When the world crumbles, laugh at celebrities.

When all else fails, make fun of celebrities. In the dysfunctional dinner date of life with news junkies, pop culture is dessert. Just as I can’t tear myself away from reading every drop about the latest act of horror, I turn my attention to Gwen Stefani’s video of self indulgence and am surprised by the smile creeping across my sour face. Yes, Gwen selling her sordid family secrets for a hit, that makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Thinking of her nine year old son watching this video also gives me joy. “It’s, like, art!” says Gwen.

Gwen, you valley girl of contradictions, I remember when I used to love you. It was a brief, fleeting love, like a one-night stand with Blake Shelton, satisfying but so embarrassing. You know the kind, you wake up and spy the tribal arm tattoo and you just want to cry.

Gwen-Stefani-Gavin-Rossdale-London-Pictures

Gwen Stefani, surprise step-mom to British It-Girl, Daisy Lowe

I did not dig Gwen’s premiere hit, “Don’t Speak,” her pouty song lamenting the demise of her high school romance with band mate Tony Kanal. It struck me as silly and the world knew that Gwen and her six-pack could do better. And she did. Kind of. Gwen moved onto Gavin Rossdale, grunge’s whipping boy. They trudged along with Gwen’s red lips, Gavin’s man-bun, and a few failed attempts at reviving No Doubt. Gavin made the amateur tennis circuit rounds and played small arenas hushing people that dared to speak during “Machinehead.” Their marriage even survived the realization that Gavin was the biological father of Britian’s favorite bad-girl-It Girl, Daisy Lowe. Wowza.

Man-bun-√; Hot nanny-√

But, we all know how this one ends: attractive nanny enters home, has-been rocker pulls a Jude Law and allegedly boffs pretty nanny. The rest is pop-music history and resulted in a big hit for Gwen. Thanks Gavin.

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I don’t know what’s sadder- that Scott Weiland died at 48 or that nobody seemed surprised. I winced as journalists reported his death with a matter-of-fact sincerity. Okay, I wasn’t the biggest fan of Stone Temple Pilots, but the man was a pure rock star. He dripped sex, decadence, style and charm. And, if my obsession with Kurt Cobain had allowed it, I bet I would have been a Stone Temple Pilots fan.

I care that Scott Weiland died. I loved “Sour Girl” and thought of it as one of my anthems in 2000. I appreciated Weiland’s beauty and yes, his cheekbones. Those cheekbones were jagged daggers of beauty, those cheekbones could pierce your veins. Scott never lost his coolness, he never stumbled into “Celebrity Rehab,” never had a televised intervention, an unsightly weight gain or an embarrassing stab at acting. No, he penned a fine autobiography, Not Dead & Not for Sale that chronicled a sexual assault at 12 that probably contributed to a life stained with substance abuse and failed relationships. Scott tried; he was a father of two teenagers and thrice married. This Christmas, I plan on adding Weiland’s Christmas album, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year, to my holiday music.

I only speak in euphemisms and hyperbole. The Emmys: A cure for my insomnia.

I only speak in euphemisms and hyperbole.My goal is to be as honest as I possibly can be without sounding like I’m being honest. Euphemisms offer a more dignified approach to explain everyone’s problems while hyperbole satisfies my desire to shock people. I’m embarking on a one-woman crusade for civilized banter. I beg of the world, can’t we do better than “this sucks” and “I’m bored?” Yes, life does indeed suck, but let’s dig a little deeper into our treasure trove of nasty words to bestow upon people and things that do suck.

Cheap: Frugal.

Addict: Troubled

Crazy: Fragile

Lost in life: Undecided

Promiscuous: Over-trusting

Eccentric: Annoying

Fat: Out-of-shape

Rednecks: Uncultured

Cheated: Strayed

Brat: Feisty

Words get so sticky while we all share space in the politically conscious world of half-truths. But don’t fret, I don’t want to be honest about anything truly important, just about pop music and celebrities.

Oh no, not even Sandberg can revive this one.

Shall I attempt honesty with The 2015 Emmys? The Emmys were fantastically dull, but finally, I finally found a cure for my insomnia:an Emmys broadcast.

Claire Danes, the only natural breasts in Hollywood.

I am bonkers over Claire Danes, but after seeing her on the red carpet, my discomfort and anxiety mounted: is Claire frighteningly thin? Doesn’t she know that she is required to stay healthy to save a middle-aged Jordan Catalano? I feel better today, I think that Claire just appears thin because she is one of the few stars without breast implants.

Natasha Lyonne & Fred Armisen come out as a couple of cool cats in love. I have nothing but praise for these two complicated lovers. I enjoy a juicy rehabilitation story and am fond of anyone involved with Saturday Night Live.

Procreate, please.

Elisabeth Moss of “Mad Men” was married to Armisen for eight months. Moss went on to term the marriage as “extremely traumatic and awful and horrible.” After their sour divorce, Armisen dated a new favorite of mine, Abby Elliott of SNL and Bravo’s “Odd Mom Out.” This funny man gets the ladies. A sense of humor goes a long way.

I’ve been in love with Natasha Lyonne since she starred in 1998’s classic coming-of-age film, “The Slums of Beverly Hills.” In 2005, in the throes of serious drug addiction, Lyonne created her own slum in Michael Rapaport’s apartment. Lyonne’s drug-hazed odyssey resulted in open heart surgery and a booming comeback.

These are my people. Now, how do I get invited to one of their dinner parties?

This man could crawl right into my world. Jon Hamm

Hamm can crawl right into my world.

Jon Hamm, do not change one thing.

I savored every step of Hamm’s much-deserved win for playing Don Draper of “Mad Men.” This man is a delicious specimen of flesh, muscle and brain.

Hamm did not walk the red carpet, probably because of the uncomfortable questions he would be asked about his recent split with his girlfriend of 18 years, Jennifer Westfeldt.

This movie could cause a breakup.

Gosh, what a shock! An 18 year romance that does not end happily ever after. The breakup is probably more due to Hamm having to star in Westfeldt’s Friends with Kids. That one was a self-indulgent stinker!

Knowing that Jon Hamm has a dark side and recently completed a stint in rehab only makes me love him more.

Rhode Island Sweeps the Emmys

It was a big night for Rhode Island (how many time can I write that?) at The Emmys. Central Falls-raised local superhero Viola Davis and Rhode Islander Richard Jenkins both won Emmys.

Culpo, Rhode Island native, lover of Nick Jonas, fainter.

And, not to be forgotten: Little Rhody’s very own Olivia Culpo, Nick Jonas’ ex-love and a former Miss Universe, also had an unforgettable showing as an Emmys commentator. She pulled a Kathleen and nearly collapsed on the red carpet while talking fashion with E! News. As a fainter myself, I understand, I have been there. Empty stomach, too much partying, it’s hard to stand up straight. Poor Olivia, I would be fainting from hysteria over not dating Nick Jonas anymore. Girl, faint your little heart out.

P.S. , Tracy Morgan is back and he is fantastic, Terrence Howard is frighteningly crazy and Peter Dinklage is unstoppable.

MTV Video Music Awards: Like scraping the bottom of pop culture’s bucket of venom & vomit, and liking the smell.

MTV Video Music Awards: It’s all good.

The MTV Video Music Awards are like Christmas to me and this year I was gifted with a cluster of crass and crack.

I can attribute my lack of enthusiasm to either the Naproxen-drip that I was under after suffering an injury while cleaning my filthy home or to that fact that the music was bad. Either way, middle-age hurts, but not as bad as watching Justin Bieber cry.

The Pre-Show: Osbourne Hating & Former Child-Star Lovin’

Who’s taking fashion advice from this woman?

The disappointment commenced immediately with the pre-show. Poor Kelly Osbourne must be so busy cleaning her own toilets that she forgot to select an outfit that fit, conduct a drop of research, or find anything worthwhile to utter. Listening to Kelly sqwauck how “brilliant” every guest is tedious. Kelly, why are you still here? Can’t you, much like your bro, disappear into the wealth of oblivion that your mommy and daddy created?

The pre-show did indulge my new

Is he talented? Oh, who cares?

favorite pastime, thinking dirty thoughts about former child stars. My pleasure started with Nick Jonas gyrating his way through “Levels” but didn’t end there. Who is this new cocktail of pretty boy and rugged handsomeness reminiscent of Brad Pitt-circa 1990? Hello Austin Butler of Zooey 101 and Vanessa Hudgens‘ boyfriend fame. Hollywood, please sprinkle a bit of his beauty into every television show or movie in 2016.

Taylor & Minaj

Nicki Minaj started the show with her usual antics of utilizing her crotch as a bongo drum, looking constipated or sexy (I can’t tell) while cooing “I know that you want it.” I actually wanted it to end until T. Swizzle popped out of Minaj’s vanilla cake of a performance and made it pure red velvet.These two buried the hatchet in a pop duo dreamed up by the best studio executives. It was touching, especially when glamazon Taylor hugged Minaj and it looked like a mother cradling her disobedient puppy.

Macklemore:Don’t Call it a Comeback

Macklemore thinks it is St. Patrick’s Day.(Photo by Frederick M. Brown/Getty Images for MTV)

“I like where this is heading,” I think while pouring myself a drink. Then, Macklemore and his hodgepodge of cacophony and bad fashion trampled on my buzz. I see that Macklemore coerced a bunch of real rappers to perform with him for some much-needed cred, but this guy is one step away from the annoying kid in high school that was really into rap and blasphemously uncool yet energetic and liked to party. You remember that kid? Macklemore’s like the Big Bird of rap.

Oh look, there’s Jared Leto, the perverted neighbor of the

He’ll always be Jordan Catalano to me.

VMAs. Jared is like a cockroach, the man will never age or go away, which must be an asset to all the 20-year old starlets with whom he’s sleeping and mentoring.

“Miley, what’s good?” is the new “It’s Britney, bitch.”

Right when I start ransacking my cabinets for some Lorazepam, Nicki Minaj shimmies up to the podium to accept an award, and then looks prepared to rip Miley Cyrus’ eyelashes out in retaliation for Cyrus referring to Minaj as “not too polite” in the New York Times. It was awkward, amusing and a bad look for Minaj. But more importantly, what is good,Miley? I bet the green room’s hors d’oeuvres are amazing.

The Weeknd Saves the Evening

Thank-you Weeknd man.

The Weeknd‘s “Can’t Feel my Face” revitalized the evening; this is the stuff that makes two hours of an awards show worth it. He is electrifying, sounded great and got grumpy Kayne West to smile and dance.

You’ve got a voice, please use it.

That thrill lasted me through a few rounds of Cheez-its chased with ice cream. Now, I’m left guilty and start worrying about Demi Lovato‘s career. Remember when Demi Lovato had an ounce of integrity? Disney Queen to rehab/eating disorder survivor to neutral pop star without subtlety or substance? Demi, bring it back to the rock, this pop world is going to eat you up and spit you out.

Kayne West: Am I missing something?

I don’t know I’m fittin’ to lose after this. It don’t matter though, cuz it ain’t about me. It’s about ideas, bro. New ideas. People with ideas. People who believe in truth. And yes, as you probably could have guessed by this moment, I have decided in 2020 to run for president.”

Kayne lost his substance in Kardashian's cervix.

Kayne, do I love to hate you, or hate to love you?

Just when I start to ponder where my life is heading and why I make so many poor choices, bam, Kayne West lurches in to make me feel better about myself. Mr. West, seated at the head of the Kardashian table of rot and narcissism, gave the world’s worst public speech since my first wedding. Westy’s stream-of consciousness babble was as bloated as his wife’s ankles. I dig Kayne West, but enough is enough. I can’t tolerate his bid for relevance while his music is not getting any better and he’s surrounded by the most wretched people in Hollywood. Let the kids speak, bro. Indeed.

They say a cause of dry mouth is marijuana.

They say marijuana use causes dry mouth.

Miley Cyrus, what to say? I understand she enjoys marijuana and sex, I think most people her age do. I just wanted more from her, like a few SAT words thrown into her expletive-laden sentences. She’s more talented than her shenanigans portray. And, her hillbilly rant has expired. She, and her family, have been multi-millionaires for 23 years. I am sure that they had a fair share of corn dogs…served on Wedgewood china. I was expecting Miley to be a little more psychedelic with her drug banter, not making ridiculous sketches with Snoop Dog. Her final performance included Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips shooting a confetti filled bong out of her crotch. That’s cool; I just wish they’d sounded better.

Justin, it wasn’t that bad or that good.

Wait, there’s more: Justin Bieber’s performance was solidly decent, but I have no idea why he started sobbing after praying. He looked unstable, but much like Nicky Minaj, I have no heart, so I may not be the best judge.

T. Swizzle struts her ego, Loudon Wainwright tickles the soul, Jason Isbell rocks my world. Can I sleep now?

The rock-n-roll segment of my summer started with a safe blow to my insomnia-plagued head. In seven days, I saw Loudon Wainwright III, Jason Isbell and Taylor Swift play in three different New England cities. I also checked out the Judd Apatow/Amy Schumer hub of hilarity “Trainwreck”. All were entertaining, but a certain pop princess was a bit of a letdown.

Keep to the singing, T. Swizzle. (Photo by Evan Agostini/Invision/AP)

Taylor Swift Doesn’t Break a Sweat

It pains me to report, and I know that 59,998 of my fellow Gillette Stadium Swifties would disagree, but I give Taylor’s mediocre performance a rating of blasé. Girlfriend has the gift for gab, but doesn’t have anything substantial to say. Her pandering psychobabble of positivity and fan-loving was an insult to the audience’s intelligence and to her fan base’s age. For every seven-year-old sipping a Sprite, there was another 22-year-old sucking down a $14 margarita. Taylor, if you looked less at your mammoth-sized reflection in the jumbotron and more of your audience, you would notice. Your bangs are banging, get on with the show.

This is pop?

Swift sounded great, her voice improves with each album, but I was bored. In between songs and to assist with her many costume changes (wow, another really short pair of shorts and a sparkly top!), the crowd was subjected to a running loop of Taylor’s squad talking about….Taylor! Lena Dunham thinks that Taylor is such an asset to NYC, Victoria’s Secret models’ Kloss and Aldridge find the paparazzi so invasive, and they all concur…Taylor just adores cats. Gosh, give me Madonna feigning oral sex on a back-up dancer any day.

Art is supposed to move you, to make you think of something other than T. Swizzle’s prettiness and forced approachability. Could America’s national treasure actually be dull?

Loudon Wainwright & Jason Isbell Give Me Faith in Humanity

Familial love. How may redheads does it take to kidnap Loudon Wainwright III?

Loudon Wainwright III and Jason Isbell moved me; each made me ponder lost love, death and lust. At the Courthouse Center for the Arts, Loudon played a delightful set of classics and a new funny ode to the thought that as bad as life can be, it can always be worse, “It’s Not Gaza.” My brother, sister and I stormed Loudo’s back stage room to get another photo to add to our treasure trove. While there, Loudon summarized our existence with these choice words, “these Morrisons are real Loudheads.” Hell, we’ve been called worse.

I have nothing but love for Jason Isbell.

Jason Isbell’s latest album “Something More Than Free” is currently the No. 1 country, rock and folk album. This former Drive By Trucker is the real deal. I missed his Newport Folk Festival performance because I was busy checking my watch at the T.Swizzle show, but check out NPR’s broadcast. His voice is lushly gritty and his tales of new-found sobriety, a failed marriage and a fresh love are gorgeous. He played for well over 2 1/2 hours at the New Haven’s College Street Music Hall. It was sonic bliss.

Cinematic gold.

Almost as much as I love good music, I adore a girl behaving badly. Amy Schumer does just that in “Trainwreck”. She unabashedly boozes, smokes, sleeps around and is turned off by commitment, children, sports and affection. She untimately finds her way, but her journey is terrific. Her love interest, played by Bill Hader, is an accurate portrayal of a geeky doctor looking for love and acceptance with a girl like Amy. A girl that I’d love to know.

Divorce, Ariana Grande’s Missing Soul : Smells like Summertime.

I am not surprised by much, especially not by couples splitting up. Sure as Chris Brown’s death at a young age, the Palin family making asses out of themselves and Courtney Love being the queen of cool, divorces happen.

Summertime has me all heated up, here’s what’s raising my blood pressure:

Smells like bleach.

Divorce: Have we finished shedding tears over the demise of Ben & Jen, Version 2.0? To be surprised that Ben and Jen are divorcing is akin to my shock over my mom jeans being so snug. Pass me my third beer and my size 10 jeans, please.

This is Jen’s second marriage and Ben’s first marriage after

The couple that drinks together.

countless broken engagements. Who can forget Ben planting a smooch on JLo’s derrière? Or his sweet kisses on a young, newly crowned Oscar winner, a less annoying Gwyneth Paltrow? Ben, like most of us, is looking for the next hottest thing, and unfortunately, Jen Garner’s perennially sour-faced look just wasn’t doing it for this Batman.

Jen’s first hubby, Scott Foley.

Now, Garner can devote more of her time to her important celebrity cause: shielding her privileged children from the intrusive paparazzi.

Ugh.

The president and first-lady of insipidness, Kourtney Kardashian and Scott Disick are also kaput. I still don’t know what they do, other than make my roaming eye twitch. I hope that they can keep it amicable for the sake of their three unnaturally hairy-faced children. That’s such a lie, I want to watch this become as unattractive as Kim Kardashian’s maternity wardrobe.

We all know where that tongue has been.

Ariana Grande’s Existence: Scott Disick, meet Ariana Grande. May you fall in love and swelter in each other’s living hell. I initially received backlash for my vitriol of Ms. Grande, but I can see that now I have America on my side! Ariana didn’t just insult us with her awful performance in “Sam & Cat” or with her child prostitute look, she licked and spat on a fresh batch of donuts after proclaiming “I hate Americans. I hate America.” I savor every moment of Ariana’s self destruction,

“I hate America. Wait? Where is America?”

she’s trashing her twelve minutes of fame like last night’s false eyelashes and hair extensions. Grande, you can mess with our ears, but do not touch our donuts. Hmm, I hear Sean Penn is single, it may be a perfect match.

Caitlynn Jenner:

I like my heroes minus neglect & vehicular manslaughter.

I am going into hiding after publishing the following thoughts on Caitlyn Jenner. I can’t tell you where I will be, but follow the trail of gin and mascara.

I completely accept and embrace the transgender community, however the accolades that are being bestowed upon Caitlyn Jenner are so phony. While accepting her Arthur Ashe Award for Courage at the ESPY Awards, Jenner said, “Trans people deserve something vital: They deserve your respect.” I could not agree more, but Jenner, as a human, does not deserve or receive my respect. Regardless of Caitlyn Jenner’s transformation, here are a few observations about her:

She neglected her four oldest children: The former Olympian has admitted to going years without calling or seeing her four oldest children Burt, Casey, Brandon, or Brody. She now suggests that this was during a difficult time with her identity, how cowardly to blame the abandonment of one’s children on gender issues. In Vanity Fair’s article, son Burt Jenner “remembers seeing his father no more than twice a year for a period of roughly 10 years.” How brave, how courageous.

Lady Macbeth

She procreated with Kris Jenner: Kris Jenner is the matriarch of a modern-day house of horrors. She has financially masterminded an explicit sex tape starring her daughter, allowed a 17-year old girl to receive lip injections and let her young daughters be filmed on a stripper pole. Kris has the maternal instincts of an alley cat and Caitlyn was marred to this nightmare for 23 years.

Caitlyn’s transformation comes with a hefty price tag: $5 million: “E” is paying five million buckaroos to Jenner for the new docu-series chronicling her transformation. I’d like to see how much of this money goes back to the transgender community.

Jenner recently and allegedly caused an accident that resulted in a death: Accidents happen, but Jenner’s year of living well is insensitive after allegedly causing an accident in February that left one woman dead.

Jessica Steindorff, another driver in this accident states,“I find it difficult to understand how the culture we live in can honor a person who is responsible for taking a life and injuring several others with both an award and a reality show…I would hope that someone who seems to greatly value the importance of human existence would be more sensitive to the fact that she ended another person’s life. Sadly we are living in a tabloid society.”

Yes, we are, but I don’t have to drink the kool-aide, unless it’s got some good vodka in there.

‘Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck’ is stunning, Lena Dunham and I share self-hatred: HBO keeps me warm at night.

Captivating, stunning, disturbing.

I found my new substance in the form of an HBO subscription. I could no longer take myself seriously as a cool person without watching “Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck”, the heartbreaking and honest Kurt Cobain documentary. The HBO purchase gave me bliss, entertainment and a reason to stay inside. I haven’t left my television since the transaction, unless you count last weekend’s three parties.

Frances Bean Cobain, executive producer and Courtney embrace.. (Photo by Chris Pizzello/Invision/AP)

Montage of Heck was just what I needed to revamp my fascination with Kurt Cobain and my love for Nirvana. I could not look away. Frances Bean served as the executive producer and she sprinkled cool-girl meth dust all over the film. It is unflinchingly bold, sad and beautiful. Kurt’s parents cast him away like a used Temple of the Dog c.d. and his mother’s ignorance concerning her obvious neglect and poor maternal instincts is paramount. Listening to his obese step-mother ramble on about Kurt’s unfulfilled quest for family life broke my heart more than watching Kurt nod off in a heroin daydream while trying to hold Frances.

I challenge anyone to watch this movie and not be spellbound by Courtney

It’s a love story. Image by © Dora Handel/CORBIS OUTLINE

Love’s performance. I say performance because she’s always playing a part, and she is mesmerizing. The home videos of her and Kurt ridiculing Guns & Roses, showcasing their mess of a home and getting ready for the day are filled with humor and love. Viewers get a good look at Love’s nakedness, physically and psychologically. She is the best that Frances has and her punk rock parenting and fits of pop culture musings are hysterical.

Expect much more from Frances Bean.

As Kurt’s drug abuse deepens, so does the movie’s somber tone. Kurt’s suicide was not his first attempt and he looks haunted, hungry and confused as we know that his days are numbered. Kurt’s drive was strong, his ambition was intense, but ultimately drugs and depression took over his life. Fame was his ultimate dream, but he lost himself in the pursuit. His music, artwork and spirit live on in Frances’ impressive future.

I was, and am, an enormous Nirvana fan. I vividly remember being stuck in my all-girl dormitory in my stuffy Catholic college waiting for my bad-boy boyfriend to pick me up for a secret weekend away and receiving a phone call that Kurt Cobain died. My boyfriend’s kernel of comfort as I numbly relayed the news was, “Wow, who’s going to headline Lollapolooza?” I subsequently stumbled around in a thicket of smoke for the weekend while my mother kept trying to call me to see how I was taking the news. This was before the invention of cell phones and it was tricky to pretend that I was safe in my dorm bed while I was sneaking around. I bought a Jack Kerouac book that weekend and found a new love, but my sadness was very real.

Lena’s body is my body.

I then watched the entire last season of “Girls” in an insomnia-plagued stupor, is this show supposed to be as funny as I think it is? Do Lena Dunham and I have the same exact body, and if so, could I have scored a real rock star boyfriend along the way? Just watch the show for the sex scenes. Seeing Allison Williams, Brian Williams’ lovely daughter with the mediocre singing voice and enormous forehead, in the most compromising of positions is a gift from the television gods.

Do I lose my feminist card because I think Adam Driver is the best part of “Girls”?

Girls is so wretched it is awesome. I know these characters and I loathe them and that is the point. Their self-absorption, feigned intelligence and hipster vibe is right on. To know Marnie is to hate her and Hannah’s horrible writing is akin to Lena Dunham’s mediocre writing, but astute observations. I dislike Lena’s Hannah in the same fashion that I dislike myself: she’s another smart woman with all of life’s advantages that chooses to sit around on her fat ass complaining about life’s inconsistencies instead of actually doing anything to change them. Ow, that hits me right where my stretch marks start and my crow’s feet end.

My Morning Jacket’s Jim James is an obnoxious fool, sunny Kate Hudson is Dead Inside and I can’t be normal.

I have zero interest in conducting myself appropriately. I want to tell everyone my problems and I want to hear all of theirs. I’d love to tell you how much your pit bull disgusts me, but I’m too polite. I’ve decided against cutting my frizzy fountain of hair, it’s against my religion to sport black pants and the dirty dishes in my sink mean nothing to me. I always compose a thank you card, rarely miss church and I go to every social event that will have me. I have my own code of etiquette so I suppose it may be argued that I am trapped by a set of standards, but the rules are twisted and I am finally embracing my bona fide weirdness .

Butt JLO, is that all there is?

With all my acting up, I’ve lost track of the celebrities. Jennifer Lopez continues to astound everyone with her beauty, awful choice in men and knack for displaying her robust rump. Sarah Jessica Parker may be filming “Sex and The City 3,” the plot centers around vaginal dryness, souffles and hot podiatrists.

Kate Hudson, Dead Inside?

I am nodding my head to both the new Mumford & Sons album and the new Muse single, Dead Inside. Kate Hudson’s jilted baby daddy and Muse front man, Matt Bellamy, must have been thinking of her …”On the outside you’re ablaze and alive, but you’re dead inside”. Deceivingly sunny Kate Hudson does suffer from a deadness behind the eyes, or is she perpetually stoned? Anyone that constantly craves to be that effervescent is hiding some serious darkness. Take that from this disturbed former-cheerleader.

Remember when Jim James used to be cool?

I want to ignite a social media battle with my new enemy, My Morning Jacket’s obnoxious and bloated lead singer Jim James. 2003’s It Still Moves and 2006’s Z are high up on my list of favorite albums, but since then, Jim’s ego has grown as large as his hipster beard and his waistline. In the latest issue of Rolling Stone, Jim James cements his reputation as pretentious and professional whiner by reviewing Nick Jonas’ “Chains” with the following mind-blowingly uninformed summation:

Definitive proof that computers have taken over the world. Nothing is real in this artic-tundra frozen landscape of a ringtone-commercial song.

Then, Jim went on to spew this utter nonsense about country music:

I feel like modern country is deliberately dumbing down the human race. They’re deliberately making people take glory in being uneducated and racist, and it’s just sad. I think it’s absolute mind control.

Jim, you’re so sad. I don’t think that a semester at University of Kentucky qualifies you as being educated and your mediocre new music does not sound a lot different than country. Jim, when you took that nasty stage fall that you can’t stop crying about, did you hit your head? I’ll take my rock stars minus the cooler-than-thou spirit. More Nick Jonas, less Jim James.

Betty, I feel your pain.

Thank you, Betty Draper Francis, for years of confusion, love and frustration. She’s the mother that leaves an impact with her icy stare, style and the back of her hand while rarely cracking her porcelain structure. We watched Betty get frisky with a washing machine, shoot pigeons, gift a smitten young boy with a lock of her hair, weather an unattractive weight gain and slowly kill herself with a steady diet of Virginia Slims. In the end, Betty was right, life’s not fair, but she never promised anyone that it would be. Rest in peace Betty, and may January Jones continue to quietly shine in another role.

I’m gonna wasted-shame a rock star.

It’s a battle to maintain a blog when chunks of your life keep falling from the cracks in your glass ceiling. I’ve been in the trenches, but spring has sprung and more importantly, there’s been another rock star citing in Rhode Island!

Evan Dando, 1993. — Evan Dando, one of People’s Sexiest Men, 1993.

Warning: Please be advised that I do not judge the following bad behavior, and I understand the hypocrisy of wasted- shaming anyone, but it’s a rock star and they are fair game. It was fair for you to wasted-shame me during my 90s tsunami of questionable choices, especially fair for my behavior at that Afghan Whigs show, hot damn, that one was a doozy! I must do what I must do and the following account of a has-been rocker and his sloppy performance is mean spirited, but true.

in 1994, I found Juliana Hatfield's home phone number and called her. Repeatedly. — in 1994, I found Juliana Hatfield’s home phone number and called her. Repeatedly.

I recently caught the Julian Hatfield Three at the Columbus Theatre in Providence, RI. The show was fun; the band got the memo and played the entire Become What You Are album. Juliana did not disappoint, she was dark and brooding while irresistibly adorable. Little fact about Juliana: She’s from Duxbury, MA. My college roomate was also from Duxbury and I engaged in a little Juliana Hatfield- phone harassment in college. I did this kind of thing a lot on college and high school.

The opening band was Potty Mouth, an uninspiring all-girl band heavily influenced by Nirvana. Okay, maybe they weren’t that bad, but I researched them and they all met at Smith College and I suffer from a syndrome called “Smith College college- envy”. My Sylvia Plath obsession leads me to be wrought with emotions over goofing off in high school and not having a shot in hell of going to Smith College. Anyway, Potty Mouth’s guitarist was pretty and I watched as her sloshed, attractive, older-looking roadie beau helped the band with the heavy lifting. I use the term “boyfriend” just because sloshed-aging-roadie guy was affectionate with this well-educated guitar player.

Supermodels always fare better than rock stars in the post-heroin days.

During Juliana’s performance, hot-roadie-guy kept interjecting drunken babble in between songs with an air of authority and reverence. Who was this asshole? Well, it took a moment, but much to my surprise and horror, I realized that this man was Evan Dando of The Lemonheads. You remember him, right? It’s a Shame about Ray, Into your Arms, starring role in Heavy, ex-lover to both Courtney love and Kate Moss, rehab-frequent flyer with a privileged background and a bad attitude? I once LOVED him, he owns all the bad qualities that I am attracted to in a man. He’s still swoon-worthy, but ouch, how the mighty fall hard when they fall.

Courtney and I have similar taste in men.

At the end of the show, I wanted to ask Dando for a photograph for my Christmas card, but it was not clear if he was able to stand up properly. He had such a tight grasp on his little lady’s waste that I thought it best not to bother him. I did shake his hand and inform him that I am a fan. He looked startled, wasted and possibly a little embarrassed.

Oh Evan, it’s okay, it’s all good. You’re still beautiful and you’ve still got a way with the ladies. I see that Dando’s recent tour dates have been cancelled due to ill health. Get better Evan; you’re still one of the coolest Massholes I know.

Madonna sucks Drake’s soul, Shailene Woodley’s stoner vibe is getting skunky, Gwynnie strikes again, Coachella madness and Courtney Barnett saves the day.

Nothing tastes as bad as aging feels.

Madonna strikes again. It pains me to ridicule Madonna because she raised me for a few years, she was my moral compass and I looked to her for all the answers. Then, she released True Blue and married Sean Penn and I realized that everyone, even my idols, make mistakes.

The kiss? Not surprising. I’ve been telling y’all that Madonna, like JLO, is staying young by sucking the souls of the younger and more talented. Madonna is feasting on Drake, while JLo gets Iggy Azalea’s flesh to nibble for a few more years of relevance.

Check out this True Blue video to see a young Debi Mazar as backup dancer:

Shailene Woodley’s On-Set Tutor Should be Fired

I know Shai, you’re just like us.

I want to apologize to my eight readers; I could not watch the MTV Movie Awards. While I am intellectually-challenged, even I have my breaking point. I had to turn it off after listening to Shailene Woodley’s two rambling thank-you speeches. Wow, this beautiful, talented actor is unaware of her obvious lack of intelligence, and no, it can’t ALL be contributed to her pot intake. Can you explain to me what the following means?

“In that, I keep marveling at this idea at who we pick up on the trails along the way and who becomes our communities. What am I trying to say? I just have no idea! Looking at all of you, I know some of you, I don’t know some of you, but for all of you who have been pillars to me, thank you, and for all of you who I have been able to be a pillar for, I will continue to be a pillar for. Whoever your community is, be pillars for these people. So, let’s trailblaze on!”

Then poor Woodley somehow mistook John Green, mediocre writer of young-adult literature, with J.D. Salinger. Girlfriend, what is your on-set tutor teaching you? Some of the accolades that Ms. Woodley bestowed upon Green include the following:

“His words will transcend time because they transcend any age. There’s not one single demographic that won’t be affected by the wisdom and the compassion and the beauty that he laces into every single thing that he does in his life.”

Okay, you’ve got me, Shai, I have not even seen Fault in our

It. Will. Change. Your. Like. Life.

Stars, Shailene was excellent in The Descendants and I dig her Southern California stoner vibe, but enough with the phoniness, her freshness is wearing thin. I don’t have to watch The Fault in our Stars, I’ve seen it before: Two teenagers meet and argue with obvious chemistry, teenagers fall in love, hilarity and sadness ensues, parents are unfair, teenager or troubled parent dies. Life changes, like, forever. The end.

Feels like you’ve seen or read the sad story before? You have: Dear John, Charlie St. Cloud, Remember Me, A Walk to Remember, The Last Song. You get what I’m preaching?

Poor Gwynnie, she just can’t catch a break.

Where’s the beef?

Gwynnie published a post on Goop to illustrate what $29 a week can get a family on SNAP food stamps for a week of supplemental grocery shopping. So far, so good- Go Gwynnie! Unfortunately for Gwynnie’s likability, her findings contained seven limes, more parsley than I thought one could purchase as one time, scallions and a bunch of other rich people food.

Oh G, take it from this white, privileged, shallow gal: If I know enough not to spout on about food stamps in the U.S., you should know better. Were you smoking American Spirits during Social Studies at The Spence School? I understand that being married to Chris “Boring” Martin was a form of coolness starvation, but let’s leave the important stuff to important people. You, Gwynnie, just worry about your luscious locks, lean legs and perfect pout.

Does Coachella have to be an annual event?

What do Kendall Jenner, Fergie and Baldwin- spawn have in common? Hint: It’s not talent.

Must be Coachella time of the year again because I keep getting emails from chain mall stores attempting to sell me “festival-wear” and I am visually assaulted with pictures of Hollywood starlets and Hollywood has-beens like Fergie sporting the latest in festival-street-walker fashion. These poor kids, don’t they know that after a few tabs of acid, the clothing doesn’t really matter; you just need to know where the water and the medic tent are located. That’s rock festival 101!

Does Kylie Jenner and her father Bruce get a family plan for plastic surgery?

Do the Jenner’s get a family plan for plastic surgery?

Ugh, I’m so old. To watch Kardashian/Jenner filth get the best seat to this festival while donning gladiator boots and $800 cut-off shorts is grosser than when Metallica headlined Lollapolooza in 1996. I remember it so well, I was decked out in the best of my “riot-girl” finery: dirty white slip, combat boots and a black bra. I’d taken care to draw the word “Slut” across my bony upper arms, dirty hair grimy on my neck, chain-smoking while Metallica fans made fun of me. Oh, those were the days,I’m so old.

Thank you Courtney Barnett.

Courtney Barnett sings and writes about the most mundane aspects of life, yet she transforms these stories of ordinariness into a dynamic tale of living life. Born in Australia, Courtney is currently rocking my world in a very comforting and quiet way. Check her out if you enjoy a folk-singer with a sense of humor, a quick wit and a terrific voice.

My therapist is concerned about my fake stab at positivity, so here is my list of all that is rotten.

I suffered a temporary lapse of judgment, why go good when I do bad so well? A bitter freckled face can’t change her spots, I present my list of wretchedness and rot:

Celebrities griping about their offspring being photographed: The worst celebrity crusade, founded by outrageously overpaid actor Halle Berry, is the anti-paparazzi bill passed by the California state assembly. Backed by phonies like Kristen Bell, man-child Dax Shepherd and perpetually sour-faced Jennifer Garner, it reeks of hypocrisy. While it was amusing to watch Jen Garner sob while passionately speaking about her children’s privacy being ravaged, the whole thing stinks. Celebrities, stop naming your children silly words, touting your body- after- baby transformations, shilling your kids’ first baby pictures to national magazines and touting the inflated wonders of breastfeeding, and we’ll stop looking at your brats’ pictures in the tabloids.

Jen garner and Halle Berry saving the world, one tear at a time.

Also, we all know that these same stars will be peddling their kids to us in eleven years when they push them into the family biz, so can’t we get it over with now? Let’s get the Oscar shot so that we can all ooh and awe over it when little Violet Affleck lands her first plum movie role.

The iPhone Epidemic at Concerts: Have you been to a

Rock show 101:Put your phone away at rock shows.

rock show recently? I have and the iPhone has ruined the experience. Kiddos, here is a novel idea: you can remember the show in your mind! Please, take one or two photos and put your phone away. What are these millennials going to do with 148 pictures of people watching a concert?

Stop the baby mania: Let’s all agree that being a woman is tough work in 2015, whether you have zero or seven children, so for Christ’s sake, people, stop asking women when and if they’re going to procreate, really can’t we all cease talking about it at all? I cringe every time an infertile couple is posed with the question, “So, when will there be a baby in the extra room?” Um, maybe after we murder you and store your remains in there. Or, “So, are you having any more children?” inquired of the mom I know just suffered a miscarriage.And, not every woman wants to have a baby, can we ever accept this?

If you’re not getting it on with the person with which you’re discussing procreating, stop asking the questions.

My kid’s short, and your kid is annoying: My son, much like

my husband and me, is vertically challenged. I know this because I am not blind, his doctor confirmed my observation, and every other concerned parent wants to inform me of his visible shortness. I am the boy’s mother, doesn’t he already have enough issues? Must everybody remind him how small he is? Please, stop, or just know that while you are commenting on his height, I am trying to figure out how many pounds you should lose.

Mark Wahlberg is a humorless masshole: Yes, are you sitting down? I am a Massachusetts-bred Mark Whalberg hater. I know he’s been in some good movies and that he can act, but I can’t look at his lopsided smile, cowboy gait and insincere looks of sincerity. Every journalist tells horror stories about his rudeness, he tries to bury his Funky Bunch roots (probably his best work-to-date) and he is always talking about what his devout Catholicism. Such a phony, such a bore.

Skinny jeans are the new mom jeans: Are skinny jeans out of style yet? I remember Kate Moss wearing them at least ten years ago, they meandered their way to middle America and we’ve been left looking at women’s muffin-tops ever since. Ugh, I tried, I have a slew of unworn skinny jeans sitting in a drawer just waiting for me to proclaim defeat and give to goodwill. I can’t rock the skinny jean, that is for sure, but I don’t think I want to. Just go to a big event and count the number of skinny jeans worn with a high boot, it’s become the official uniform of soccer moms, city slickers and country folk. Can we move on, and look into something new?

Nothing about Katy Perry interests me. Not her music, nor her religious upbringing, her choice of lovers or her style. There are worse evils out there than Katy, but she bores me to tears. I feel the same way about Selena Gomez, Maroon Five and Ellie Goulding. I’d admit that I can’t keep a straight face when watching a Beyoncé performance, but I’m afraid the Illuminati will attack my family and rob me of my mind.

Wow, Leo DiCaprio hangs out with models on boats? Since when?

Predictability kills me. Leonardo DiCaprio and his next 24-year old supermodel illicit a yawn as much as Blake Shelton gushing over Miranda Lambert. Waiting for Kristen Stewart to go to rehab is much more fun, maybe one of the soulless Jenner sisters will beat her to it.

Of course, no list of all things rotten would be complete without the Bill Cosbys, Kardashians and football players behaving badly. But that would be really predictable, wouldn’t it?

Please don't tell anyone that I don't know if like Beyonce. I'm afraid for my life to admit it. — Please don’t tell anyone that I don’t know if like Beyonce. I’m afraid for my life to admit it.

Bill Cosby, lecherous predator. Phony Hall of Fame recipient.

My therapist is concerned about my negativity, here’s a stab at happiness: Stuff I dig.

Okay, enough with the constant negativity, no more cantankerous Kathleen, welcome to the spring-influenced Kathleen. I shed my persona of the malaise, apathy and disdain that I cloak it in, and want to share a few of my favorite things.

I’m not usually the princess type.

Lily James in “Cinderella” I can’t remember the last time I was so astounded by an actor’s performance and by their sheer beauty. Lily James’ performance reminded me why I go to the movies: to get lost in the magic of the story. It was refreshing to be moved without being disturbed, and to see a children’s movie without watching some Oscar-nominated actor try to steal every scene by overacting. Hello, Angelina Jolie and her co-starring “Maleficent” prosthetic cheekbones. More Lily James in absolutely everything, please..

Meet Nick Jonas. Now that Justin Timberlake’s temples are

Nick Jonas, the new Justin Timberlake. Yes, I went there.

graying and he’s baby proofing his palace for his super-human baby with Jessica Biel, allow me to pass his torch to Nick Jonas. Oh, “sacrilegious” you cry? Listen and watch again. Nick Jonas has the voice, the vision and the abs to be a pop sensation contender. He polished his roots in a pretty decent boy band, can play a slew of instruments and is flexing his bad boy muscles for all to salivate over, or is that just me?

Fennel keeps me well-preserved. I eat raw fennel every day,

This picture has me salivating.

all day long. It’s a fairly expensive habit, but more affordable than some of my nasty young adult addictions. I dig the crunch and the wonders of a vegetable that tastes like black licorice. I’ve been told that it cures an upset stomach, and it does calm me after my daily consumption of gallons of coffee.

Dan Harris, teach me how to meditate.

Male newscasters are my new rock stars. Oh, George Stephanopoulos, how I enjoy your full head of ruffled hair, your small stature and smart suits. You’re so well-informed, intelligent and Greek. Let’s not forget about geek-chic Dan Harris, that meditating fox. I suggest that we all go somewhere lovely, order a few extra dry martinis and you can both explain the intricacies of Yemen and I can break down the differences between the Jonas brothers.

It’s a Redhead Riot: I am attracted to gingers, I want to be near

Florence, I want to kiss you, then braid your hair, then drink bourbon with you.

them, I enjoy staring at their hair and wonder if it’s turning white like mine. To be fair, my hair is a bottled red, but it was, at one time, before jadedness and wretchedness crept into my pores, it was a lovely red. Redhead’s hair tends to fade and go white, but who cares? The journey was splendid. Much like my fondness for redheads, I am also enamored of freckles, on both men and women. Yes, I am attracted to redheaded men and maybe even married one. The marriage was brief, but his hair was divine. Julianne Moore, Emma Stone, Ron Weasley, I’m talking to you, you are my people.

I love Elliott Smith in a spiritual sense.

I love Elliott Smith. His music is timeless beauty drenched in melancholy, grit and heroin, his voice sparkles with delicate touches of longing, depression and humor. Watching Elliott Smith play live was a high in my life, I was so close that I could touch him and he was so fucking good. I can’t believe that he died and every year, I feel my own mortality when the anniversary of his death gets longer and longer. He died twelve years ago and his latest CD, “From a Basement on the Hill, has not moved from my life since. Give it a try, it’s angry and lovely, heart-breaking and life-affirming. It’s Elliott.

Coconut oil will cure what ails you.

Moisturizer is my friend.

I’m taking aging by her wrinkled throat, and I am squeezing the life from her. I will not go down without a Housewives-style fight. I slather my face so heavily that I look like an oil spill. When I wake up in the middle of the night because of my aging bladder, I put on a dollop of whatever moisturizer I’ve got, and I have plenty.

I’m creative with my moisturizer, constantly searching for that fountain of youth. I’ve got the store brands, but I also lubricate my face with coconut oil, olive oil and a blend of vitamin e with essential oils. I’ve applied Vaseline, lemon, yogurt and avocados all over my freckled face. The results are not Jen Aniston, but I think I look younger than Lindsey Lohan.

Therapy. We should all be in therapy, there’s nothing that

I should have been a psychiatrist.

makes me feel more important and justified. I‘ve seen so many: there was the older gentleman that would cajole me into purchasing expensive handbags because I liked them. He was like a father figure, if my father had absolutely no rules. I’d tell him about a drunken adventure and he’d listen with glee. His office was blanketed in expensive mahogany, and his magazines were top-notch.

I then moved onto a psychologist, a refined, thin, well-maintained woman of a certain age, old-age. She’d try to get at why dressing well was so important to me and chastise me for being so hard on myself. She’d often ask “Do you want to be known as the life of the party?” The true answer is that, yes, I do. Is that a crime?

See, I don’t hate absolutely everything. Next week’s list will include things that I despise and I have a premonition that it will be a bit longer.

Everything I need to know, I learned from The Housewives. Dancing with the Stars is in the gutter.

Dancing with life’s forgotten has-beens.

Another year of Dancing with the Stars? Calling these has-beens or never-weres stars is akin to calling me a pharmacist: My uncle and grandfather were pharmacists and I do enjoy a pill or two, but no, not quite a pharmacist.

The reason to watch this show is to watch Erin Andrews stumble with the English language and to stare at the guests of the “stars”. Ooh, I spy Bruce Willis sitting with his new wife

Demi is wondering is she can skin her daughter for her skin.

while his ex-wife and known nitrous oxide enthusiast Demi Moore shoots arrows from her dead eyes into their backs. What is it that Demi is clutching? Oh, it’s just her youth.

While I’m being awful, or myself, whatever you want to call it, it’s time to be brutally honest about Erin Andrews. The best thing that ever happened to her career was being spied on and filmed while undressing in hotel. The

Erin Andrews, journalist.

film was never made public, the pervert was caught and jailed and now America knows and loves Erin Andrews. The only character America loves more than a good victim is a comeback kid. After the invasion of her privacy, Erin became a television personality without finesse, coolness or apparent intelligence, but damn, she is pretty.

The Housewives: My Spiritual & Social Guide

Teresa was practicing for prison.

The Housewives have taught me how to navigate life while providing me with endless hours of television-viewing pleasure. Here are a few of the lessons I’ve learned:

More cleavage: Push those breasts up, baby; cleavage is appropriate for each and every social occasion. Children’s birthday party? Get out the push-up bra and show what you spent your ex-husband’s money on.

Don’t give up on what you care about. Housewives are like lice, they’re hard to squash: The world can’t stop a housewife in her climb to fame. Skinny mess and Beverly Hill’s wifey Taylor

Taylor, you’ll always have your lips, until they leak.

Armstrong did not allow a little snafu like her husband’s suicide stop her; she continued swilling white wine for the whole next season. She even found some other sucker to take care of her and her daughter. Cheers to her and her fake lips.

Alcohol does not cause weight gain. If you witness the sheer

Brandy, staggering.

volume of rosé and white wine that these housewives swill, it’s clear that excessive alcohol must not equal weight gain. Brandy Glanville is a great example of this, I’ve never actually watched her consume food, but her alcohol-intake is impressive. Her constant slur is the best thing that has happened to Leanne Rime’s career since Blue came out in 1996. Leanne stole Brandy’s hubby while Brandy was, no doubt, lost in a bottle of vodka. Unfortunately, no amount of cheap stilettos, rented mansions or cheek filler can heal Brandy’s broken heart. She’s a riveting wreck and every moment she’s on shines like the cubic zirconia on in her ears.

Plastic surgery can’t help an ugly soul.

Tamara of O.C. She’s crying. I think

Wowza, from the menopause mammas on the O.C. to the botoxed stick figures on Beverly Hills to the butt injected urbanites on Atlanta, these ladies have had some work done. Poor Tamara from the O.C has been through a divorce, death and a custody battle and she’s not been able to frown, her face is permanently cemented into “resting bitch face”.

Vow renewal ceremonies equal impending divorce: The next

I take thee to leave soon.

time you’re invited to a vow renewal ceremony, start the divorce clock; because I can assure you, it’s ticking. Vow renewals are good for a few things: ratings on reality shows and temporary forgiveness for a straying mate. New York’s wide-eyed Ramona and her hunky idiot husband Mario appeared so sincere with their customized vows, but the setting was stages: Mario soon left poor Ramona for a woman twenty years his junior.

The always-annoying and aging supermodel Heidi Klum and one-hit-wonder Seal

One day your in love, the next you're not.

One day you are in love, the next you’re not. Klum, you can leave the marriage.

renewed their vows every year, right until their bitter end. I think she gets to keep their cute kids and he keeps the unattractive ones. Seems fair.

Other failed vow renewal ceremonies: JLO & Marc Anthony- divorced one year later, Madonna & Guy Ritchie, Jon & Kate Gosselin ( I just threw up a little typing their names).

Men are necessary, but useless extravagances that have co-starring roles. Men, don’t quit your day jobs while residing in Housewives’ Hell, you come and go quicker than Brandy Glanville’s vaginal rejuvenation scars.

These ladies can throw it down: The Housewives have flipped tables, thrown wineglasses, pulled weaves, slapped and pushed each other. Much like Dynasty once was taught us, a good old-fashioned cat fight is the highest form of trashy entertainment. The housewives never learned that it’s rude to point a finger in someone’s face, slap a friend or accidentally urinate while intoxicated (thank you Vicky). Even Andy Cohen has wrinkled many a Prada suit attempting to break up a melee.

Andy Cohen tries to control his cash chaos.

Vicky, we don;t know where that finger has been.

Sisters and former child stars, finger-pointers.

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kathleenlala

Musings on pop culture and trivialities.

When the world crumbles, laugh at celebrities.

I only speak in euphemisms and hyperbole. The Emmys: A cure for my insomnia.

MTV Video Music Awards: Like scraping the bottom of pop culture’s bucket of venom & vomit, and liking the smell.

T. Swizzle struts her ego, Loudon Wainwright tickles the soul, Jason Isbell rocks my world. Can I sleep now?

Divorce, Ariana Grande’s Missing Soul : Smells like Summertime.

‘Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck’ is stunning, Lena Dunham and I share self-hatred: HBO keeps me warm at night.

My Morning Jacket’s Jim James is an obnoxious fool, sunny Kate Hudson is Dead Inside and I can’t be normal.

I’m gonna wasted-shame a rock star.

Madonna sucks Drake’s soul, Shailene Woodley’s stoner vibe is getting skunky, Gwynnie strikes again, Coachella madness and Courtney Barnett saves the day.

My therapist is concerned about my fake stab at positivity, so here is my list of all that is rotten.

My therapist is concerned about my negativity, here’s a stab at happiness: Stuff I dig.

Everything I need to know, I learned from The Housewives. Dancing with the Stars is in the gutter.

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