The only thing less controversial than a Kylie Jenner sex tape leak this past weekend would be the 2 million 40 to 60-year old men livestreaming it while temporarily unable to access the feted Mayweather/Pacquiao fistfight. Thanks Comcast! tweeted momager Kris, shortly thereafter.
While the cable network meltdown was arguably far more interesting than the fight that followed it, what resulted was a win for the stingy alcoholics that refused to fork out $30 to watch the fight among fellow would-be suckers, now happily downing their fifth PBR for the night, watching anything but.
The thought of paying $60 for two people to watch the fight among other nervous kids at the school dance in some dive bar run by a bunch of ex-firemen with the business acumen of a pregnant teen mom, is as a convincing value proposition as paying to attend an under-25 Tinder spritzer, when three house whites through a straw in Murray Hill anywhere will guarantee you the same expected outcome, for free.
Analogies aside, for an extra $39, I’d rather be afforded the privilege of peeing on a seat that doesn’t inevitably sport some derivative of herpes laced with the piss of hundreds of women, the toilet seat not having been given the chloroform treatment anytime over the past three months.
The actual fight, which was as big of a public relations meltdown as the cable TV debacle that preceded it, played out like the equivalent of watching paint dry on the bathroom door which the latest addition to The Real Housewives of Nowhere has locked herself in after downing a bottle of Vodka and thrown her prosthetic leg at her arch nemesis across the room (following which her hazy aim resulted in her missing the target, instead catapulting her fire hazard plastic limb into the flaming fireplace.)
In other deep-seeded rivalries likely to deliver a vastly superior amount of viewing pleasure, is the battle of the professional lip-syncing, pink Jelly Belly-demanding champagne guzzling divas Mariah and old battler, Brit, the former of which is set to temporarily relocate to Sin City to commence her two-year stint performing to the senior citizen circuit at Vegas.
Ahead of Carey’s residency debut this week, the old broad shocked a load of hacks last week by showing up for the press call looking half awake – which is a A+ for the recently dumped crooner – but, privately, some of her people are cacking it.
Ever since she split from chancer-husband Nick Cannon, her flacks – the head of which quit last month amid her inability to control the raging beast – found it increasingly hard to get the star to focus. On small things, mainly – you know, like her vocal exercises and her stage performance… etc etc.
But fans will be pleased to hear that Mimi’s commitment to the truly important things (shopping, drinking cheap white wine) remains undimmed. On a recent restaurant outing, Carey was seen ordering for a family of four, the other three of whom remained noticeably absent from her hot-chip guzzling affair. But, mind you, she gave a decent tip.
While fans are gagging for a slice of Mariah in all her former busty glory after her shoddy vocal chops were exposed following her decision to piss-off the production crew during the unveiling of the Rockefeller Christmas tree, Brit has been busy creating her own Kodak-worthy, hot mess moments.
Last week, Spears was happily dancing being moved around the stage like a chess piece by her unwilling back-up dancers on stage at Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino in Las Vegas last Wednesday night when all of a sudden she went down.
Spears, whose stage presence in the more than $200-a-pop show is akin to a stroke victim over the age of 79 learning to walk, tumbled to the ground after attempting to put her right foot after her left, following which she promptly cancelled her Friday and Saturday performances, perhaps to ready herself for the battle of the mikes this week.
Or maybe she was hoping to shift the focus to her collaborative revival of beloved classic, Tom’s Diner, with Giorgio Moroder, which is as pleasing to the ears as a cat scratching its nails across a chalkboard while blaring a French horn inside your ear drum having already replaced your Cochlear implant with a never-ending activated smoke alarm.
Meanwhile, as America’s North East was busy putting its ‘hands up’ and basically irritating the 99.9 percent that had to work while protestors waxed lyrical over how best to spend a chilly ‘Summer Friday’, the other 0.1 percent very busy trying their best to touch down, the flood of A-List stars into Las Vegas for the “Fight of the Century” created one of the most incredible traffic jams in Sin City history — at the airport.
So many private jets were lined up that McCarran International Airport had to refuse more planes just before fight time, following which your decision to make the best of ‘sportgeddon’ by fitting in a bout of watching drunk 20-somethings stumble around the track at the Kentucky Derby a lesser option than spending a day poolside at the Wynn before donning your slacks and heading to the fight.
Hot air aside, Is there any celebrity more vacuous than Khloe Kardashian? Her tweets this week – “Pray for Baltimore” and “Sweat is fat crying. Yes, perhaps there is. An entire class, in fact.
Ahead of tonight’s MET Gala, hosted by none other than Vogue’s aging warhorse, Anna Wintour, stars galore posted throwbacks to pictures of them getting ready for last year’s event, no doubt soon to be followed by images of them getting their manicures done ahead of 2015’s annual shindig. The latter Instagram post of which is possibly a form of justification for the increase in said celebrity’s former assistant’s recent six-figure salary hike after being promoted to ‘social media manager.’
And that’s not including the sad little reporter over at the latest glossy magazine to transition to WordPress, who spent a good few hours penning a story about the type of shoes Kim Kardashian ‘might’ wear to the event, knowing full well that she will have to recap Kimye’s outfits tonight from her camping chair at home in Queens, before heading to bed on her inflatable air mattress, waking in the night to repatch the hole she’s been unable to fix amid the ongoing wrath of her infamous single, 30-something female editor.
As if on cue amid his ongoing efforts to put his grubby hands into every pocket of American life before handing up the reigns in 2016, President Barry Obama and his sisterhood of the traveling pants descended on NYC on the day of the big MET event, set to create a hurricane in his wake as he moves about town, disrupting the timetable of fashion folks scheduled to arrive uptown just minutes after their closest less-attractive doppelganger. A fund-raiser for President Obama is happening blocks away from the MET as the annual Costume Institute Gala kicks off on Monday evening could wreak havoc on drivers shuttling fashion insiders uptown.
Vogue’s already issued a warning to its Met Gala guests that traffic will be heavy, because the president will be in town, and is advising attendees to leave ample time to get to Anna Wintour’s starry event, which is also being hosted by Silas Chou, Jennifer Lawrence, Gong Li, Marissa Mayer, and Wendi Murdoch, a shameless gold digger who I had forgotten even existed since that ridiculous obsession with and love note to Tony Blair.
Obama, who is interchangeable with your favorite fag hag when you want to swap your front-row seat for the chance to weigh in on the political topic trending on Twitter of the day, has been rampant in his issuance of executive orders as his haters shun him to the exit. But, in the world of fashion, he has little sway. Hence Obama and his bag of traffic nightmares and New York madness on fashion’s night-of-nights.
One commenter tweeted, “Gridlock alert today! Obama moving through the city noon to 10PM. West Midtown, West Village and midtown hit hardest. Protests likely.” This phrases is as pleasing to the eye of Anna Wintour as a transgender overweight black aspiring model being assigned the main spread in Vogue’s September issue.
Most interesting to see will be the intellectually deprived fashion set’s interpretation of this year’s theme, the culturally sensitive, ‘China: Through the Looking Glass,” to fete the opening of the Costume Institute’s next exhibit.
I’m predicting that the 2015 Met Gala will most likely be an Asian-inspired shitshow, with the fact that the core idea behind the theme is how Chinese aesthetics have influenced other designers, which in of itself is particularly troubling because that influence is often culturally insensitive or downright racist.
Then there’s the fact that the closest any member of the fash pack has been to China is the fried rice downed after a five-day juice cleanse or the most recent Eat, Pray, Love escape to Bali.
How the night plays out could have a little bit of sway on the Trans-Pacific Partnership Obama is trying to bed down this week with China and the lesser-known Australia, which is ironic given China’s Alibaba and the site’s contribution to creating counterfeits of almost every luxury good in the fashion world.
At present, the U.S. is pushing for the TPP over the Asia-preferred broader free trade agreement of the Asia-Pacific (FTAAP). The lack of U.S. enthusiasm for the latter deal requires you to take into account the role of the TPP in responding to competition between the U.S. and China over access to and influence in third markets, and, more deeply, over potentially different visions for global governance arrangements.
Given the propensity for the MET Gala to play out like a sloppy serve of Chinese noodles, sunny-side up, Obama has a little bit more to be concerned about nutting out the final details of the deal than New York fashion’s elite waking up tomorrow with egg on their face.
And if all else fails, make it all about the royal baby.
