The Pointer Sisters reunited at the Roxy in L.A. last night to perform in a charity show that benefited The Friendly House, and it was also a reunion for white lace and a high cut bodysuit! I haven't seen those two together since Jem! was president (she was president in my head, okay). I thank Bonnie Pointer for bringing them together again AND HOW! Yes, it's true that Bonnie Pointer is the kind of rumble tumble wreck that makes you want to hold your pocketbook close (even if you don't have a pocketbook), but nobody does messy like her!
The belt she got from a fan after she blew out a few notes from "Fire" while giving him a lap dance on a folding chair in the alley way of a Reno casino.... The wig that you can usually find sitting on the top of an upright toilet seat in a truck stop bathroom while Bonnie washes last night's party from her face with tap water.... The camel toe-summoning ensemble that Jessica Hahn almost wore to her wedding.... It's all made of YES! YES! YES!
The friendly skies became the sessy skies on June 9th when this Victoria's Secret archangel and Internet starlet sashayed onto a flight from Fort Lauderdale to Phoenix even though several jealous hating passengers demanded that he be kicked off. If you're wondering who on earth would not want to be soaring through the clouds while in the presence of a sex pot goddess who puts the dick in Frederick's of Hollywood, then click on this picture because that's pretty much the look they were all making. Didn't their mothers teach them that it's not right to hate a platinum calla lily who makes all of the TSA wands stand up and salute?
Jill Tarlow, who captured this image that will be the cover of Playboy's Beauties of the TSA Checkpoint issue, tells The San Francisco Chronicle that several passengers boo hooed to US Airways about Pepaw Heidi Klum getting on the plane, but officials wisely ignored that shit. You can excuse his beauty, but you cannot excuse a beauty's right to fly in his outlet mall bra and panties. A rep from US Airways had this to say:
"We don't have a dress code policy. Obviously, if their private parts are exposed, that's not appropriate. ... So if they're not exposing their private parts, they're allowed to fly."
Who could really blame the complainers, though? There they were, sitting next to their husbands at the gate, when in struts in this hot bitch with a head like Henry from Too Close For a Comfort, a wardrobe like a kinky closeted Republican senator and a body like an English substitute teacher. They knew they could never compete. They also knew that if they got on that plane with him, their husbands would be lining up next to his seat, begging him to induct them into the Mile High Club. They did and he answered their begging by slipping out his hand and ordering them to fetch him some nuts. A lady in all ways!
(In the voice Stefon from SNL's Weekend Update) New York's hottest club is Tuck! Can't find the front door? Just stand still and wait for a caramel covered giraffe named Pennywise the Clown to escort you into the back storage room of a White Castle. This place has everything. It has the black swan Donatella Versace barfed up, shredded Elvis wigs, kidney stones, matronly leopards in ostrich masks, mariachi biker daddies, trannies wrestling in a giant Whoopee cushion full of Cherry Slurpees and glow worm aristocrats. You know it's that thing when a drag queen swallows Ambien so she can make the yawn.
via WOW Report
Just when I was about to declare Christie Brinkley my personal goddess of the Tony Awards for showing up looking and posing like a Drop Dead Gorgeous extra, Frances McDormand took to the stage to accept her award for Best Actress in a Play while wearing an ensemble that is slightly dressier than the ripped sweat shorts I'm wearing right now.
If you needed fucks to get into the Tonys last night, I'm not sure Frances would've gotten in, because she obviously didn't have any to give. Frances also saved reporters from asking her the stupid question "Who are you wearing?", because the red tag on her jean jacket already gave up that information. The look of the night. This is what your high school poli sci teacher would look like if you ran into her at the car wash on the weekend. Hair that couldn't even pick out a hairbrush from a line-up of hairbrushes.
And if wearing your mom's favorite beach outfit to a fancy awards show wasn't enough for me to fall in love with Frances all over again, she busted out her best mug shot poses backstage. If there isn't such thing as a "Best Dressed of the Tonys" list, then there needs to be so Frances can sit on top of that shit where she belongs.
Here's a few more pictures from last night's Book of Mormon Appreciation Ceremony. In order: my new style icon, DanRad, Professor Whoopi McGonagall, Judith Light, Christie Brinkley, PATSY STONE!!!, Alec Baldwin with guest, Tyne Daly with her piece, Al Pacino with guest and Ellen Barkin.
And from this day on, the streets will now be filled with people with mauve brows that match their luscious mauve lips. Because when La Duquesa de Alba smears lipstick from El Corte Ingles over her eyebrows, we all do it. Here is the Spanish dandelion rose and my beauty idol gracing the cover of Vanity Fair Spain. Who do I have to speak to in order to get every magazine on the newsstand to immediately switch out their June covers to this? June is National Klingon Beauty Month and we should definitely celebrate by decorating our streets with walls of this cover.
via The Fashion Spot (Thanks to Nancy!)
It's not a cunt bomb, it's not even a lukewarm fuck bomb, but I'll still file it away as win for our cause! The best part is when Helen Mirren tries to stuff the "shit" back into her mouth before anyone realizes that she let it out in the first place. (<--- That didn't come out right. <----- That didn't come out right either.)
Here's Helen looking more glamorous than a Jackie Collins book cover at the UK premiere of Arthur yesterday with Russell Brand and Katy Perry. Yes, Helen will kiss your man on the lips in front of your face and she won't even lose a wink of beauty sleep over it. My idol.
Zsa Zsa Gabor is back in the hospital today after the stress of hearing about Elizabeth Taylor's death sent her blood pressure rising towards the heavens. Zsa Zsa believes in the three death theory and thinks she's going to be the third angel next to Jane Russell and Elizabeth. Zsa Zsa's husband Frederic Prinz von Anhalt, who never misses an opportunity to blow into the media's ear, tells Radar that his wife went "hysterical" after finding out about the death of her good friend on the news yesterday morning.
I bet it's some glamorous shit when Zsa Zsa rolls into hysterics. She pulls off her diamond clip-on earrings, shoos the menagerie of fluffy white dogs off her bed and grabs at the pink satin curtains hanging off the canopy while trying to find the light that will make her single tear drop twinkle.
Zsa Zsa's rep pretty much echoed Prinz von Anhtal's words to AP and said that she screamed out: "Oh, Jane Russell and Liz Taylor — I'm next." But her rep thinks she'll live forever, "She's not going to be the third."
Zsa Zsa (or JA JA as my Salvadorian mother calls her) is 94-years-old and has been in the hospital more than an objectophile with an appetite for jumbo wine jugs, but I still believe she'll outlive us all! The gatekeeper up in heaven isn't quite ready for Zsa Zsa to slap him after he asks for her identification.
Since we're on the subject of glamour, here's Joan Collins at the premiere of "His Way" in L.A. the other night. Joan is answering to those wig accusations by flashing her natural hairline. Even though Joan looks like she ran out in the middle of getting her hair washed, she's still all kinds of ravishing.
Joan Collins usually exits a party on a velvet chaise carried by four shirtless pieces, but it was an entirely different scene at Vanity Fair's Oscar party on Sunday night. The most glamorous being who ever glamoured was led into an ambulance at about 10pm after she started to feel woozy. The same kind of wooziness she feels whenever she lays eyes on cut-off sweat shorts and scrunchie bracelets. You know Dominique Deveraux was suffocating her Alexis Carrington voodoo doll with a plastic bag.
Joan was taken to the hospital where she looked devastatingly gorgeous in a gold satin hospital gown (she carries one around at all times, just in case) while doctors ran tests on her. Joan explains to Page Six what made her wig almost float away into the night sky.
"We had been there for seven hours, and I started feeling dizzy. I tried to get some air, but I felt really faint. I wanted to leave in our limo, but Percy decided to call an ambulance. We went to the hospital, and they did all the tests before the doctors told me I was absolutely fine and released me.
The truth was, I made the wrong decision to wear a very tight dress, and had something rather like a Victorian swoon. The good news is, I am in good health and feel fine today."
Nobody ever said that being glamorous is easy and Joan knows this. Who cares if Joan's dress was so tight that her wig almost popped off. You crack a rib on the spot, hold your breath like a Simpson just farted, Spanx it up like Mimi and glue that wig to your head. You make the glamour happen because there's no other option! While unoriginal whack ass starlets are stumbling out of parties because they're too drunk, Joan is getting carried out by EMTs! Joan is redefining the dramatic stage left exit once again. That's a real fucking star for you!
I never thought I'd say this, but I actually miss Glamberace's old "if K.D. Lang and an Elvis-impersonating unicorn mated in an Adam Antfarm" look. This revelation hit me after I went through these pictures of him at the premiere party for RuPaul's Drag Race 3 in West Hollywood last night. What flavor of Pixie Dust was Glamberace on when his style team gathered around him before the event and said, "It's going to be finger waving FIERCE! We're going to make you look like a 45-year-old Ke$ha who is forced to pay off her tab at the free clinic by singing The Cure songs at a retirement center for old goths in Sedona, Arizona." Why did he sign off on that?
When you accept an invitation to a Drag Race party, you better show up looking like a disco ball birthed you out in a kiddie pool filled with glitter. There better be a sparkle twinkling out of every single pore. Glamberace, please return those JNCO lady jeans to my raver cousin who refuses to let go out of the late 90s.
Here's a few beauties from last night's party who chose to sparkle in some way, shape or form. In order (after Glamberace): Bobby Trendy, Delta Work, Mimi Imfurst, Morgan McMichaels, Ongina, Raven, Ru, Shannel, Stacy Layne Matthews, Tammie Brown, Vanessa Williams and
Madonna Venus D Lite.
Pull out the spotlight and prepare to fall back into a pool, because glamour has arrived from the backseat of a chauffeured Rolls Royce. This is Oliver Stone and his perfectly manicured jewel of a mother Jacqueline Stone at the Palm Springs Film Festival last night. You know, I just spent way too long posting a million pictures (see below) from last night when all you really needed was THIS! Look at Madame Stone! Those eyebrows are always ready for their close-up at all times, Mr. DeMille! And Madame Stone's natural animal magnetism could breathe life back into any dead monkey!
Why the fuck hasn't Oliver put his mother in every single one of his movies?! Probably because he knows that all films are way too small to handle Madame Stone's STAR POWER. More than likely.
And while I was doing research for this highly important story, I found this Oedipus mess from The Washington Post about Oliver and Madame Stone. Oliver's second ex-wife Elizabeth talks about how Madame Stone taught her son the art of fapping:
"Jacqueline told me" -- Elizabeth mimics a husky-voiced French woman -- " 'He couldn't relax and I had to show him.' I was shocked that she loosed her wiles on a child -- a little, sad, lonely, pitiful figure. So she robbed him of any chance to take possession of his own sexuality."
It's not clear -- from detailed interviews with Elizabeth, Oliver and his mother Jacqueline -- what actually occurred. Elizabeth claims that Jacqueline Stone touched her teenage son's genitals and masturbated him. Jacqueline heatedly denies it. And Oliver offers this account: "I'm not embarrassed by anything in the incident. I was very naive, about 15, and my mother just basically, on a trip to France, asked me: 'Have you ever tried masturbation?' And she told me how to do it. I don't remember that she touched my person. She acted it out. She made gestures in the air."
In any event, Elizabeth theorizes that his mother's raw sexual power over him -- along with his father's hiring a prostitute for him when he was 16 -- seriously damaged his psyche.
"That little boy didn't stand a chance of any sort of normal life," says Elizabeth, who was married to Stone from 1981 until she kicked him out of their Santa Monica house -- over his numerous extramarital flings -- in 1994.
She has since discussed these incidents with him at joint therapy sessions. At one, she recounts, "the therapist's jaw just dropped" when she complained that Jacqueline touched her then 5-year-old grandson's penis in the bath, prompting Oliver to bring up his own strange experience with his mother. "The therapist said, 'In this country, people go to prison for that.' Oliver stormed out of the session shouting, 'You're all screwed up!' " (Oliver contends: "I was very calm.")
Elizabeth, quit being a Betty Schaefer! You are obviously jealous that your beauty doesn't make camera lenses jizz themselves like Madame Stone's does. But seriously, my jaw would drop further too, but it's already on top of my Ikea table from laying eyes on pictures of Madame Stone last night.
I'm just going to let her brows hypnotize those NOT RIGHT images out of my head.