Fabulous intern Cara Cutter weighs in with her take on the un-wavy waifs of the Golden Globes -- Marke B.
Star style at Hollywood’s big awards ceremonies tends to swing between old-world Hollywood glam and finely tuned ‘au naturale’. At last year’s Golden Globes the look was fresh, lightly tousled locks complemented by barely-there makeup. Screen sirens, such as Charize Theron, as well as television stars like Felicity Huffman, sported loose and breezy curls. Read more »
This just in from DJ Bus Station John, and anyone who's enjoyed/suffered the caustic castigations (often racially motivated) and 86-baiting bar antics of local legend and chanteuse Bambi Lake -- goddess love her!! --
will chuckle mightily. Unless this is her secret identity? After the jump ....
I've been at the Guardian awhile -- it'll be eight years next month, in fact. I started as a fresh-faced, eager intern, and since 1999 I've met many other fresh-faced, eager interns, intent on careers in media or academics or giraffe-tending (for real! If you're out there, intern-who-reviewed-movies-but-was-also-a-zookeeper, email me and let me know how you're doing.) But I've only known a few who were determined to segue from film writer to filmmaker -- and one of 'em was Dina Gachman, who just finished her graduate thesis film at USC.
We've been inundated with emails promoting this amazing toilet-cum-aquarium for the past few weeks -- to the point that some of us around the office have created a running joke about making a movie about a killer fish that lives in the toilet called FIN ROT! It's a fish tank, it's a toilet tank, it's a terrarium (yes you can put a lizard in there), it's .....
2) Screen out stalkers 15 different ways!
3) Blow off iBill collectors 15 different ways!
4) Get telemarketed on several platforms simultaneously
5) Chat with your avatar. ("Hey Marke3! What's up?" "Oh, you know, just being you. Read more »
I used to have a recurring nightmare as a child that I was trapped in the opening credits of Scooby Doo. It was kind of an erotic nightmare: the rainbow-cartoon swamps, the undulating haunted mansions, the moaning ghosts with their morphenomenal yaws. The dream would go on for hours and I'd wake in the rough heat of my hermetic, carpeted bedroom, the gray footsie-bottoms of my PJs scraping against the cotton sheets. Now, alas, Scooby Doo is dead.
Yes, I'm from Detroit, where the frickin' autoshow was shoved down my throat constantly. (It's so huge now, they're threatening to tear down the host site, Cobo Arena, and build a bigger showplace -- uh, I thought the car companies were as broke as Dennis Rodman's penis up Madonna...) And yes, innumerable Detroiters laughingly forwarded me that piece from the New York Times last week about San Francisco parking rage. (We're killing each other for spaces!). Read more »