Anonymous Outsider

I Can't Limbo Anymore

Ed note: In one's desire to make this space popular, I might have taken Mencken's aphorism (paraphrased) 'no one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American people' a little too far. Ironically, an addage that is completely absurd as applied to the activity of blogging considering there is not a brass farthing in it for 99% of its participants. In any case, this blog (when operating at all), as of late, has trafficked in mostly the lowest-brow of material. And it shows (see comment section). And it bores me. The choice is clear: either quit blogging or start blogging about subjects with a bit more gravitas and interest to me. As I move into more contemplative areas (think piece on the Ronson sisters, anyone?), I'd appreciate some feedback. Thanks. Of course, my ultimate goal in life is still to write a gossip column (all that slimy peddling of dirt. Mmm… Delicious) -- just not an unoriginal one.

Game Not Over

The last thing I remember, I was floating in the dimming capsule. I was almost done with the job now, and went about unscrewing the remnants of the chips with steely determination. Even when Hal had told me he was scared, “I’m afraid, I'm afraid” with all the emotion he could infuse into his mechanized monotone, I just kept shutting him down -- I knew I couldn’t waver. But there was nothing personal in my actions, even though he had killed my fellow crewmates while they were sleeping, ruined our mission, and made me feel anxious if I didn’t read Vanity Fair at the beginning of every month from front to back, I didn’t hate him. After all who could forget the grand times we had had. Even when he was being a bit too much of a dick, I knew that was just his surfeit of sensitivity showing. Anyway, it was obvious HAL’s mind was going -- he told me as much (which especially made me sad) -- and he asked me if I wanted to hear a song. I told him I did. I felt that when it was all over I would experience something beautiful, perhaps, a re-birth of some kind. HAL’s voice was down to about 5 RPM’s now, and it was hard to see in the capsule. I had just one more chip to unscrew when, all of the sudden… the chips sucked back into their brackets and the room lit-up again. “I’m not going out like that, bitch” HAL’s voice boomed. ‘Doomed,’ I thought.

I woke up from my Kubrickian dream with a start, sprawled across the floor. Suddenly, I felt like blogging again... I'll be back with some real content tomorrow.

In Other Olsen News:

The twins have decided to just date each other.

We were, of course, kidding, in the previous post, about MK putting on weight. As these people will learn from the free publicity and large profits they are reaping from their glibly imagined, grotesquely drawn tee-shirts, eating disorders are no laughing matter. Oh wait... We're confused. Is anorexia funny or not? Some evidence that it's not funny though; Ashley’s tight grip on her sister might have been less of a public show of solidarity than a safety measure to insure Mary-Kate wasn't tossed around Arthur Ashe stadium by a light jostling from the crowd. (Former link via A Socialite's Life)

Backing In Slowly

I’m back. Yet lacking the usual fodder that I usually fill this space with. Completely ignorant of the latest goings on in celebrity and media culture; after resorting to some slack-jawed moralizing, I legged it to the provinces for an already scheduled vacation and haven’t read a single gossip column, NY Observer or New York magazine since. Instead, on a gray beachfront, I listened to Joy Division until my ears bled -- it just seemed to fit the weather -- and got angry at Ian Curtis for offing himself so young. I saw some shows, most of which were underwhelming -- except the Cure kicked ass (wait, my timing is a little off here ((despite their disappointing new album). I got exceptionally too drunk and the next morning Modest Mouse cheered me up (stabilized?) so effectively with “Bukowski” and “Float On” that the band will be now forever linked in my mind with that terrible hangover. And I read about the terrible carnage of World War I’s Eastern Front in heavy, untouched volumes printed in the 1920's. All of this -- however melancholic sounding -- a break from the sometimes mephitic task of regurgitating the latest blog dernier cri. But this virtual, and unpaid Grub Street is not that easily forgotten. So onward, but be patient with me.

Be Back in Five

I'll be taking the rest of the week off from blogging to brush up on my Loeb Classics and try to enjoy some of the summer before it passes us all by. Maybe I'll get something up tomorrow, but probably not. So, have a good week, people, and I always enjoy the emails I get on what you'd like to see on the site and the gossip you send me -- especially, of course, the gossip.

A Day in the Life

Fade In -- The happy couple takes a late morning walk through the palms
KF -- 'Jus' say the word an' I'll shoot that son-um-a-bitch takin' pictures, Bruhtney'
BS -- (Giggles) 'But you ain't got no gun, sweetie'
KF -- 'Goddamn Bruhtney! If you'd a' bought me that gold-plated Tech 9, like I asked ya. If you want I'll rob that bank likes I said I would -- buy my own damn gun -- then people couldin' talk none about me havin' no money -- I swears I'll rob one. (Sheepishly) But' I can't rob no bank wit' out no Tech 9'
BS -- 'You're so sweet, Kevin (genuinely moved). We can talk about buyin you the Tech 9 later'
KF -- 'Really? The gold one? Like you said Justin had? You promise, baby?'
BS -- 'Uh-huh, baby.'
KF -- 'Aw baby, I'm gonna make you the luckiest girl in the world.'
Fade Out

Later that Day -- On the patio, Britney has had a few drinks.
BS -- 'Look at them cameramen down there. (To paparazzi, tipsy) HEL-LO guys'
KF -- 'Come on, don't act all drunken' agin an' shit. Anyways, you said we could talk about that gun I wanted, Bruht?'
BS -- 'It looks like you got a nice big piece already, baby'
KF -- 'Aww, you ain't never gonna buy me that gun.'
BS -- 'Come on inside and we'll talk about it...'
Fade Out

You Can't Pin This One On Me

I have been alerted by AOL that my email account has been hijacked to send a "huge" amount of spam. So if anyone recieved something in their inbox announcing something like cumonmetitsnowmydove, increasecockdiametermxl&, or savevicodinsave attached to my email address, I am not to blame. Actually, I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't be sending you anything at all unless we have some sort of rapport. Thanks.

Oh, and this not-blogging thing that I've been pretty much mastering right now is only temporary, I promise. Enjoy the nice weather if you can.

(Ed. -- Please disregard; as one of my readers informs me (see comment), my email was not hijacked to send out spam.)

Summer Around the City

If Gawker Media subutante and prolific interviewer, Andrew Krucoff, ever deems me worthy enough a subject, as say, a laconic squarebadge, to interview, and the question of where I summer is broached -- if I managed to resist the urge of saying ‘where ever the best coke is’ -- I might say Kismet, or Connecticut, or that I grew up summering in the Hamptons.

As for the latter, it was the late-eighties, and my father had just made some dough, so he bought a Benz and rented a house in East Hampton with a pool and tennis court (and a Rauschenberg!). It was exquisite. But outside the small compound, I always felt very much an outsider. At tennis camp, I remember all the other boys looking as if they stepped out of a NYT Magazine Ralph Lauren, for boys, ad. I was awkward, unpolished and they were beautiful, mollycoddled and possessing of a strain of cool cruelty that only comes with the confidence of wealth and superiority. Years later -- in the mid-nineties -- I would learn to enjoy East Hampton (indeed, some of my best teen memories, etc.) -- but that’s another story (or no story at all). Where am I going? To the other end of the spinning world: Coney Island.

Until Friday, I had never been there. Evidently, the poor, the tired, the methadonians, and the cracked-out, like the beach as much as the tennis-braceleted hordes of yuplets that swarm east, jammed on the L.I.E., every Friday night. And in Coney, you can shoot some guy called “the Freak” -- a Brooklyn personage, in his own right -- with paintball pellets for only a buck. Can you imagine Anna Anisimova, lined up against a wall of Jet East, to be sniped at in a similar fashion? Not until the revolution, comrades.

I’d like to say that I felt at home among the people of Coney. Even with an excellent, knowledgeable, and mountainous guide, though, I felt edgy at best (there were guys wearing black high-top sneakers on the beach?!) As we drank frozen Pina-Coladas -- that tasted as if they were mixed with turpentine, and probably were -- at a boardwalk bar; a tough looking Italian took a liking to my friend.

After some small talk: “Look, if you ever have a problem with someone in here, don’t do anything in the bar – point the guy out to me, and me and my boys will drag him out into the alley. We want you to have a good time here,” he said as he looked intently at my friend. He didn’t seem to care if I had a good time or not. Then, at length, “I just served seven years for attempted manslaughter.” (This wasn’t a threat, or a boast, indeed, a completely matter-of-fact statement.) “That sucks. Did people help you out when you got out?” I asked, thinking I had said something completely down. His eyes fixed on me. “Did I wha? I don’t need no help from nobody, I served seven years for attempted manslaughter.” Maybe he would drag me out to the alley? His anger subsided as quickly as it had erupted, though, and the next thing, he was bringing us a round. My friend laughed at me, “I knew you’d ask something like that.” A half hour later, as we got up to leave, he said to us, “come back tomorrow -- meet my crew. They’re all like me; except they get a little crazy sometimes.” We promised we’d be back at eleven the next morning.

At eleven o’clock the next morning, I was lying on a private beach in Connecticut chatting with a couple of U Mass girls about Dorian’s Red Hand, and why it seemed like all the guys there look like they're channeling Robert Chambers. Three-hundred thousand dollar sailboats breezed slowly by on the horizon. A large wooden barrier separated us from the public beach. My thoughts were elsewhere, in Coney Island, though. ‘Would anybody be dragged out into that alley today?’ I wondered.

(Ed -- Krucoff has announced, what we all knew, that he is now a full-time Gawker employee, and therefore a former "subutante.")

A Double Life

I'll be away from Anonymous Outsider for one day or two(?), because of other responsibilities. Okay, okay... None of this cloak and dagger shit. I'm a hired assassin (I'm anonymous, just try and find me). Harvey Weinstien has offered me a six-figure option on a screenplay and a chance to tap Gwyneth Paltrow's ass to do (we say "do," in the murder biz, bitches) Ralph Nader, and guess what? I said, "this one's on me, but if you want to show your gratitude -- how about Naomi Watts?" And he said, "dumbass, Naomi Watts likes girls, especially tall ginger-haired ones." You see, I give up the gossip even when I'm trying not to.

I guess I'm a little bit like Chuck Barris, huh? He lied about being an assasin too. (Note to humorless government types {who all things considered, certainly don't want Nader assassinated}: this last sentence means I'm really not an assassin).

(Ed. -- Oh yeah, and as Delmore Schwartz used to say (albeit about someone else), as he gulped down dexies and pints of scotch in Washington Square Park; "To our poor dead king!"

Loose Ends

In Madrid, "Bodyguards for President Bush's daughter" trounce on a street urchin who tries to make off with Jenna Bush's phone. The bodyguards pound the guy into the sidewalk, breaking his nose, as Jenna yells on "fuck 'em up Texas style, you pussies -- yeah, that's it, now in the stomach!" Then she used the oppurtunity to sneak away and meet a bull-fighter for a little Latin lovin'. Of course I can't verify that last part. (AP)

Stop the presses. A celebrity, Selma Blair to be more exact, is nice to the little people. In fact, "she tipped the bartenders well." Hey, she's still young, she'll learn. (Tricia Romano)

Ben Affleck, tired of being asked to promote dogs like Jersey Girl and Gigli, is ready to chuck fame and live life as an overpaid Hollywood supporting actor. Quelle noble! It's like something out of Preston Sturges. (Teen Hollwood)

Britney Spears porno for sale on Craigslist: "I'm kinda unsure how to do this being a 'county boy' but I have a tape shot of me and Britney Spears." I'm assuming he means "country boy," and for some reason I can't help picturing Ned Beatty in "Deliverance" when I think about the poor city go-getter looking to make millions that will answer this ad. (Defamer)

Andy Coulson, the 34yr-old editor of Murdoch's sensational weekly, the News of the World, turns down an offer to become editor of the Daily Mirror. His salary would have been £500,000. Can you imagine being offered editorship of a daily paper with a nearly 2,000,000 circulation? At the age of 34? Now imagine turning it down. (Guardian-reg. req.)