Why Am I So Excited?

Because look at what next week has in store!


Norway’s Queen Sonja can’t wait for the new Ladytron album


Electropop synth zombies Ladytron’s new album, Velocifero, comes out next Tuesday. Expect a whole post about it!

Hillary Clinton will finally exit stage right and allow us all to finally uncross our eyes.

Right-wing terrorist fighter Michelle Malkin will gleefully continue to be an idiot.

And, hopefully, the new movie The Strangers will scare the living shit out of me. Because fear is fun.

But What Do Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha Think of Scott McClellan's New Book?

We all know what the Sex and the City ladies think about overpriced shoes, hilariously awkward fashion, cartoonish and formulaic plot lines, never riding the subway, and sleeping with every freaking guy you meet on the street. They love all of it! This stuff has been well documented over the years. We’ve assisted Charlotte through her fear of anal sex, sympathized with Carrie when she farted in front of Mr. Big, ridden any number of cock horses along with Samantha, and tried our best to coax big ole lesbian Miranda out of that fuchsia closet of hers. But believe it or not there are some things—even in these days of 24-hour Sex and the City movie coverage—that we don’t know about these dingbats.

I can’t help but wonder: What do the Sex and the City girls think of the new tell-all book by former Bush White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan, What Happened: Inside the Bush White House and Washington’s Culture of Deception?

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McClellan's new book, which has no Sex in the City movie tie-ins.

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Will they be discussing it at Saturday brunch any time soon? Will Carrie be able to read between its lines to draw out some facile conclusion about the dynamics between women and men? Will Miranda scowl at it, roll her eyes, and say something bitchy about Brooklyn? Will Samantha f*ck it? Can Charlotte read?

I guess we’ll have to wait until the movie to find out. Thank God it comes out tomorrow!

Sharon Stone Still Around, Pissing Off China

Hey, did you know that Sharon Stone--political operative, smutty film actress--is still around? Even after Basic Instinct 2? Amazing, right? Well, Ms. Stone’s recent insightful thoughts on the reasons for the earthquakes and unthinkable human devastation in China have caused a few hypersensitive folks in China to take offense. Here’s what the naturally bottled blonde said in Cannes:

“I’ve been concerned about how should we deal with the Olympics, because they are not being nice to the Dalai Lama, who is a good friend of mine,” she said.

"And then all this earthquake and all this stuff happened, and I thought, is that karma - when you're not nice that the bad things happen to you?”


Sharon Stone meeting with the Dalai Llama in 1991


For some reason, these well-thought-out, impeccably articulated, and completely reasonable comments have set off a firestorm of controversy, and now a major Chinese cinema chain has banned the playing of any Sharon Stone film in any of his theatres in Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Beijing. A good move, because, really, haven’t the Chinese people suffered enough? I mean, even the Dalai Llama, Sharon Stone’s good friend, walked out of Catwoman.

For her part, Sharon Stone is not worried about the ban because she knows that her new movie, The Year of Getting to Know Us, will still be seen by more people in China than anywhere in the continental United States.

What Do the Dead-Eyed Zombie Ladies in the Evista Commercial Want From Me?

Are they after my cat? My Blondie CDs? My viola? My Pedro Almodovar box set? I don't know, but one thing is for certain: they want something and these women who are at risk of invasive breast cancer will not stop staring at me until they get it. But I won't give up easily.



Look, hot grandma, I don't care how creepily sexy you are. YOU CAN'T HAVE MY STUFF! NO! LOOK AT SOMEONE ELSE!



Good God, these women are relentless. Now they've moved things inside and are just popping out of doorways all over the place. Wait a minute. Mom? Is that you on the far right? For God's sake put some clothes on, you're embarrassing me!



Ok, you're kind of cute for a zombie, but--NO! MUST RESIST!



Madam, are you even alive? Jesus, try a little bit.



Ok! Ok! You can have Parallel Lines, AutoAmerican, and The Hunter, but NOT my Japanese edition of Eat to the Beat with the bonus tracks. No way. Get your own. Hell, I'll even throw in one of my old Adam Ant records on vinyl, if you want. And you can maybe have my cat Stella on every other Wednesday and Thursday, but that's the best I can do. Just. Stop. Staring. And for the love of God, no smiling.

Happy Memorial Day!

I ate the whole box because I love America that much.

Things That Will Ruin Your Weekend: Alanis Morissette's Voice

Oh dear Lord, Alanis Morissette's voice is back from wherever it's been for these past few happy years and is bound and determined to ruin my long weekend. You know how you sometimes see someone—on the train, on the street, in a Sex and the City promotional poster—and they look so irritating that your hand just automatically collapses into a fist, even though you're not a violent person? That's what happens when I see Alanis Morissette, because when I see her all I can think of is that voice. That horrible, debilitating, nasally whooping cough that made the 90s even more unbearable than Pearl Jam did.

Ms. Morissette and her adenoidal vocal "stylings" paid a visit to the Today show this morning, where she screeched loud and proud about things being ironic in your Chardonnay or whatever. Alanis Morissette's voice has more ticks than summer camp, and it will crawl into your brain like a rabid alien earthworm and eat its way out. Or, to use another random comparison, her voice is a jagged little pill that cuts your throat as you swallow it, travels through your body slicing through every vital organ as it goes, and then circumnavigates your entire nervous system, leaving nothing but torn blood vessels and dead synapses in its wake. Then it eats your eardrums.

That’s what Alanis Morissette’s voice does. To me and many like me. And God help the folks that are unlucky enough to sit anywhere near Morissette and her boyfriend in a movie theater. Gross.

F*ck The Goddam F*cking L F*cking Train

You know, usually I either ride my bike to work or, if I have enough fairy dust in the cupboard, I ride my magic flying innertube. But some days it's raining (and my magic innertube does not perform well in the rain, no matter how much fairy dust or lube I use). Which means that some dark days, I have to use the train. Which, in my case, because I live in dreamy Greenpoint, means I have to take the God-forsaken L train, the Worst Train in the World Since the Beginning of Time, as proclaimed by Shitty and Useless F*cking Train Monthly every month, forever and ever.

What the f*ck is wrong with this train? Why is it so hard to get a load of skinny hipster idiots from the western edge of Brooklyn into the Greatest City in the World™ in less than 45 minutes. Why must it crawl through the East River tunnel like a freaking slug? Why does it stop for 5 minutes at every station?

And, God, why are there so many assholes? So many.

Here's how deadened folks are to the insanity of the L: on a recent rainy day, I stepped into a carriage and as the doors smugly closed behind me I caught the unmistakable stench of straight-up doo-doo. Like someone had just dropped one on the freaking floor or something. And noone else on the train seemed to notice. Is that how numb people are to the L's indignities? I mean, I don't sleep on flower petals at night. I sweat and stink just like normal people. If I notice the smell of sh*t, so should everyone else.

One rainy, destructive morning, I caught the L at Graham Avenue and on the platform was a completely naked woman strolling back and forth and back and forth, strung out as hell. I swear to God it was the L train did that to her. Last year she was probably a corporate attorney.

Well, screw it, I hereby declare that, unless I’m forced to by the terrorists or David Byrne, I’m never commuting to work on the L train again. I’ll take the f*cking G—the G, people! That’s how desperate things are—to the E and go over the river and through the woods before taking that retarded train again. Mark my words. Or don’t, I don’t care.

Never again.

Hillary Once Again Snags Non-Sexist White Racist Vote; Oregon Hates Women, Coddles Blacks

Once again, Hillary Clinton, female, has won the coveted hearts of proud white racists, this time in the melting pot of Kentucky. According to exit polls, 3 out of 10 Kentuckians gleefully admitted that they voted against Barack Obama because he's a black. Good thing these same people aren't sexist, like the media! Also, it's a shame that there just aren't that many more proud white racist strongholds left where Hillary can prove her superior candidacy. Montana's kind of racist, but is it racist enough? Then, of course, there's Puerto Rico, where the racist white person voting block is negligible. Clinton's strategy, though, is to bank on Puerto Ricans still hating black people. Hopefully they're not also sexist, like the media and all the people who haven't voted for her.

The Village Voice's Allison Benedikt has an excellent article here that examines how this campaign has been so unabashedly sexist but not racist at all. Money quote:

And Hillary’s lapping it up. Confirming in today’s Washington Post that the primary campaign has been sexist (but not racist), Clinton complains—states/notes/ declares—that there’s been a “disservice because we have broad coalitions of voters who have voted for me who make up the base of a winning campaign in November that I think want to see this end up with my being nominated." Translation: "This is unfair and sexist, because my voters clearly want to see me nominated. And if I'm not nominated, a disservice has been done to my voters." What makes it really unfair is that she’s losing by every measure and we still won’t let her win. Classic misogyny.

It's such a shame when the only thing that people distrust/dislike about you is your gender. (I mean, what else could it be?!) So unfair.

The Elevator in My Office Building Will Never Forget

(No, really. This is the third day in less than a week that the display has looked this way when I arrived in the morning. This elevator will never freaking forget.)

Advertising Alley: Who is This Ad For?

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Today in Growing Old Gracefully: Robert Smith

Oh, Robert. Yikes. Hmmm. Soooooo....Yeah, nice guitar


I know that fat jokes about Robert Smith are passé now, but the fact remains that we really need to address the dizzying downward spiral of every teenage goth’s favorite lovecat. Now, Our Bob has been a little doughy (in a cute way) for a while now. That’s not news. Let’s just say there were probably quite a few Cinnabon stores on Fascination Street, if you get my drift. More than a couple Hot Hot Hot deep-fried Twinkies on his plate, if you follow me. A not-at-all infrequent number of late night trips to the fridge for another slice of that triple chocolate decadence cheesecake with cream and hot fudge that tastes Just Like Heaven, if you—

Anyway, my point is this: getting fat is a part of getting older. I myself plan on porking up as I age, starting later today at Carmine’s Pizzeria on Graham Avenue in Brooklyn. But aging shouldn’t mean looking like a sperm whale in drag. It just shouldn’t. Especially if you’re still up on stage regularly performing songs with titles like “Let’s Go to Bed” and “Never Enough.” How can you expect to be taken seriously wailing at your lover to give it to you “One More Time” if you’re the spitting image of Johnny Sack’s supersized wife Ginny on the Sopranos?


Johnny Sack and Robert Smith after the Cure's recent show in Alexandria, Virginia.

Sue Simmons F**k-gate Update

Quick update on the Story That Changed the World (NYC newscaster saying the f-word on the 11 o'clock news): Gawker has the video of the Today show's Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Klobt discussing Sue Simmons' shit-talking and how in this Orwelian world we now live in we're all in danger of being caught telling someone to fuck off. Notice Kathie Lee talking about what a good dinner date Sue is. That's the reference to my blog post that shook the New York media world.

Mysterious Development: New Portishead Album Doesn't Make Me Want to Take My Own Life

If you're anything like me, you have never been able to get through either of the first two Portishead albums without having some sort of nervous breakdown. God knows I've tried, and things always start off really well. I'll be sitting on the floor in a dimly lit room with the headphones on, playing with matches as per usual while my cat Stella claws slowly at the small of my back, enjoying the dark noir thrills of “Mysterons,” “Sour Times,” or “All Mine.” But things always end up the same way after only a few more songs: me waking up in the dark shivering with cold sweats, covered in my own piss, sucking on a pitch black revolver, and my mother’s disembodied voice shrieking at me from the phone that is lying beside me on the floor, “Tim?! Tim?! Are you ok?! Are you having a low blood sugar?!”


Listen to this Portishead song from 1997 and try not to stab yourself.

Yes, listening to Portishead has always had the effect of making me desperately unhappy and longing for the sweet embrace of a long and painful death. But their new album, Third, though it certainly contains all of the great elements that made their first two albums such hope killing classics (drama, desolation, despair, dejection, despondency, derangement, great beats) doesn’t make me want to take my own life. In fact, it’s so varied and creative in its presentation of utterly abject misery that my only inclination when the album is over is to press play again. That’s progression.


New Portishead single "The Rip" inexplicably makes me want to continue living

Is it because the last 8 years of Horrific Idiocy at the White House have done such a good and thorough job of killing all the hope and optimism in me that the wailing of a chronically distressed woman who never stops sounding like she’s about to burst into tears actually sounds kind of life affirming to me? Maybe.

Just So You Know, This Blog is Now Kind of a Big Deal

Tim Gunn is a big fan

I just thought my four regular readers should know that See Tim Blog is now, officially, kind of a big deal. A mere half hour after publishing yesterday’s post about NYC newscaster Sue Simmons saying “f**k” during an 11 o’clock news teaser and how it has really made me rethink my fantasy dinner date with such a loose cannon, someone at the New York Times whose job it is to see what the retards online are saying about the previous nights’ big stories happened upon my blog and linked to it. (Thanks, Emily S. Rueb, editress of the Times’ City Room Blogtalk blog roundup!) Click the above image to see my name in lights.

And I hear from a reliable source (my boyfriend, who only occasionally makes shit up) that Kathie Lee Gifford, on the Today Show was just decrying “the bloggers” for giving Simmons a hard time. “Trust me,” she insisted. “She’s a great person to have dinner with.” That’s an indirect reference to my blog, which is sooo much better than a direct reference! (Less tawdry.)

So a clarification is obviously in order. I still love Sue Simmons like I love my luggage. I love her all the more for her cussin'. She can float the f-bomb by me any day. And I’m totally gonna take her to my next bar fight. In fact, I’m going to ask that she start my next bar fight.

NYC Newscaster Sue Simmons Will Cut You

Identifying who you’d rather have a beer with is a perfectly acceptable way to choose the man or woman who will be the next President of the United States. There’s no question about that. But what about when you’re choosing which local newscaster you trust the most? It’s not so cut and dried and apparently.

See, I’ve always loved Sue Simmons, the co-anchor of the 11 o’clock 4 New York news (“I’m 4 New York!”). I’ve just always had that special feeling about her that, you know, here is someone I would love to party with. You know, have some wine, a steak dinner, a banana split, and then some shots. (She could choose what kind, I trust her.) Not only that, I could also rely on her to totally and completely deliver unto me the nightly rundown of power outages, high gas prices, random shootings, train delays, and outraged citizens that make up the nightly news. But after seeing this clip on the teevee last night, I’m thinking that Sue Simmons may not be the best person to take to a bar with all that booze and glass at her fingertips. I’m sure she wouldn’t cut me, but she might cut you.

"Over Here, Bitches!"

"Heeeey! Yeah, I'm hear at my sister's wedding and stuff. Do you like my Breck Girl pose? Thought you would. Of course, y'all recognize my Daddy, the President of America. On his left is the bride, my sister Jenna, the President of Weddings. She looks so pretty when she's sober! And last but certainly not in any way less than the sum of all of our parts, there's my mom next to me, the Presidentress of Pills and Pretty Dresses. Mom really knows how to kill the pain. Whenever she gets down about daddy's low approval ratings, she washes down a few Vicodin with a shot or two of Robitussin and spends the early morning hours giving White House tours to Life/Style journalists that only she can see. It's so cute.

"You know, some people think that Jenna and I will be mainly remembered for underage drinking, being asked to leave countries where we're vacationing, and killing dead the modern conservative movement at the 2004 Republican Convention. That's so not fair. We also invaded Iraq and partied with Ashton Kutcher. Don't whitewash history, you guys.

God, I'm hungry. I'm gonna go get some Cheez-its at the hors doeuvre table. You guys want anything?"

These Things They Call Tears

In an early scene in the second best movie in the history of cinema, Flash Gordon, the titular hero faces execution on the planet Mongo for crimes against the state or something. Mings's daughter Princess Aura (the ice cold bitch pictured above) remarks to her father Ming the Merciless, Emporer of Mongo, upon seeing that Flash's Earthbabe Dale Arden is crying as she watches her unrequited hunk of man face the gas chamber,

"Look! Water is leaking form her eyes."

Her wise father responds,

"It's what they call tears. It's a sign of their weakness."

Now, I'm obviously exactly like Princess Aura in any number of ways (we both have pet dwarves named Fellini, for one). And when it comes to crying at weddings or executions, we're, like, the exact same person. I too am mystified by these things they call tears when they burst from the eyes of people watching other people get married. It's just never happened to me and I could never understand it. Well, last weekend changed everything and now I'm so much more like Dale Arden.

My friends Eddie and Sarah got married at Caffe Driade in Chapel Hill last Saturday and it was a veritable Teardrop Tsunami. Do you know how hard it is to take pictures on a shitty camera phone when your eyeballs are full of water? It's like trying to dance the Charleston in heels on top of a mound of quicksand. (Trust me, I've tried.) But I was able to get a few good ones, which will probably make you cry.


Sarah highkicks her way down the aisle.


I ask my friend Claire:


what song is accompanying Sarah's walk down the aisle. It's so familiar.
"That's because it's 'Killer Queen' by Queen," Claire says, dabbing at her eyes.



Bridesmaid Dani reads the lyrics to "I Want Action Tonight"
by Poison, which I thought was kinda inappropriate but so, so touching.


Even my camera phone is crying.


The newly married couple greets their public and quickly makes
their way to the champaign table. As Princess Aura said to
the doctor she's screwing just before he injects Flash with
some kind of future space antidote and brings him back to life,
"Hurry! Before the lizardmen come!"

Milestone

I've really outdone myself and need to be praised. As all of you surely know, Blade Runner is the best movie ever made. This has been proven by science. And those of us for whom the movie is not just something to watch but is something to spend one's life watching—Bladeheads, if you will (I just made that up!)—were thrown a big, long, rock-hard bone last December when the Blade Runner Final Cut Five-Disc Ultimate Collector's Edition DVD was released into our lives. There was so much to choose from, so much. From brmovie.com:




"There are SEVEN different DVD sets on pre-order at present (in the US - I wish I could say all countries would have exactly the same releases, but it seems I can't) - which you choose will depend on where you stand on the range of "like the movie" to "totally obsessed" (like me). What you get depends on whether you want 2, 4 or 5 discs, Standard DVD, HD-DVD or Blu-Ray and if you want the super-everything including collectibles briefcase or not (I'm not kidding)."

I bought the 5 disc set, of course, because I'm not afraid of a challenge. It came in a silver briefcase modeled after the one Harrison Ford's Deckard carried around. (What? I needed a new one for work. It's not weird. Shut up.) I wasn't sure I would be able to make it through all 5 discs, at first, because I'm only human (not a replicant, like Rick Deckard).

Well congratulate me. I've scaled the mountain and achieved the summit. And the view is so pretty. Yes, I've watched every single thing there is to watch on every single disc: 4 versions of the movie (one with commentary!); a 3-hour documentary; several hours of short featurettes; deleted scenes; screen tests; and other stuff that I've forgotten because of all the weed I was smoking during this time.

I hope my story serves to inspire, to let the people of the world know that whenever you're in doubt about your abilities to get things done--even against seemingly insurmountable odds--just take a deep breath, sit down, turn on your television, then turn on your DVD player, then hit the "function button" on the gray TV remote, then take the DVD remote and choose the correct disc, and press play. Yes you can!

This New-Fangled Coffee Thing and OH MY GOD, NORTH CAROLINA, GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!

Hilary Clinton is no filthy rich overeducated east coast elitest whose rich parents got her into an Ivy League coffee making school in Massachusettes. No, she's just like us! A dumbass!

Oh my God, North Carolina, don't fall for this woman's shenanigans. If she wins my home state because of this stupid Reverend Wright thing I'm going to shoot myself in the face. Do these knuckle draggers decrying Wright's statements ("God damn America!" "Chickens coming home to roost!" and other greatest hits) have the same kind of animosity toward Fallwell, Robertson, and all the other white religious retards and their post-9/11 statements, their connections to political candidates, and their regular gigs on the news? No. Because everyone knows a crazy black minister is unquantifiably more dangerous than a crazy white minister. This is America!