Overrated Hipster Douchebaggery

twits

 

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

shahs

 

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.

If you have burned a single calorie analyzing the teenage misdeeds or minor character flaws of Trayvon Martin in an effort to justify the homicide committed by George Zimmerman, then you are a small-minded, racist asshole guilty of the worst kind of victim blaming.

Neutral Gone Wild

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Neutral Gone Wild

These sky high babies elongate your legs just like any nude pumps, but the textured cork finish adds depth and the pink contrast sole adds a refreshing pop. It’s like Ruthie Davis is smirking at Christian Louboutin. Fabulous.

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