celebs

A way a lone a last a loved a long the

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Deaths from drug overdoses increased by 102 percent between 1999 and 2010. […] As a recovering addict who still works with active users in communities where heroin is sold on the street, I can tell you that it’s particularly dangerous out there right now. Recently, an unpredictable and hard-to-track bad batch of Fentanyl-tainted heroin dipped and dodged its way through the mid-Atlantic. […]

Fentanyl-tainted bags go fast; ironically, when news of a batch laying users low spreads on the streets, heavy users seek the potent bags out by their brand stamp. Overdoses become advertisements for strong product. […]

Between 2007 and 2012, the number of heroin users ages 12 and up increased from 373,000 to 669,000.

{ The Atlantic | Continue reading }

Nearly 70 small bags of heroin and enough prescription drugs to fill a pharmacy were found in the Greenwich village apartment where Philip Seymour Hoffman died of an apparent drug overdose. […] Investigators are trying to find the drug dealer who supplied the actor with the heroin […] labeled “Ace of Spades,” or “Ace of Hearts.” […] The law enforcement source said that a process called “a nitro dump” could be key to cracking the case. “Basically what that is, is any time we make a narcotics arrest we include the brand name on the arrest report and store it in our system so our investigators can see where those brands are being sold,” the source explained. Once they determine a location, they can zero in on the dealer or dealers selling that particular brand.

{ NY Post | Continue reading }

If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?

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If you want hassle-free fame, don’t live in Los Angeles or New York City. It’s hard to feel sorry for stars who bitch about tabloid coverage while lunching at Fred Segal or Nobu. They know perfectly well that paparazzi will be buzzing around these hot spots. Live in a city where the main local paper is struggling and laying off reporters. Believe me, they don’t have the budget to cover anyone you’re sleeping with. […]

If you want your fame to be durable, you can’t hate the rich. […]

Never answer your critics. […] The reviewer always gets to answer your complaints, so now he or she has yet another chance to say how untalented you are. […]

Roger Ebert […] would give my later films terrible reviews that really did hurt the box office in the Midwest and then, right after, greet me warmly at film festivals and ask me to be on his panels. Of course, I accepted. It’s a thin line between being a pro and a masochist. […]

Consistency through the years in body hair will bring you respect, especially in the confusing pubic-hair-generation-gap times we live in today. […] Men, shaving your chest and legs is kind of creepy—and your crotch? A lack of pubic hair in your “private” celebrity sex tape won’t make your unit look bigger, it just suggests you are an adult baby and makes the viewer and your partner feel like suddenly confused pedophiles. […]

If you really want your name to last in history, invent a new sex act.

{ John Waters/W | Continue reading }

BEYONCÉ IS MY RELIGION. YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND

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Dude, that’s so good it’s almost… gay

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{ Kanye West’s Attorneys File Suit Over ‘Coinye West’ }

Vaguely Important People

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Flash, a-ah, savior of the Universe

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{ A new invention aims to foil paparazzi who try to photograph people who do not wish to be photographed. Celebs are equipped with a flashgun that fires automatically the instant another flashgun fires nearby. | Improbable | full story }

With the poison of a junkie’s broken promise on his lip

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Last night, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York hosted the 2013 Met Gala. This year’s theme was “Punk: From Chaos To Couture.” For many celebrities, this was the first time they had used the word “punk” in a sentence that wasn’t “Have my assistant get me Daft Punk tickets.”

[…]

“I skipped punk and went straight to couture. I never did punk.”
 —Andre Leon Talley, editor at large of Vogue/total fucking clown


“I did not [have a punk phase]. That’s why I think my version of punk for me is not probably the mohawk, typical punk that you’d sort of envision. A little bit more like ‘romantic punk.” 
—Kim Kardashian, notable reality TV shithead


“I don’t think I fully understood the theme.”
 —Kate Upton, human Viagra for Terry Richardson

{ Jaded Punk | Continue reading }

Tous les hommes se hâtent vers la décomposition

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Jean–Jacques Rousseau… […] This is a man who sent all five of his children away to orphanages, and also wrote a book, Emilie: or, on Education, about the proper way to educate a child. This is a man who, when a friend he greatly respected purchased for him a ticket to an opera, snuck away during the commotion in the lobby of the amphitheater, ran back to the box office and refunded the ticket. He took the money and ran. Of the incident, he wrote, “There are moments when a man is seized by a sort of madness and should not be judged by his actions.” He loved providing these little justifications. […] He hid in dark alleyways and revealed his ass to women walking by. […] And then there was the time Rousseau abandoned a friend in the middle of the street after the friend had a seizure.

{ Full Stop | Continue reading | via The New Inquiry }

Everything you see exists together in a delicate balance

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{ Melanie Griffith, Tippi Hedren’s daughter, and Togar, their pet lion | more }

Clouds filled with stars cover your skies

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…Beyoncé in Texas, her childhood home which she now visits exclusively to achieve Art. The magical thing about Texas is that everything bright-colored becomes Art against the state’s washed-out sandscape backdrop.

A jalapeño pepper in your hand becomes Art. Your friend pushing a cart next to some of the grocery store’s more expensive soup and salad selections becomes Art. A yellow shirt in front of shipping pallets: many an Art is here.

{ Caity Weaver/Gawker | Continue reading }

‘My entire body is hairless.’ –Kim Kardashian

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Journalists develop new units of measure to explain complex and elusive concepts. The unit he shared, which he credits to Salopek, is the Jolie. A Jolie is a unit that denotes the amount of international aid a country receives when it becomes the cause celebre of a prominent celebrity. He offers a working definition as the difference between aid per person to Darfur, which benefits from Jolie’s focus and advocacy, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, which has not.

Jolie is able to attract aid to Darfur through her passion, her hard work, but ultimately through the fact that she’s the subject of a great deal of attention. While her recent films may not have attracted as much attention as her work as Lara Croft, she commands approximately 35 centiKardashians of attention.

The Kardashian is a unit I proposed a few classes back as a measure of attention. Conceptually, the Kardashian is the amount of global attention Kim Kardashian commands across all media over the space of a day.

{ Ethan Zuckerman | Continue reading }

photo { Angelina Jolie by David LaChapelle }

Now you steppin wit a G, from Los Angeles, where the helicopters got cameras

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The third (and last) time I went to New Orleans was in September of 1978. I was living in Marin County, and I took the red-eye out of San Francisco, flying on a first-class ticket paid for by Universal Pictures, the studio that was financing the movie I was contracted to write. The story was to be loosely based on an article written by Hunter Thompson that had been recently published in Rolling Stone magazine. Titled “The Banshee Screams for Buffalo Meat,” the 30,000-word piece detailed many of the (supposedly) true-life adventures Hunter had experienced with Oscar Zeta Acosta, the radical Chicano lawyer who he’d earlier canonized in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Hunter and I were in New Orleans to attend the hugely anticipated rematch between Muhammad Ali and Leon Spinks, the former Olympic champion who, after only seven fights, had defeated Ali in February. The plan was to meet up at the Fairmont, a once-elegant hotel that was located in the center of the business district and within walking distance of the historic French Quarter. Although Hunter was not in his room when I arrived, he’d instructed the hotel management to watch for me and make sure I was treated with great respect.

“I was told by Mister Thompson to mark you down as a VIP, that you were on a mission of considerable importance,” said Inga, the head of guest services, as we rode the elevator up to my floor. “Since he was dressed quite eccentrically, in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, I assumed he was pulling my leg. The bellman who fetched his bags said he was a famous writer. Are you a writer also?” I told her I wrote movies. “Are you famous?”

“No.”

“Do you have any cocaine?”

I stared at her. Her smile was odd, both reassuring and intensely hopeful. In the cartoon balloon I saw over her head were the words: I’m yours if you do. “Yes, I do.”

“That is good.”

Inga called the hotel manager from my room and told him, in a voice edged with professional disappointment, that she was leaving early because of a “personal matter.” After she hung up, she dialed room service and handed me the phone. She directed me to order two dozen oysters, a fifth of tequila, and two Caesar salads. Then, with a total absence of modesty, she quickly stripped off her clothes, walked into the bathroom, and a moment later I heard the water running in the shower.

{ LA Review of Books | Continue reading }

photo { Richard Kern | More: Shot by Kern | videos }