Thomas Kinkade



Everyone needs to stop referring to Thomas Kinkade as an artist. He wasn’t an artist. He was a craftsman. There’s a huge difference.

A master craftsman can pump out a highly refined work product that isn’t actual art in much the same way that Olive Garden can pump out a highly refined menu that isn’t actual Italian food.

Craftsmanship isn’t artistry. That’s Kincade’s legacy.


Courtney Stodden



Part of me wishes that Courtney Stodden was a performance artist, and this is all subversive postmodern commentary on American hegemonic value systems. The other part of me is just glad someone picked up the Anna Nicole Smith torch and ran with it.


Fanny Packs

fanny pack


Fanny Packs

My fanny pack prediction is still going strong. Givenchy, Michael Kors, and Topshop Unique rocked various versions of their hip huggers on the runway.

Raffia Pom Pom Hat


Raffia Pom Pom Hat

Head candy was plentiful at this season’s runway shows, and this item from Burberry is my favorite. The Brits don’t mess around when it comes to fancy-fuck hats and the pom pom on this one keeps the seriousness to a minimum.

Overrated Hipster Douchebaggery



I hope Lana Del Rey and Tyler the Creator really do work on a project together. I hope Kanye West produces it. I hope Kesha is featured on it. I hope Dov Charney sponsors it. I hope Terry Richardson shoots it. I hope Perez Hilton covers it. I hope Steve Aoki does a remix.

I hope all of these things, and I hope it turns into an orgiastic frenzy of overrated hipster douchebaggery of such monumental proportions that every pop-culture consumer immediately starts recognizing soulless empty-headed mediocrity for what it is, and Coachella goes back to being just one weekend.

I hope.


The Shahs of Sunset



I’m currently watching an episode of The Shahs of Sunset, and I’m sorry, but I’m not entirely convinced these are real human beings. I think they might be papier-mâché dolls made entirely of Jersey Shore grease and leftover Kardashian shavings.

I’ve known my fair share of Beverly Hills dwelling Persians. I’ve even dated a few, and despite there being some truth to the tacky label whore and douchey mama’s boy stereotypes, I’ve never met a single Persian person who lives up to this ridiculous level of shallow ethnic caricature.

Still, somehow Ryan Seacrest managed to find a whole group of them. (What do you call that? A Flock? A Gaggle? A Pride of Persians?) Ugh. I want to take a razor to these people, in every possible way.


Coke Talk of the Day

I almost have a home again.

At the tail end of last year, I sold all of my furniture, stuffed all of my worldly possessions into a seven foot storage cube, and turned over my lease. I knew I was gonna spend the first quarter of 2012 traveling around for work. I was done living where I was living, so I figured why the hell not?

I’ve been in a constant state of transition ever since. My life has been a flurry of hotel rooms and guest houses in LA, New York, and Vegas. For a hot minute I thought I might move to Malibu, but then a heavily tattooed man-child revealed his true nature and saved me from making a horrible decision.

Instead, I just scored a cozy little place up in the hills. It’s charming as fuck, and I’ll have my own pool this summer. I can’t wait. No more suitcases. No more travel sized bullshit. In a few days, I’ll have a real closet again. Hallelujah.

Of course, it occurred to me this afternoon that after losing my keys a few months ago, I have no way of unlocking my storage cube.

I’m surprisingly okay with that.

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