It’s much less lonely knowing I am not the only person out there who doesn’t get the fuss over Katy Perry and her shouty singing voice and her addiction to satin hot pants. I still kind of want her to go away. But if she does, at least she’ll have left me with an actual fond memory:
[Photo: WENN]
This is lovely. I still kind of want to hike the top up just a little, but otherwise, it’s romantic and floaty and dreamy. I am pleased she went minimal with the accessories (except for that…. what, is it a Kleenex tourniquet on her right pointer finger? A ring from a crackerjack box?) and hair, too — so often, she overdoes it to the point where you forget Katy Perry is a very pretty girl, but here she’s letting her face carry it all, and as it turns out, her face is more than capable of being load-bearing. Which might be the strangest compliment I have ever written.
I’m less enchanted by what she wore on stage:
[Photo: WENN]
To be fair, she’s in Spain, so she’s clearly paying homage to Flamenco dancers. I’m sure they were all really flattered by her doing so while wailing the sensitive and well-written “UR So Gay,” but the point is, she’s kind of half in costume here, so it’s hard to judge. However, I dock points for the fact that the bottom of the dress looks like she left it crumpled up in the bottom of a musty gym bag and it started to mold.
My least favorite, though, has to be what she wore on Tuesday in Milan:
Another perfectly fine little dress defaced by a pair of leggings — and not just any leggings, but leggings that appear to boast a collage of panels from Rex Morgan, M.D., or one of those similar comic strips where nothing comedic happens. I’ve decided I’m going to start one of those. It can’t be that hard — there’s a ton of them syndicated. I’ll call it Intern George, Ph.D. — he has his doctorate in fugology — and all I need to do is write, like, three panels for each strip with pointless dialogue and no actual jokes. Like, say, Jessica walks into frame and says, “Katy Perry’s leggings make my stomach hurt,” and George replies, “That’s curious. My stomach hurts, too,” and then there’s a close-up of me frowning and thinking with an affectionate smile, “Must be all that coffee,” as I crack open a Diet Coke, and we’re OUT. It will be the worst comic strip in existence — not even worthy of immortalization on The Spandex Scourge.
This has been your daily digression. You can now resume frowning at Katy Perry.
Courteney Cox's Shocking Confession About Her Sex Life – Huffington Post
Fug and Fab: Katy Perry
It’s much less lonely knowing I am not the only person out there who doesn’t get the fuss over Katy Perry and her shouty singing voice and her addiction to satin hot pants. I still kind of want her to go away. But if she does, at least she’ll have left me with an actual fond memory:
[Photo: WENN]
This is lovely. I still kind of want to hike the top up just a little, but otherwise, it’s romantic and floaty and dreamy. I am pleased she went minimal with the accessories (except for that…. what, is it a Kleenex tourniquet on her right pointer finger? A ring from a crackerjack box?) and hair, too — so often, she overdoes it to the point where you forget Katy Perry is a very pretty girl, but here she’s letting her face carry it all, and as it turns out, her face is more than capable of being load-bearing. Which might be the strangest compliment I have ever written.
I’m less enchanted by what she wore on stage:
[Photo: WENN]
To be fair, she’s in Spain, so she’s clearly paying homage to Flamenco dancers. I’m sure they were all really flattered by her doing so while wailing the sensitive and well-written “UR So Gay,” but the point is, she’s kind of half in costume here, so it’s hard to judge. However, I dock points for the fact that the bottom of the dress looks like she left it crumpled up in the bottom of a musty gym bag and it started to mold.
My least favorite, though, has to be what she wore on Tuesday in Milan:
Another perfectly fine little dress defaced by a pair of leggings — and not just any leggings, but leggings that appear to boast a collage of panels from Rex Morgan, M.D., or one of those similar comic strips where nothing comedic happens. I’ve decided I’m going to start one of those. It can’t be that hard — there’s a ton of them syndicated. I’ll call it Intern George, Ph.D. — he has his doctorate in fugology — and all I need to do is write, like, three panels for each strip with pointless dialogue and no actual jokes. Like, say, Jessica walks into frame and says, “Katy Perry’s leggings make my stomach hurt,” and George replies, “That’s curious. My stomach hurts, too,” and then there’s a close-up of me frowning and thinking with an affectionate smile, “Must be all that coffee,” as I crack open a Diet Coke, and we’re OUT. It will be the worst comic strip in existence — not even worthy of immortalization on The Spandex Scourge.
This has been your daily digression. You can now resume frowning at Katy Perry.
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