in an office where he can't even control the temperature.

You know those idiots who don't know anything about politics but think it sounds smart to say "I am a social liberal and an economic conservative?" Bloomberg is the candidate for them, if they love a liberal nanny state and a conservative religious fervor for the eternal goodness of private enterprise.

For all the talk of Bloomberg the power-player who at least gets things done without worrying about the unions and special interests, he's been unable to win any political battle with anyone he couldn't literally buy off. Like Sheldon Silver, who (thankfully) killed the West Side Stadium and (annoyingly) ended all that "Congestion Pricing" talk. And those unions and special interests were just bought off, which worked fine back when the boom whose end Bloomberg never saw coming was in full swing.

And about that stadium: what the fuck was that? And the Olympics thing? After bitching about Giuliani's disgraceful subsidizing of the fucking Yankees, Bloomberg both turns around completely on that particular issue and attempts to build the fucking Jets a stadium, so that New York could get an Olympics that it did not want. And that failed, and everyone forgot about it. Meanwhile: 40,000 people in shelters! Bloomberg could personally buy every single one of those people an apartment in a vacant Williamsburg luxury condo building and still have enough left over to bribe a City Council member into supporting his fifth term.

And those luxury Williamsbug condo buildings, by the way, that stand vacant? Yes, well, that was part of this brilliant plan to utilize rezoning to spur the free market (which always allocates resources more efficiently than anything else in the history of civilization but sometimes it needs government help, like with tax breaks and stuff) to create affordable housing all over the waterfront. This did not work, as developers decided to just not bother to build all those affordable housing units they were supposed to build. More than 2,200 promised new affordable apartments in Williamsburg and Greenpoint have turned out to be 768, 20 percent of which are renovations of apartments that were already affordable. There are lots more of these stories.

His record on housing, like his record on nearly everything having to do with the outer boroughs and poverty and human beings who make less than $100,000 a year, has been a ridiculous disgrace. His entire philosophy of development solving everything turned out to be precisely, 100% wrong, and suddenly the city itself was driving the real estate boom, driving up land prices to absurd levels across the boroughs and tearing down neighborhoods only to replace them with vacant lots and half-filled cheaply built hideous high-rises once the bottom fell out of the City Hall-inflated market. But hey, we got the High Line and 311! So you can sleep in that fancy park while you call 311 asking if there is room in a shelter because you can no longer afford your home.

Eight years into the Bloomberg administration, Ground Zero is a still a hole that everyone continues fighting about.

The MTA has raised fares while cutting service (without actually cutting service, officially—it's just that whatever line you happen to ride is suddenly experiencing a whole lot of track work every single goddamn weekend).

The Gays: still not married! And also a lot of them are getting beaten up on the streets these days for some reason?

Bloomberg is also the beneficiary of the most friendly news coverage of any big city mayor in the nation. Easily. It helps that, you know, he is a media mogul, himself, and he is good, close, personal friends with the three publishers who run the newspapers that went after each one of his predecessors for shit they've let slide under this mayor, because they know he's a good, decent guy, at heart, and the only one who can Fix New York, because of his Money.

Can you imagine how the Post would've blown up if David Dinkins lied about taking the Subway to work every day? The Daily News response to discovering that John Lindsay flew to Bermuda every weekend?

Let's talk about the cops, for a second: they are still operating under Giuliani levels of complete disregard for the law. They are getting drunk and running people over and shooting unarmed black people and sodomizing people in subway stations. The Civilian Complaint Review Board has become a joke, unless your case gets a lot of publicity. There's obviously no accountability, whatsoever, and no attempt to recruit and train more cops from the communities they actually police. The NYPD remains, primarily, the home of roided-out white people from outside the city with a great deal of contempt for civil liberties. The Mayor always sounds properly upset when some of them rape someone, but he's never done a damn thing to rein them in or change the culture.

What he has done is Keep Us Safe by never once giving a shit about Civil Liberties. The cops stop and frisk thousands more people every year, your 4th Amendment rights do not apply in the Subway system, and expensive and completely ineffective new rings of cameras are going up across Manhattan.

Bloomberg deserves to be run out of town on an inadequately funded public rail line for the 2004 GOP convention alone. Remember that ridiculous farce? No, of course not, no one does, besides the thousands of people improperly spied on, arrested, harassed, and detained by the NYPD. All of this was completely illegal. No heads rolled.

One more special bonus factoid: New York leads the world in marijuana arrests! Specifically, marijuana arrests of black people!

And he is personally a jerk. He is a thin-skinned, unpleasant, sanctimonious asshole. His company is being sued for a culture of sexual discrimination that plaintiffs say Bloomberg himself contributed to. He is a tremendous dick to reporters whenever he gets cranky. He is fucking race-baiting with Rudy Giuliani again, because why not?

He has been a shitty mayor and he does not deserve the support of anyone who claims to be a liberal. Though what all of his most destructive missteps as mayor have in common is that they do not in any way upset or inconvenience the well-off self-professed liberals who support him. Besides maybe a couple Critical Mass riders arrested in illegal sweeps. (Though he sure does like bike lanes, so it's a wash, right?)

We cannot encourage you to vote for the Democrat in the race, because even we still aren't sure if we'll go for him or the much more delightful Billy Talen. Just don't fucking vote for Michael Bloomberg.

We frankly don't understand Roubini's latest apocalyptic pronouncement, published yesterday in the FT, but it has something to do with how "quantitative easing" and "hot money" have created another massive asset bubble that is going to burst and kill us all. Everybody's borrowing in dollars—which we guess the Fed actually will pay you to do, like you get a free dollar for every five you borrow, or something—and investing in the Third World, and it's the "mother of all carry trades" and will ruin the world when the dollar rebounds, which we thought was supposed to be a good thing, but you can't win for losing and Nouriel Roubini will crush your dreams one way or another. It's what doom merchants do. Like the beleaguered Mayan eschatologists busy selling Sony's upcoming 2012, he's simply satisfying a market demand for a framework that renders our generalized anxieties sensible and justified.

And he's got to pay for all those parties at his vulva-studded TriBeCa loft somehow. Last night—on the very day his latest black pronouncement was published—Roubini had Wall Street II director Oliver Stone and some ladies over for post-Halloween merriment. Or, as Roubini put it his Facebook update: "We hanged out."

Jon Gosselin is an incredible, oblivious ass, and this Rabbi is a ridiculous fameball crook.

Forget the fact that Gosselin—not Jewish—sought out a Magical Jew to help him sort out his problems, and forget the fact that this Rabbi, who was once a punchline on 30 Rock, who has nine children, who is a fame-mongering celebrity in his own right, embraced this with open arms. Just go to the game tape and you'll see.

Gawker Black Ops video intern Sergio Hernandez, who went armed with $20 for admission and a FlipCam, described the scene as such:

Gosselin was 40 minutes late. A strange British woman who was inappropriately underdressed for a synagogue told us he was "stuck in traffic" and "delayed by the New York City marathon," and there was buzz that Gosselin had actually canceled his appearance. He did, eventually, show up to a stampede of paparazzi and entertainment cameras (by my count, at least Entertainment Tonight, Extra, TMZ, and FOX News were all there).

The event was, ostensibly, a discussion about the effect of fame and celebrity on religious and moral values. Jon opened by saying he wasn't a fameseeker and neither asked for nor invited his newfound celebrity (but nonetheless thanked the cameras in the room for showing up.)

Then Shmuley brought up Jon's divorce and basically tried to get him to blame his marital problems on fame and the pressure from TLC to draw in more ratings. Gosselin, for the most part, was pretty gracious about not villainizing Kate too much; he talked about going to therapy and learning about the mistakes he made during their marriage.

But Shmuley, who peppered the discussion with way too many smug, self-referential jokes, basically tried to excuse Jon's post-divorce, uh, behavior, with Kate's emasculation. Of course, you'd think if Shmuley and Gosselin hated all this attention so much, they might've, you know, not prostrated themselves in front of a few dozen cameras and charged $20 a person for it? But what would be the fun in losing out on that?

Especially interesting that Shmuley tried to paint TLC as the Bad People, because, you know, he's kinda been in bed with them before. And did they cancel Shalom In The Home? Well, it aired two seasons, and hasn't been on the air since 2007. So: you tell me. Again, a crook. Also: a misogynist, a snake-oil salesman, and a publicity whore. Come to think of it, that might be both of them. I'm not sure which behavior here begets the other, but whatever it is, wherever it comes from, this can't be good for The Kids, The Jews, and I don't know, Anybody Who's Ever Devoted Faith To Anything. This is really, really sad.

Pictured above, from left to right: Vice founder Suroosh Alvi, a hostage, UK/European editor Andrew Creighton, and Vice founder Shane Smith.

"Oh, man," Vice executive editor Chris Cechin giggled at the massive warehouse across the street from Vice's headquarters that housed last night's shitshow. "There're so many places to blackout in there!"

I dropped by the Vice offices in Williamsburg Friday afternoon to grab wristbands for Mo and I to get in. Chris wasn't joking. The space was the literalization of everything about Vice's culture of yore even before anything was even placed inside. Two floors of flat, dark space, with concrete pillars, and yes, plenty of places to get fucked up, black out, and make questionable decisions in questionable costumes. The question then became: with the $250,000 they've bragged about spending on this thing, what, exactly, will they fill it with?

"99%, these are gonna guarantee you admission into the party," VBS.tv staffer Rory Ahearn warned me as he handed over two paper wristbands dotted with smiley faces. "But to be on the safe side, get there early." He wasn't joking. We approached the party to an entire block of Williamsburg quartered off by cops and barricades, and two lines: one that snaked around the block and then some, and the other—for the blessedly wristbanded—which ran the length of half a block. Rory was nice enough to get us in, past the complete insanity of the line and the line's security, who weren't being kind to anyone, including the Vice staff. This would later become a problem.

Once inside, Mo—dressed as Playboy's Marge Simpson—and I—dressed as the scariest creature of them all: a cracked-out blogger—cased the place. On the first floor, ravey techno music blared. They'd installed a halfpipe they—I don't know, staffed?—with some decent skateboarders on it. People weren't really watching. But they were watching Williamsburg's aspiring American Apparel models strip to their skivvies for the photo shoot Vice had set up for the party's attendees, who almost always dropped trou for the camera. Two bars dotted the floors, and getting booze wasn't a problem. Lots of tequila, lots of Colt 45. Now do you know whose party you're at? Then take a deep breath. Cigarette and weed smoke clouded the air. Now you do. No wonder they didn't pay for fog machines.

The second floor: bangers, blasting. In line with their 15th anniversary theme, almost all 90s hip-hop could've kept an awesome, dancy, sweaty, drunk, Blue States Lose: All-Stars crowd of costumed hipsters dancing, if not for the bands interrupting them. Jersey post-garage youngsters Titus Andronicus got screamy, seminal afropunk band Bad Brains got punky, and almost every other band was unanimously heckled in some regard. Two more bars upstairs kept the booze freely flowing. Beers were beginning to get tossed across the room. I resisted the urge. It was difficult.

From a balcony in the back of the second floor, Vice's inner-circle watched from their perch. There were two bathrooms, and two "green rooms." Attorney General Andrew Cuomo's former-press-secretary-turned-fucking-Vice-staffer Alexander Detrick grabbed me and got me up there, even though I didn't have the requisite "special" wristband with little fish dotting it. I wondered if this was an allusion to Jesus. It was entirely possible.

"There're some people you gotta meet. Hang tight." Detrick walked back in with Vice founder Suroosh Alvi. "This is the Gawker guy," Detrick introduced me. Alvi was dressed like an Islamic Extremist. Feet were shuffled, loins were girded. "Yeah? Alright. We can take our hits. We're not pussies about it." I asked Suroosh about the cash spent on the party, and how Vice has—as they said it—managed to stay afloat "while the dinosaurs that surround us slowly suffocate in the tar pits of their financial ruin."

"We're doing the same thing we've always done," Alvi explained. "We're careful with money. We don't waste it. Except when we wanna do retarded shit like this."

Making our way back downstairs, we ran into Animal New York's Bucky Turco. "Yeah, I got past the line. I saw some girl out there get slammed. Security manhandled her and kicked her out, and she threatened to quit Vice," he laughed. I guess she helped plan the party." This story was later confirmed to me by a second witness, one who tried to get in the party, but couldn't. Detrick stood at the front of the party while security told him to get out of the way. The party was nowhere near the full potential capacity of 1,800. It was maybe half that at 1:30 AM. The guards were only listening to two people, who couldn't be found, and Detrick wasn't one of them. "They've gone completely renegade," a Vice staffer explained. "They're in bed with the fuckin' cops." La Superior owner Filipe Mendez stood next to me on one side of the barricade, trying to get someone in. I was doing the same. Security warned us that if we stepped on the concrete outside the warehouse, we wouldn't get back in. Finally, I gave up. Nobody else was getting in that party if security there had anything to do with it. Besides, what's easier? Letting tons of people in and letting Vice take the heat, or denying entrance to relatively harmless hipsters, and calling it a night when it's time to get rid of the lucky few who gained entrance?

We've tried our best to approximate where Vice's money was allocated, but Turco astutely noted: "If you want an incredible party, you don't tell people you spent $250,000. You don't give them that expectation. You just spend it." He was disappointed.

I wasn't. I got in for free, didn't wait on line, drank a bunch of shitty beer and booze and bounced. I feel like I'd just had The Vice Experience, especially when a street fight later erupted outside the bar I'd retreated to down the street with the aforementioned denied party refugee. Maybe Vice did, too. Vice grew up, past their grimy roots, and is now a full-fledged capitalistic endeavor with its own corporate culture. They went from rejecting The Man, to taking his money, to becoming The Man. So why not waste a quarter mil on some party to get a bunch of Williamsburg kids—soft by any traditional Vice measure—fucked up? And why the fuck not have draconian security who, for one night, can put them back in the position of being oppressed by The Man? It's enough for them to prove that, like it or not, they're still Vice, and they're spending $250,000 on a party to very effectively remind themselves of that.

I ran into Cechin again on my way out. He was wearing some kind of knit sweatshirt, and asked me if I'd seen the bands. "A little bit," I told him. He closed his eyes, pushed me, and pointed upstairs, to where they were playing. "Go." Okay, but first, one last question for Chris: Where'd the $250K really go? Where were the drugs? He again, eyes at half-mast, grinned and pointed to his stomach. The possibility he's telling any degree of the truth, in any context, should not be ruled out.

And that was the Vice party.

Bro you know what I'd totally fucking do with that chick and her straw? Bro what? Bro! A bunch of fucking blow. Bro. BRO! Blow: $100,000.
DO: Dude you know those girls who like look at every picture like they wanna fuck the camera? They can be 92 years-old and shitting in their Depends and it'd still be hot RIGHT? Well it's even super awesome hotter when it's a tatted up 'Burg babe with a celly in her strap.
DON'T: Do any drugs as unidentifiable as your costume.
"Dude. We gotta go. My fuckin' landlord's here. He tried evicting me outta McKibben seven times already."
DO: Brahsome, those rad honeys who could just snap your neck like fuckin' that and then shotgun a bunch of meth-laced Gatorade and do her little brother's long-division homework for him? Marriage material if you like the short-leash thing. Literally. Meth-laced Gatorade: $1,500
DO: Be a former Gawker night editor and current Animal New York blogger named The Cajun Boy, who walked into the party with a real, fully fucking functional axe. So when everyone else bitches about how they couldn't get in the party, you can say you walked in there with a not-at-all-concealed weapon. Also DO: be the most ass-stompingly large guy in the room, while carrying a giant fucking axe.
The Nightman Drunketh. FameGame's Ryan Brown was not hired to make sandwiches for this party, but gets +2 FameGame points anyway. Good thing, though, because apparently the only ones he had on him were made with Peanut Butter, Jelly, and Psilocybin.
DON'T: Act surprised when Mo drops a 'bow on you for being a second-rate Playboy Bunny. Fight! Fight! Fight! [Alternately: "Huge rock, this big! I mean, really, where could they have stashed it? Where?!"]
DON'T: Go past the Grand stop in that costume. Just don't.
DO: Take a big whiff of the smiley gas. DON'T: Ask what's in it. FunnyFace Gas: $5,000.
The LDS goes on missions to all kinds of foreign lands, but only their Constantine-like operatives who did Basic Training in hell get sent to North Williamsburg.
Everybody be cool! Especially with the Pulp Fiction costumes. That were everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
Jesus Saves! By not spending any money on booze at the Vice Party. Thrifty! Promotional appearance fee by Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ: $10,000.
This guy spent the night crowdsourcing his Twitter followers to see which one of the four Boys II Men he should be at any given moment. #ShutUpNilla Vice paid this guy as Nu New Media Outreach. $1,000.00
Day of the Dead-eyes. The Vice party was like the Willa Wonka factory of drugs! The schnozzberries tasted like schnozzberries! Also: the wallpaper was lined with huffable glue. $4,000.00.
Not a scene out of George Romero's next flick. Welcome to the Port O' Potties of A Thousand Key Bumps. $5,000
DO: Fuckit.
Animal New York's Bucky Turco, who doesn't enjoy having his picture taken, while we try to goad him into his first real Glamour Shot. That said, he finally relented to show us his "good side." Talk about Photo Sense.
DON'T: Be that white guy dressed as Sam Jackson. Related: the possibility of a Post-penned headline when this guy gets his ass kicked on the J/M/Z tonight: SNAKES ON A TRAIN.
DO: Young chicks, Broregard. Get 'em while they're still teething. ON JESUS. Also, your Linda Blair-Exorcist fetish scenario with a cross is something you only get to indulge in one night a year, and it's not Easter. Bro with god, young conqueror.
These guys went down the rabbit hole. NO, EW, GROSS NOT LIKE THAT. I was talking about the Vice party. But the odds of him getting a pinky in his ass tonight are "likely." Str8 guys. What're you gonna do?
Yours truly with FameGame's Ryan Brown. What, you think I drank all that? Hell no. I backpacked a lifetime supply. I'm taking a bath in Schlitz right as I write this. $25,000.
Gawker Party Crash Photog Mo Pitz, Mission: Accomplished. Mo enjoys a very, very, very well-deserved cocktail for her brave efforts. Also, some Valium, given to her at the door. $5,000.
"Do you know what the fuck an Asparagus-Burger is, buddy? You know why? Because I buried it like I'm gonna bury you!" This Is Why You're Fat co-author Jessica Amason does research for her next Book Deal Book, This Is Why You're Not Getting Into The Vice Party. Chapter Six: Because you showed up. Security, w/Extra Unnecessary Anger Package: $50,000
Chapter Seven: Because you're still wondering how we got in and you didn't. What? It wouldn't be the Vice party without harassing those who couldn't make it, and the assholes who denied them. Damn the man, save the empire...
...Which would be these fuckin' guys.

I spoke last night to a dear old friend who was heading to her colleague's wedding.

"So do you have your costume packed?" I deadpanned.

She didn't take the joke. Her voice became robotic, almost fearful.

"We were specifically instructed no costumes," she recited. A chill swept through the air accompanied by swirling leaves. I shivered. "The bride does not want costumes."

Contrast this tyrannical Halloween policy with the more costume-friendly (but highly passive-aggressive) strategy favored by Annie Catherwood and Caleb Frankel. This couple's announcement, released online by the Times on Saturday morning, preemptively described their Saturday evening wedding:

The wedding ceremony was followed by a Halloween masquerade reception, with many guests in full costume.

I hope it was! In either case, can't you just imagine a militant and scowling bride, ripping off rogue bunny ears or slapping feathered masques on startled guests, depending? I hope the airline didn't mix up any of those two weddings' groomsmen's stuff is all I'm trying to say.

***

I think the greatest thing to come from the Sunday Styles cover article about a cool hip wedding band is the coinage "LOB". It stands for Level Of Brutality, and isn't that so on? I didn't know this til I read it, but it's really how I view not only weddings but the world. (The LOB of getting to the marathon in a few hours is off the charts, for example.) The geniuses behind this rubric are the rockers behind The Dexter Lake Club Band, a wedding-band-but-not that has become "one of New York's premier wedding bands for people who would never dream of hiring a wedding band."

(Apparently, Amanda Peet was one of those people.)

First of all, there wasn't a tuxedo in sight, just dark suits and skinny ties. Nobody was doing any cheesy patter. There was no horn section, no back-up singers, no creepy vocalist singing "Wonderful World." Instead, there was a floppy-haired lead singer working his way through Rolling Stones tunes; another signger, big and bearded, belting out 80s hits; and a killer rhythm section,"

The Dexter Lake Club Band comprises such members as Tim Ruedeman, a "most improbable vessel for a voice that can perfectly channel everybody from Steve Perry to Axl Rose." The "enigmatic Christian Oates" owns a smoke machine and reads the Economist, while "lank-haired Gunnar Olsen ... could be clutching a marriage license in one hand and a bride in the other and would still clearly be with the band."

And then there's frontman Matthew Stinchcomb, now married but "once notorious for enjoying the benefits of being a handsome, single man with a guitar" who once woke up post-wedding "in a closet, wearing only leather pants, his guitar abandoned outside on the gravel driveway." I can't help but think of this:

They met, of course, at Oberlin.

Brett Martin provides some of the best wedding writing I've read to date, bringing to life the "roving female vigilantes, beckoning nondancers with their demanding, accusing fingers" and "the middle-age couples who've somehow lost the connection between their upper and lower bodies and can only dance with one or the other at a time." (I can assure you from personal experience that it isn't just the middle-aged who can fall victim to that particular affliction.)

The piece was so enjoyable that it compelled me to Google Martin; lo and behold, Ancient Gawker was on the case, care of Mascot Emeritus Andrew Krucoff. My only quibble with Martin is that he doesn't mention the provenance of the band's name:

We are gonna die.

So maybe it's my hangover and/or my lingering animosity toward the amateur hour that was last night, but good god this weekend's weddings SUCK BALLS. The lone exception is the featured union of Gita Pullapilly and Aron Gaudet, which made me cry.

I'd say yes to THAT dress.

Pullapilly (that name is a delight; it makes me think of this) met Gaudet when he was bored with his production job and looking for a change. The pair wanted to create a documentary but lacked a fitting subject until it dawned on them that Gaudet's elderly mother would be the perfect inspiration.

The 70-year old Joan Gaudet, you see, had taken up a new pastime: "driving herself to Bangor International Airport as part of a group of Maine residents who greet every soldier passing through that airport on their way to or from Iraq and Afghanistan." The article describes her waking up to a 2am phone call and driving to cheer on a plane of returning troops alongside "30 other elderly greeters."

The resulting movie about the Maine Troop Greeters was called "The Way We Get By" and here's the website and the tagline is "Sometimes all it takes is a handshake to change a life" and the Washington Post called it "not so much a slice of life as the whole pie, the highs and lows of twilight living" and oh my god I'm crying again.

It gets better: at one screening of the film, the audience learned that the couple, engaged but having sunk their savings into making the documentary, did not have any wedding plans. A wedding planner in the crowd was touched and "helped mobilize a small army of vendors to freely give the couple the wedding they were too weary and poor to assemble themselves." Oh, and at another screening the couple met "Joseph R. Biden, Jr":

Breaking into a smile so broad his dimple seemed permanently etched in his left cheek, the bridegroom said, "The vice president told me that he had once met a man who shook his hand, looked at Mrs. Biden and said ‘You really married up.' Without missing a beat, Mr. Biden looked at Gita, then looked at me, grinned and said, ‘You're about to marry up, boy.' "

That man is a national treasure. Here, enjoy my favorite photo.

Elsewhere in the back of the Sunday Styles a couple affirmed their commitment to wearing matching glasses; the executive producer of "I Love You, Man", "Observe and Report", and "Without a Paddle" looks exactly as you'd expect; lesbians lesbianed; and this couple is attractive but they're only 26!?

This boring week's boring matchup:

Abigail Franklin Vietor and Holland Arthur Sullivan, Jr

• The bride graduated from NYU and received a "Master of Letters" from St. Andrews (I have my Master of Letters from St. Paul's Nursery School) and a Master of Science from London School of Economics: +5
• The groom graduated from Yale: +3
• Then got his law degree at ... Baylor: +1
• The groom kind of looks like Edward Norton, no?: +1
• The bride's parents are kind of weirdly into historic reenactments: her dad is "chairman of the board of trustees at the Mystic Seaport Museum" and is the "governor of the New York Society of Colonial Wars" and her mother is "the president of the Bowne House Historical Society" and "trustee of the New York State Archives Partnership Trust": +5, and I hope there was some creepy powdered wig theme at the reception.
• The groom's dad helps the rich get richer: +1
• The wedding was officiated by an Episcopal priest: +1

TOTAL: 17

Ella Elizabeth McPherson and George Raymond Iestyn Llewellyn-Smith

• "The bride, 29, and bridegroom, 30, met at Cambridge University in England, from which they both received Master of Philosophy degrees, she in Latin American studies and he in real estate finance": +9; I like that real estate finance constitutes "Philosophy".
• The bride is also pursuing a doctorate in sociology at Cambridge and went to Princeton undergrad: +4
• The bride's father works for the International Monetary Fund and is retired from the World Bank: +2
• The groom graduated with "first-class honors" from the University of Adelaide in Australia: +only 1, because someone the other day told me that "Australia is the Alabama of the world".
• The groom's parents do Australian things in Australia: +1
• "The bridegroom wore a wedding ring that was inscribed, Halloellaween, a play on the bride's first name and Halloween: +1, and aww.

TOTAL: 18

In addition, "the couple's invitations read: 'Black tie welcome, costumes at your discretion.'" That is the second best way to have a Halloween wedding. The best way to have a Halloween wedding is don't.