Damn you, Nick Rhodes. You're probably strolling by Chelsea art galleries as we speak. I live so close to Barney's Co-op, I could just camp out in the hopes that famous pop stars might need to load up on Kiehl's or 400$ t-shirts. It kills me to think the boys are HERE in NYC. Simon's beard is collecting flotsam and jetsam, covering my favorite diva's fluffy jowls. Then there's John Taylor. Ditching the vices of yesteryear, John is juice detoxing (he Tweets EVERYTHING). From what I know about detoxing, it involves multiple visits to the bathroom and that's too real for me. Dom and Roger are probably sitting somewhere being quiet. Where is Dish? Going about the business, as usual, because I'm not a big freak. Deep down, though, I'm standing near their hotel*, hoping for a peek.
If I have to acknowledge other stars, here you go: That dastardly Gisele might be preggo again. This causes the cosmos to heave majestic beauty hormones so violently, you might have felt a shower of glitter and laughter (saying you're not as sexy as I am, hahahahha!!!). There go my intestines, rumbling sympathetically with John Taylor's spastic colon. Kim revealed to Oprah that her marriage wasn't a sham. This sounds like the most boring interview ever. What else would she say? In sadder news, Ozzy Osbourne's son, Jack, just announced that he has MS. Poor guy. Sending him healing vibes.
Lastly, a virtual high-five to Ronan Farrow, an impressive fellow, who recently decimated his father Woody Allen on Twitter: "Happy father's day -- or as they call it in my family, happy brother-in-law's day." I'm so down with him on vengeance against dads who are sh*ts. Ronan Forever!
*I know which one!