Sans Weedkiller

hair-check for London

Sometimes people worry when I go silent for awhile, thinking I might have drunk the weedkiller. I really appreciate the concern, by the way! But I’m going to London for a couple of weeks *sans weedkiller, and I plan to have a great time.

Museums, Harrods, museums, Camden Passage, museums, curry, Fortnum and Mason, Miista, etc.

I haven’t been to London in forty years, but I know that Primrose Hill and Hampstead are still there so there will be some good nostalgia to be had.

Enjoy your break from my whining or read shit in the archives. Write to me if you think of somewhere I should go in London.


*Easily the stupidest and most maddening word in contemporary writing, I use it here to show my love xo


Posted in News | Tagged , , | 8 Comments

Soon Yi, Woody, Mia, and Ronan: No.

soon yi woody and daughter

I was going to comment on the creepy new interview with Soon Yi Previn, but after delving into her family history, I’m disgusted with all of the players, including that stupid Ronan, who wears blue contact lenses to look more like Frank Sinatra.

Fuck these awful people, especially Mia Farrow, who adopted Asian children like salted peanuts, even getting a congressman to change US adoption law to accommodate her colonialist agenda. Farrow has adopted ten children and given birth to four, married three powerful men who were old enough to be her father, and I think we can say it’s been a mess.

In her interview, Soon Yi makes it clear that she hates Mia, who adopted her from Korea when she was 5 years old. Mia is portrayed as an abusive lunatic. Luckily, Woody Allen came along and started taking an interest in Soon Yi when she was in the 11th grade and they began going to Knicks games together.

One day, Woody showed Soon Yi a Bergman movie (not making this up!) and then they kissed. One thing led to another, and you know, the heart wants what it wants.

But Soon Yi thought it was only a fling. Fucking mom’s boyfriend was probably meant to piss her off, not drive her insane. Next thing you know, the nude spreadeagled Polaroids, the accusations of molesting another Farrow daughter, and therapy for 4 year old Ronan, who either did or didn’t hate his daddy, who is either Woody or Frank Sinatra.

I’m telling you, these people are monsters. Soon Yi and Woody are the parents of two adopted daughters, who are now in their teens and endured a battery of “the best tennis lessons, piano, guitar, ballet classes, whatever.” Soon Yi will have to wait until they give their own interviews to hear the final verdict on her mothering skills.

Meanwhile, she spends her days doing Pilates, going to museums with her driver, and shopping for clothes.

Since the interview was published, Ronan and six other siblings released a statement defending their mother, and Dylan reminded people that Woody molested her. Ronan, coincidentally, is making a career out of outing molesters. It’s like in this family, you are either a Molester or Molestee. Or Frank Sinatra’s love child.

Yes, Woody Allen is a fucker and one I’ve never forgiven for having sex with Soon Yi. She appears to be a hateful spoiled creature who is frighteningly lacking in empathy and not sharp enough to keep her elderly husband away from their nubile daughters. Hello, Soon Yi? Remember that Bergman movie?

Click the links if you dare, and tell me if any of these people are not completely nuts.

Posted in Celebrities, Disorders, Horrible Stuff, News | Tagged , , , | 7 Comments

Fashion Trends: Logomania, Sisterwife, Prostitute, Bigfoot,

bigfoot balenciaga

Like every fashion-conscious consumer, I spend time every day scrolling through the latest arrivals at Matches, Net-a-Porter, ssense, Neiman Marcus, LL-CC and websites I’m too embarrassed to mention.  I consider the scrolling a duty, and a big success if I don’t want anything.

The trends I’m seeing lately fall into four categories. Logomania is by far the most offensive. We expect declarative logos from Gucci and Chanel, but now they’re everywhere, on everything. Fendi has gone all out, with it’s logo defacing nearly every item. Those Fendi F’s were never exactly eye candy; now they’re a genuine blight.

logomania fendi poncho

Balenciaga, Lowe, Off-White, Kenzo, Helmut Lang, Martine Rose, Valentino, Vetements, even the famously nondescript A.P.C. is getting in on this. You won’t have to wait till next year for people to feel sorry for you if you invest now in an ugly Balenciaga bag with the word BALENCIAGA slapped across it in block letters.

logomania balenciaga

Remember how at one point, we all agreed it was stupid to be a human billboard for brands? Sports brands were the exception, like Adidas crowns and stripes. Fashionable people shunned logos as vulgar, while the aspirational (i.e., middle class) shopper continued to long for a real or fake Louis Vuitton bag to prove their social standing and discretionary income.

Today, according to Emily Gordon-Smith, head of fashion at research consultancy Stylus, the key word behind the Logomania craze is “irreverence.” She thinks that people who buy into this trend are doing it ironically. On the other hand, designer Martine Rose insists her use of logos is “post-ironic.” Whatever the excuse is, this trend needs to stop. I think I speak for every non-It-Girl when I say that if I need to know what brand you’re wearing, I’ll ask you.

Also having a long moment is the Sisterwife look, sometimes described as a “prairie” look by style editors trying to persuade you to buy cowboy boots. High necks, long skirts, and ruffles add up to a self-conscious schoolmarm effect that would be cute at a butter-churning party but has no place on a city street. I mean, fine, it’s your choice, but it’s the opposite of chic, if that matters to you.  Just take it away for fucksake!

Saint Laurent is pushing its signature prostitute look, but even more aggressively than usual in its leather hotpants worn with thigh-high boots. Attico is climbing on board the hooker wagon with some feathered mini dresses that barely cover the butt. Balmain is sticking with garish leopard print and sequined mini’s whose plunging necklines drive home the sex-for-sale aesthetic. Even Christopher Kane has succumbed with trashy-looking velvet mini’s for evening-wear.

balamin prostitute

prostitute dress attico

Finally, we have those big shaggy coats that keep coming back to haunt us, but this year it’s less groupie than Bigfoot. “Fun” colors and raggedy textures seem to be saying, “Just kidding!” and to signify faux fur to the vegans among us. But some brands are sticking with fur, like oversized shearling jackets with quirky buttons or trimmings to counter the old-school glamour of  wearing dead animals. Look for Givenchy‘s “voluminous” chevron-pattern fake fur to be knocked off by Topshop et al. in the next ten minutes.

bigfoot givenchy fur

Other trends like menswear suits and plaid mash-ups will be asserting themselves, and luxury brand street-wear will be ever-present until someone makes it illegal, but the four fads I’ve focused on are the ones to avoid (or indulge in, as the case may be) as you consider your style options. Remember: More is more except when it’s already too much.

Posted in Fashion, News | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments

Adulteress: Part Three

adultress part 3

What is love? Don’t ask me. I can’t define it, but like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, I know it when I see it.

When The Tragedy wrote back that he now wished he had said he loved me, I felt vindicated somehow. It hadn’t been my imagination; the thing between us was real! Upon reflection, he could call the thing “love.” He had misspoken because he always knew our affair had no future. How silly that all these years later, I felt consoled by a different ending.

Okay, good! Now I can collect my winnings, I thought, meaning now I’m not a jackass who threw my heart at a brick wall.

So we exchanged some more email, discussing the past and the present. He avoided emotional content, and I was still me: Curious, provoking, long-winded, judgemental. He described his life as happy, even though he had given up dating, working, and driving a car. He was deeply invested in leaving a light carbon footprint. He rode everywhere on his bicycle, and he spent his days playing golf. He still read books but had stopped keeping a list of the ones he read. He enjoyed podcasts about politics.

Why no women? Did I break him? What a coup that would have been. But there were others after me. Unwisely, he told me the number.

I began to feel frustrated by our correspondence. His taste in music was dubious. His concern with the environment seemed pointless. Why did he care so much about the survival of our species, when he had opted out of his own life? He assured me that his life was full and meaningful. I asked him to send me a picture and eventually he did. He looked like someone’s grandpa. Not the blue-eyed husky who shot me down.

Fuck this, I decided. There was nothing more to be gained. I realized that I’d given him a pass early on, when he wrote: “What year was it that you had went to Michael’s party?” What kind of idiot writes “had went?” I should have called a halt there and then, but instead I had pressed on. Ending it was a relief.

I’m looking for some wisdom to relate, now that I’ve taken you on this emotional roller coaster. I’d like to have learned something for my own sake.

One thing I know for sure is that bad grammar is a red flag. Ignore it at your peril. Next thing you know, you’ll be hearing “with that having been said” every other sentence. Also, people who keep a list of the books they’ve read are too anal for your purposes.

Memory is just the stories you tell yourself, and you are not a reliable narrator. Figures from your past are smaller than you could ever imagine. And giving someone the power to decide your worth is just madness.

If someone doesn’t love you, it’s their fucking problem. If you know any young people, pass this on. They won’t believe you but it’s worth a shot.

And the Christianity, you ask? He broke up with that, too.

Posted in Disorders, love, Words | 13 Comments

Adulteress: Part Two

I’m not one to look for old friends on Facebook and I usually ignore those fake requests from LinkedIn. I don’t care about my ancestry and I’m not interested in friends from high school because for one thing, I didn’t go to high school. Mostly I’m content to just keep tabs on the Ex-wife, as I’ve mentioned before. If I need to feel smarter than somebody, she always delivers.

But a few weeks ago, I clicked on a LinkedIn notice, and while there, it occurred to me to look for the Tragedy. Something must have triggered this. Maybe something I watched on TV. So I typed in his name and there he was! No photo, and only one job listed, one that had ended. I sent a request to join his network and then returned to my regular programming.

It was a surprise when he responded with a long reply. It was great to hear from me! He had found my blog a few years ago, and had read the archives. He was so sorry about Max. He had thought of writing to me a thousand times. My writing was so good! He even read my stuff at Miista! As for him, he’d moved back to his hometown. He had never married.

My predominant feeling, my only feeling, was outrage.

WHAT?!? You read about the loss of my son and didn’t have the decency to express your condolences? How hard would that be? There’s the risk that I’d be annoyed, but please. I personally have written to strangers after reading about their loss. A senator, a governor, a regular person. I just want to offer sympathy and if possible, some words of comfort.

Then there’s the general feeling of being stalked. Stalked in the sense of reading all about my life and my thoughts without making a peep. It feels invasive. Even though I write for the entire world, I don’t expect the people I know to pore over my blog. It’s not a group letter about my vacation in Paris, France. I write from a need to express myself, to send a message in a bottle to someone who might relate or understand.

Okay, so there I am, fuming. I read the letter to my husband, who says Big deal, what’s so enraging? I read it to my sister, who says, Oh my god, what a fucker! This is one reason to have a sister. A huge reason.

I called a friend who I’d met at the bookstore, who had known the Tragedy and knew the whole story. His reaction was, Aw, how nice, and what a sweet guy. Ha. I reminded him of all the times we would argue about the best candidate to anally penetrate the Tragedy, thereby to teach him a thing or two. It came down to Vince Neil versus Steven Tyler. The debates were fierce, and accompanied by hysterical laughter.

Such was my bitterness at being rejected.

I could have ignored the letter but instead, I chose to reply and be direct. I wrote back:

But you broke my heart! So callously!

The last time we spoke, you looked me right in the eye and said, “I was never in love with you.” Said with no affect.

Would you like to moderate that in any way?

He did want to moderate it, in fact. And the whole affair came rushing back to me, a delirious mixture of bliss and despair.

Posted in love, revenge, Words | Tagged , , | 5 Comments

Adulteress: Part One

the christian part one

Years ago, when I was married to the wrong man, I fell madly in love with a guy who sold used books. He wasn’t my type, but he had a certain lanky, preppy appeal. We met when I wandered into his store in a run-down promenade. He was very attentive. He was especially pleased by my familiarity with John Barth. Later, he called me at home, although I hadn’t given him my phone number. It was on the check I wrote; it was a bold move on his part.

I liked bold moves. I agreed to meet him at the book store, and we sat down on a bench outside in the bright sunlight. He turned to me and moved some hair away from my eyes. “Tell me everything,”he said. It’s still the single most seductive line I’ve ever heard.

He really did want to know everything, so I told him. I was unhappily married, I was a weight-lifter, I liked to read. He asked me why my past relationships had failed, a surprise question. I had to think. Because I’m unlovable, I told him sadly.

His own life offered few clues about anything. He’d been in love once, with a girl he met in college. I guess she dumped him. He pronounced her name, Cecily, in a reverent tone. He was from a small town where people still talked about having “Jewish friends.”  His brother was some minor pro golfer. But he loved Elvis Costello, so that was something. And he had arctic blue eyes like a husky.

Somehow, I must have brought up the subject of herpes, which was considered a huge deal back then. He didn’t know anything about it, but now worried he might have it. He had a rash! Shit! I confided that I might be pregnant by an idiot from my gym. We felt as though the forces were against us, while at the same time, our meeting was Destiny.

I learned that if you want to fuck someone but can’t, things get highly charged in a hurry. We were miserable but we kissed like our lives depended on it. We waited for his test results. Meanwhile, I wasn’t pregnant.

He was witty and self-deprecating, with a deep sense of resentment about his shitty job and shitty prospects. Who knows what he really wanted. We were only 28 years old, but he acted like he’d already blown everything.

His herpes test came back negative. I was lying on the couch in his tiny apartment, with my feet in his lap. He had turned very serious. “Well, now we can deal with the literary aspects of this tragedy,” he said dramatically. Later on, I would give him a nickname: The Tragedy.

I wondered nervously what would happen if we had sex and it wasn’t good or I couldn’t come. “That won’t be a problem,” he said without a hint of arrogance. And it wasn’t. I taught him that menstruation wasn’t a hindrance. He taught me that he would never stop, unless I asked him to. Late one night, we went to the book shop and in the dark, we had sex by the paperback fiction.

The excuses I gave to my husband were ridiculous but he was willing to believe them. I didn’t feel guilty. I deserved to be happy. But I wasn’t. Adulterous sex is wonderful but coming back to real life is a grim business. I felt trapped and addicted to my lover. I still swooned when he touched me.

One day, The Tragedy told me over the phone that he was ending our affair. He had recently become a Christian. Sex with me was a sin, he realized, and he couldn’t go on as we were. It felt dirty, he said.

I drove around in a daze, feeling sure I was dreaming. How could someone turn on a dime? Isn’t dirty sex a good thing? I thought I could change his mind but he was firm. I went to the book shop to confront him and he was polite but cold.

It took me forever to find my footing again but eventually I did. I hated myself and vowed this would be my last affair. Time passed and I managed to conduct a platonic friendship with The Tragedy. He needed an assistant at the store and I jumped at the chance to work there.

For months, we worked together behind the counter, sharing our contempt for our customers and laughing at our private jokes. The whole time, I had to stop myself from putting my hands on him. One day I saw him in a huddle with a skanky girl who was missing a tooth and bought Harlequin Romance novels. I was badly shaken but had to suck it up. I acquired a huge book collection. I took home fairy tales to read to my child, oblivious to how much I’d shortchanged him.

Eventually, I split up with my husband. One day, either before or after, I can’t remember, I went to visit The Tragedy at his new apartment. Through the screen-door, I asked him what had happened between us. I still didn’t understand. It still felt like unfinished business.

“{Sisterwolf},” he said, staring me straight in the eye, “I still find you fascinating. But I was never in love with you.” He was matter-of-fact, like he was giving a weather report. He didn’t blink. I turned and left, devastated. Sure enough, I was unlovable. And I was haunted by his words forever, it felt like, until I forgot all about him.

But what is the internet if not a place to look for trouble, and what are old flames if not embers to poke, out of curiosity, vengeance, or a desire to change history?

Posted in love, Religion, Words | Tagged , , , | 9 Comments

Running Out of Invective For Trump?

running out of trump invective

Aren’t you tired of hearing yourself yell or mutter the same words when Trump rears his ugly head? Fucker! Piece of shit! Stupid fucking liar! Fat scumbag! Dumbass!

Let’s mix things up. Instead of idiot, try:

fool, ass, halfwit, dunce, tool, clown, dolt, prick, douche, ignoramus, monstrosity, cretin, moron, imbecile, simpleton, dope,  nincompoop, chump, dimwit, dumbo, dummy, dum-dum, jackass, blockhead, bonehead, knucklehead, fathead, butthead, numbskull, knuckle-dragger, dipstick, meathead, meatball, airhead, peabrain, birdbrain, mouth-breather, jerk, nitwit, hoser, schmuck, putz, bozo, turkey, vulgarian, chowderhead, oaf, wanker, ding-dong, yo-yo, lummox, low-life, piece of trash.

Instead of contemptible, even though it’s the perfect word for him, there are more adjectives to throw around:

despicable, detestable, hateful, reprehensible, deplorable, unspeakable, disgraceful, shameful, ignominious, abject, discreditable, worthless, beyond contempt, shameful, odious, loathsome, puerile, repellent, repulsive, repugnant, monstrous, sleazy, swinish.

I’m pretty sure you can mix ‘n match. Let me try.

Abject cretin. Worthless prick. Yes!

Okay, so what epithet do you use most often for that cunt?

Posted in News, Words | Tagged , , , | 12 Comments

Can You Forgive Her?

can you forgive her?

First he was a cherished baby, then a child, and then a teenager who went off to college. For two years before leaving, he’d been subjected to his mother’s grief over losing his big brother. The teenager was traumatized as well but no one thought much about that.

Sometimes he would say, dejectedly, All you do is cry. Once, he asked her if she would be this sad if he had died instead. She redoubled her crying, asking, How could you even ask that! I love you so much! I would be devastated!

But being a teen is hard at the best of times. And this wasn’t that. When he was stressed, or if he didn’t get his way, he would threaten to kill himself, like his brother did. At first, she would beg him not to say that. But it went on.

At some point, she would shriek in response to this, GO AHEAD THEN AND GET IT OVER WITH! Reacting to her own distress but not his.

I know.

Can you forgive her?

The threats kept coming. One day she declared,  Nothing you do can hurt me. I am broken. I can’t be more hurt than I am. Of course this wasn’t true but she had no idea, she was lost in grief and PTSD from trying to revive a dead son.

She did the best she could, attending functions with and for the teenager. She was filled with hope and joy watching him graduate from high school, where he was valedictorian. But she may have been fooling herself; she may have been totally absent emotionally when he needed her most.

Anyway, things changed after the teenager moved into a dorm. He had trouble adjusting to visits home, where people treated him like a kid and went around making parental demands. The mother said, We want you here but don’t come home if you can’t respect us.

Stupider words were never uttered. Stupid tough love that no one should deploy, ever.

The teenager no longer wanted his mother’s affection, nor would he display any to her. He started calling her his biological mother. He left the dorm but wouldn’t move home. He was an independent young man and needed to live like one. He achieved big things, on his own.

Nothing the mom did could restore his affection for her. If she said the wrong thing, and she did, things would blow up and get worse. He refused to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas with his family. He would choose a family of his own making, who would treat him differently. Respectfully.

There were brief rapprochements but the teenager became an adult and eventually wanted no part of his mother, or even his father. The mother and father were heartbroken, but that’s what happens. Get a life, parents!

Maybe the mom will see her son again or maybe not. Life goes on, and on, and on.

But looking back, can you forgive her? What if you were that teenager? Do the past or future even matter, or is it only one long meaningless Now?

Posted in grief, love, Words | 8 Comments

65 Years Young!

Just kidding. 65 is old, very old, a time of Medicare, high cholesterol, and a dread of seeing that your shoes are untied and you have to go ALL THE WAY DOWN THERE to tie them.

Last week on my birthday, I wore my discounted Burberry dress to go out to dinner, vaping my MedMen product before leaving the house. The bridge entrance to Long Beach was closed, so we took a different route that had us driving around lost for a quite a while. Suddenly we made a turn and found we were driving into oncoming traffic. I didn’t see my life rewinding before my eyes but I did feel a frisson of excitement: WE’RE GOING TO DIE! I thought for a moment, and it was okay, because I was strapped into my seat-belt and wearing a nice dress. It would be quick and better than being cut into pieces by a maniac (too much crime TV.)

Anyway, we lived to make a u-turn. Dinner was good. The restaurant had huge screens showing 80s MTV videos, including my favorite Pat Benator song, Love is a Battlefield. She’s a warrior in a tube top and scrunched-down boots, shouting, “We are young!!!!”

Being young is really great. If you’re reading this and you’re young, go out and do everything except opiates, and don’t date guys from the internet who will cut you into pieces and throw them in a ditch so it takes law enforcement seven months to find you.

I hate the commercials I keep seeing with grey-haired old ladies tramping through the hills, bragging about how good they feel and how much they still plan to do. Fuck them.

I really don’t want to do anything, and I’m too old to do it anyway. I do want to finish up my time on earth with less mental suffering. So I keep reading about depression and PTSD, every new study, new treatments, new evidence that your very DNA is a portent of doom. I know that rumination is not helpful but I pretend that what I’m doing is “research.”

But now, my “research” has led me to Metacognitive Therapy. The strategy here is to stop the rumination by interrupting it. Not analyzing why you do it or why you can’t control it. When the thought appears, don’t engage with it. Practice turning your attention elsewhere. Simple as that. Also, add more activities to your daily life, limiting your time to churn worries and self-recrimination.

When you’re caught up in negative rumination, your brain is struggling with itself but it thinks it must continue, like it’s a taking the SAT and isn’t allowed to turn it in, incomplete.

My plan is to listen to more music, read short stories, write more, smoke more weed, find some volunteer work with disabled people, make some bad folk art and keep my hair looking good.

I’m still going to think about death because I like the subject. For example, this story of an 104 year old man who wanted to get it over with is so touching and filled with profound questions and insights. David Goodall seems like a great guy who was more than ready to exit. I love his last words before losing consciousness:

This is taking an awfully long time.

Thoughts, advice, birthday wishes, anyone?



Posted in Disorders, Horrible Stuff, Words | Tagged , , , | 13 Comments

Asia Argento: A Story With Everything!

Asia Argento A story with everything

Let’s pretend you live in another solar system and you don’t follow celebrity gossip. I’ll try to get you up to date. Asia Argento is an Italian actress with a penchant for the dark side. She’s covered in tattoos and she likes to be shocking. Anthony Bourdain fell in love with her in the last year of his life. She has been a leading voice in the #MeToo movement, having publicly accused Harvey Weinstein of raping her in a hotel room.

Okay, so recently, it was reported that Argento paid hush money to Jimmy Bennett, a 22 year old actor who claims she sexually assaulted him when he was 17 years old, a crime in California, where the incident allegedly took place.

Argento made a statement denying Bennett’s story, insisting that he had been trying to extort money from her for some time. She denied having any physical relationship with the actor, who played her young son in a film she directed years ago.

But people got mad, because that’s what they do. They called Argento a hypocrite and  whore, and took out their anger on Rose McGowan, another outspoken #MeToo leader (and Weinstein victim) who had formed a close friendship with Argento.

Poor Rose McGowan didn’t know what to believe, but asked her followers to “be gentle.” This inflamed people even more. Why should they be gentle to Asia Argento, who had not favored gentleness toward Harvey Weinstein?

So then, TMZ published some private texts between Asia and an unnamed person, who presumably had leaked it. In their conversation, Argento admits to having sex with the actor, who “was horny” and “jumped her bones” in a hotel room. (note: stay out of hotel rooms.)

So now, we have Asia admitting she did it! But she’s pissed off because she herself had an older lover when she was 17; big deal. Plus, Anthony was the one who wanted to shut the actor up, fearing it would harm her reputation.

But then, someone leaks Asia’s text conversation with Bourdain, in which he offers to pay the actor $380,000, if that’s what she wants. He can see that Bennett is a screwed-up person and feels sorry for him. Of course, Anthony Bordain can’t weigh in, because he killed himself a few months ago.

In the days prior to Bourdain’s suicide, Argento was photographed in Rome, holding hands and making out with a young journalist. THIS DOES NOT MAKE HER GUILTY FOR HIS DEATH. And yet.

Now, pay attention! Rose McGowan has made a long statement, conceding that Argento molested the young actor, and should be held responsible for her actions.

How does she know Argento is guilty? Because the person who leaked the stuff to TMZ is none other than Rose’s partner, Rain Dove!

Now, Rain Dove is a model whose pronoun is they. McGowan refers to them as a “being” in her statement about how she came to learn the truth about Asia, who may not be a being but is certainly a cunt, I feel it is safe to say at this point.

Here is how Rose says she wised up:

But then everything changed. In an instant. I received a phone call and series of messages from the being I’ve been dating- Rain Dove. They said that they had been texting with Asia and that Asia had revealed that she had indeed slept with Jimmy Bennet. Rain also shared that Asia had stated that she’d been receiving unsolicited nudes of Jimmy since he had been 12. Asia mentioned in these texts that she didn’t take any action on those images. No reporting to authorities, to the parents, or blocking of Jimmy’s social media. Not even a simple message “Don’t send me these images. They are inappropriate.” There were a few other details revealed as well that I am not at liberty to mention in this statement as investigators do their job.

She had me at “being,” obviously. I mean, what more could you want here, except for Anthony Bourdain to have never crossed paths with Asia Argento??

If you were the god in charge of shit like this, what would you want to happen next? Please show your work, unless it’s a mystery to be revealed in the fullness of time.

Posted in Celebrities, Disorders, Horrible Stuff, News, Words | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments