Get Dressed – The Rapture is Coming

Jesus Christ, people!  The Rapture is coming.  Do you have any idea what you are going to wear?  I mean this could really be the party of the century or well, of eternity for that matter.

On the one hand I want to wear a really bitching jumpsuit so I can be all, “Hey Jesus, Dood, how do you like my jumpsuit?”  But on the other hand, I am seriously afraid that if I don’t appear pious and wear a regulation issue FLDS dress with matching underwear, then all the paparazzi will be up-skirt shooting my ascendance.  I know that a jumpsuit has no up-skirt shot potential and that is probably why I am gravitating towards it.  You know what it does have though?  Extremely high degree of bathroom-going difficulty.

If you are wondering who is behind the May 21 Judgment Day Malarkathon, you can blame one Harold Camping.  You might want to call bullshit on Mr. Camping, a spry young 89-year-old radio personality from Oakland since this is not the first time he’s predicted the Rapture was upon us.  The last time was September 1994 and we all know that didn’t exactly pan out, now did it?

What is the Rapture you ask?  Well, it’s only the second coming of Jesus Christ.  Old Jesus is going to come down to earth on the wings of a giant earthquake and all the Chosen Ones will lift up into the sky to meet their maker.  The rest of us heathens will be left behind here on Earth and will be forced to fend for ourselves during the Apocalypse.  In addition to the earthquake, there will be flooding, famine and locusts, oh my.  Jesus will rule over the Earth until its end on October 21, 2011.

During the 5 months between the Rapture and the End of the World—End Days in nutball parlance—Jesus and his ex boyfriend Satan will be waging an all out battle AKA Armageddon.  SPOILER ALERT:  Jesus wins!!  Then the earth is destroyed.

Um, correct me if I’m wrong but God and Jesus totally ran on a love ticket—all do unto others, etc.  So why can’t they turn the other cheek this time?  Why do they have to blow up the Earth and take only the Tracy Flick’s of the world up top with them?  Hmmm.  Something’s rotten in Heaven.

On second thought, they do not deserve my best jumpsuit / ankle boots / feather jacket outfit up there.  I am staying down here on Earth with my own kind.

And I just had a super good idea.  I’m going to make the whole thing into a video game so that when the world doesn’t actually end in October all those crybabies who didn’t get lifted up will be able to practice for the next time they cry RAPTURE.


So Lucky

If you’ve made your way here, then you have probably already read this over at the LA Times Magazine, but just to be sure, here’s yesterday’s news:

Eurovision is, from what I can gather, a contest between European countries to see who can bring the craziest, least musical yet most overly produced number to a stage where glitter and unicorns would not seem out of place and then gather votes to be crowned the champion of essentially nothing.

2011 Eurovision took place over the weekend at some point (international datelines confuse me so I can’t say exactly when). I am not sure of the voting process, whether it’s a panel of judges or a popularity contest like that Idol show I refuse to watch for fear that I will get caught up in its fast rushing mainstream waters. I know I could do some research to figure this out, but it seems a lot more fun to make shit up about this contest.  I mean, no one has bothered to bring actual talent to the contest why should I bother to bring reporting skills to my commentary?

I am also not sure whether Europeans know how insanely bad this thing is or, if like their penchant for flashy, clashy clothing they take it seriously. I love Eurovision because it’s bad. I am being ironic. I am unsure if Europeans understand irony in quite the way that I do, but then again, I’m not so sure if anyone is as gobsmacked as I am by most of what goes on in the world.

My favorite entry from Moldova (where?) didn’t win. The unicycle and the monocle at the end did earn Zdob si Zdub a trip to the finals, a retinal searing for all who watched in can’t-take-their-eyes-off-it-amazement, but alas not the giant chocolate fountain trophy.  That went to Ell and Nikki from Azerbaijan. Trust me, you don’t want to see their performance. After the unicycle girl, it’s totally boring.

Oh, and the chocolate fountain trophy? Yeah, I made that up, but wouldn’t it be awesome?

The name of old Zdob si Zdub’s song “So Lucky” was actually the whole reason I started in on the Eurovision thing in the first place. You see this is my last official blog post for the LA Times Magazine.  And the words “So Lucky” describe how I feel to have been associated with the LATM and to all the people there who let me spread my vitriol (and exquisite taste) to the world (population 348).

So anyway, you’ve found me and my pointed tongue (pointed, never forked). I hope you’ll come back often. Please visit me soon. I’m planning on liveblogging my Moldovan cross-country unicycle trip tout de suite.

New Digs

Apparently blogging is not a money-making enterprise.  You don’t say!

Today I got a call from the Los Angeles Times Magazine where I have been bringing the nasty for the past couple of years.  My editor told me that they were ceasing publication of all of the blogs associated with the magazine due to budget cuts.  I felt like a public school student on the eve of a big production of Damn Yankees who gets a call from the faculty advisor.  “Look, kid.  We know you’re already in your ‘Whatever Lola Wants’ costume, but we’re pulling the plug on the show.” I would have cried, but that would make my false eyelashes stick together so I just stared down the phone in disbelief.

The LATM has been very good to me.  They pretty much let my snarky ass say whatever I wanted and only censored one post—a good one on female urination devices, which I will no doubt resurrect here—and generally let me trash whoever I wanted without fear of retaliation from advertisers.  Well, see, that right there should have been a warning.  There were no advertisers—hence the no money-making of the blogs.

I got a little blue for second there thinking about losing all 14 of my faithful readers.  But then I turned into some combination of Erin Brokovitch/Sandy Bullock in The Blind Side/Norma Rae and decided I was going to fight the odds.  I was going to keep on bloggin on.

I may no longer have the endorsement of the LAT, but now I can totally swear!  I’m like Howard Stern once he got to satellite radio.  F-bombs away!!!

So as today’s muse I will be channeling Donna Karan doing her best Leigh Bowery imitation at Monday night’s Met Ball.  I’ll be shoving body parts around until unwanted flesh from my midsection is reborn as a set of double D’s.

Welcome to the revamped version of The Nines.  Pull on your Pajama Jeans and get ready to party!



Unkle Karl’s Ice Kream

Originally posted April 28, 2011

You amaze me, Karl Lagerfeld.  Just when I think you’ve done the weirdest thing you could possibly do, you go and top yourself.  Of what do I speak you wonder?  A chocolate statue of “muse” Baptiste Giabiconi who you will no doubt remember from his epic music video I dissected a while back.

Unkle Karl has directed some TV commercials for a sexually named ice cream treat, Magnum, which star Giabiconi as a grumpy fashion photographer and Rachel Bilson (Summer from the OC) as a fashion model.

Rachel Bilson is adorable.  She is also knee high to a grasshopper making her less than believable as a model.  Giabiconi’s photographer is about as realistic as an SNL skit, but it did have me wondering if he was secretly parodying his mentor in his depiction of a photographer because well, Karl has taken a lot of photos of him and he’s certainly spent time on a Lagerfeld set during a photo shoot since they all seem to involve him.

There is not a lot of originality in anything about this spot other than the publicity-mindedness of hiring Karl Lagerfeld to direct it. If you don’t believe me, use your eyes and then you let me know what you think:

So basically the only thing it’s got going for it is the potential for a lot of publicity and a whole lot of head scratching.  And that brings me back to the chocolate sculpture.  Why wouldn’t you sell your ice cream bar by having a designer direct your implausibly stupid commercials if, in promoting said commercials, he is willing to pull out a trick like this?

If you can tear yourself away from the white briefs, please take a moment to note the comical detail of the ice cream bar and the bed’s headboard, which is clearly fashioned from an enormous Hershey bar.

I truly wonder when Karl Lagerfeld has time to sleep.  Being a designer is a seriously pressured and stressful job—witness the recent travails of John Galliano and Christophe Decarnin formerly of Balmain to say nothing of the suicide of Alexander McQueen.

I am going to stick with my theory that he is a vampire, which could (please, please?) mean that he’ll be making a cameo on HBO’s True Blood when the new season starts next month.  I will so totally be watching that in my underwear eating a Magnum ice cream bar.

The Problem With Gwyneth

Originally posted April 22, 2011

Hello, Hamsters (yep, I’m sticking with it),

Even I am wondering why it took me so long to get on the “Gwyneth Paltrow Annoys the Living Daylights out of Me” bandwagon. It’s not that I haven’t experienced the same thoughts of inferiority and shame at not being as blond, thin, beautiful and rich as she is—and likes to constantly remind us—it’s just that much in the same way that I feel like energy spent talking about Kardashians only exacerbates the problem, I also feel like acknowledging the Paltrow only feeds its already overinflated sense of self.

But who am I kidding? Whether or not I choose to ignore them, they are still out there self-promoting their way into famedom, and I might as well stop pretending I haven’t noticed.

So, just exactly what is it about Gwynnie that makes people press the imaginary “dislike” button every time she opens her trap? There are plenty of other celebs out there doing multilevel self-promotion, but maybe, just maybe, they aren’t doing it while constantly reminding you they truly believe they are better than you.

Allow me to elaborate, please. Ms. Paltrow became a recurring Glee guest star, and everyone was all, “Oh, hey, that wasn’t anywhere near as terrible as her glorified mommy blog, GOOP, would lead me to believe. I think I’ll give her a second chance.”

Then the Grammys rolled around, and she got that second chance, singing with the amazingly Muppet-dressed Cee Lo Green, and well, that didn’t exactly live up to her Glee performances, so people were a little less hot on her bandwagon.

Personally, I loved her Grammy outfit, from the low-cut black catsuit to the hot pink feather earrings to the multicolored shoes. I could barely focus on her bad singing, though, as I was certain she was going to fall off that piano because she is clearly not a talented high-heel walker, let alone high-heel dancer. I spent the whole time waiting for her to land in the oversize Muppet’s lap…which somehow miraculously did not happen.

On this week’s episode of Glee, Holly Holiday—played by old Gwynneroo—gave a pep talk to some hecklers, which was really a not so thinly veiled version of Gwyneth talking to the people who hate her in some meta-effort by the Glee writers to wink-wink show us all that they (and Paltrow) get that everyone hates her and, really, why wouldn’t we? She IS better than the rest of humankind, after all.

Holly Holiday tells the kids, “We live in a culture of insults. I mean, we’re constantly bombarded with these images of people who are richer than us and happier than us and have more interesting sex than us, and it makes us feel terrible. You know we tear them down to feel better about ourselves, and we don’t just stop with the people who are on TV or in magazines—we do it to everybody. And we think that, because it’s done anonymously, there are no ramifications.”

And that little thinly veiled dig at the Paltrow haters is what turned the lightbulb on in my head. I don’t want her to think that for one second her anti–fan club has no face. I want to show her what we look like. We’re not as pretty, we’re obviously not as happy, and our sex lives couldn’t possibly be as interesting as hers, but we are by no means anonymous. My name is Cat Doran, and I find Gwyneth Paltrow annoying. Bring on the ramifications!

My Little Hamsters

Originally posted March 28, 2011

You know how Mariah Carey has her “lambs” and Gaga talks down to her “monsters”? Yeah, I totally want a handle to call my readers. I think I’m going with “hamsters.” And believe me when I tell you I am totally looking down my nose at you for reading this—just like Lady Gaga is sneering down hers at the idiots who are buying that “Born This Way” baloney. Born what way? Straight and white on the Upper East Side of Manhattan? Wow. What a tough row to hoe. She has really triumphed over adversity, hasn’t she?

I, like Gaga and Mariah before me, will make up a stupid name so that anyone reading this can believe I am showing empathy for their unspecified plight. Maybe you cannot resist the allure of nude shoes, or perhaps you have been going without pants for the last year and a half. Whatever you suffer from, please know I will pretend to be the same as you (pantsless!) if it means I will get ahead in the world of fashion bloggers.

Now that we have gotten that out of the way, I can get down to business here—and the business of which I speak is the Mildred Pierce remake as a miniseries.

Hamsters, I sincerely hope you all dutifully watched HBO’s Mildred Piercelast night, and I also hope that while you were watching you were able to marvel at Kate Winslet (whom I confess I used to call Fatty Fatty Kate Winslet until I realized she was waaaay smaller than an average human, and plus she’s so beautiful and good at the acting, so now I just call her Kate Winslet) in her dowdy costumes.

If she wore that brown flowered dress and saggy-ankled stockings for one more scene, I was going to reach into the TV set and snap her garters for her. Those brown Salvation Army Sister Sarah Brown shoes in which she was tramping all over town were killing me almost as much as they were her, with her blistery bandages.

Did you notice that once she got all hot and steamy with Guy Pearce (no relation to Mildred—different spelling) and his fake Chiclet teeth, she started to dress just a little bit better? Well, I did too. See, we ARE alike! Hamsters,je vous adore!

That tidbit of hope, plus seeing old Evan Rachel Wood lip-synching some opera in a ball gown during the upcoming scenes at the end of last night’s episodes one and two led me to believe we are in for much more melodramatic fashion to go along with the melodramatic acting. And I for one couldn’t be happier.

If there is one thing we can all learn from Mildred Pierce it’s there is always a horrible, manipulative character like Veda who is easy to hate. But then again, if it weren’t for Veda’s evil, old Mildred would never have gotten up the gumption to get out of that dowdy brown flowered dress. Talk about triumphing over adversity, right, hamsters?


Originally posted March 1, 2011

The universe clearly didn’t want me to write about the ho-humminess of the Oscars last night, because here’s what it did to me—blew a transformer in my neighborhood and knocked out my power for the better part of the day, only to return it after the sun had gone down.

It was like someone out there was saying, “We feel you. Kelly Osbourne was uniquely unqualified to be commenting on what anyone wore, dressed as she was in gray with gray skin and a shellacked bullet hairdo, but we don’t want you to waste all of your time being negative today. Instead we want you to waste a full day wondering when the power will come back on so you can figure out how many outfit changes Anne “Drama Club Geek” Hathaway had and exactly who designed each one.”

So here I sit. Power fully restored, list of Hathaway outfits in hand, totally uninspired yet ready to plow through this post for you because I am sooooo sure you can’t stand to live another minute without hearing my two cents. (Because if Osbourne is a fashion pundit now, I must be like Elsa Freaking Klensch.) If you do not get that reference, then go back to playing Xbox911 or whatever the kids are up to these days.

Hathaway Outfit Numero Uno:  On the red carpet, she appeared in a red Valentino “from the Valentino Archives,” wherever that might be—surely on a planet somewhere with unlimited bronzer and copious amounts of hair dye. Snoozy but pretty.

Outfit Number Two: White Givenchy Haute Couture—two parts dominatrix, one part fairy princess. Lots of fairy princess going around that night, so I guess it was to be expected. The business around the middle was super distracting, and I’m pretty sure there was a rotary dial and a springy cord from a gold princess phone attached somewhere in there. Anyway, it wasn’t as middle-unflattering as Nicole Kidman’s white Dior number, and that’s the highest praise I’m going to be able to muster.

Outfit Three: Lanvin tuxedo with big clomping shoes (Louboutin, I think, but I didn’t confirm due to a general malaise), a ponytail nowhere near as annoying as Reese “Spotlight Barbie” Witherspoon’s and a song-and-dance routine as dorky as anything from Annie.

Outfit Four: Vivienne Westwood bridal gown…if you are the Bride of Frankenstein. Also a bit princessy—and slightly snoozy, if a horror-film bride could be considered boring. The hair morphed from the ponytail to a big, piled-up bun number, which made me wonder how many dressers and hairdressers lurked in Annie’s dressing room.

Outfit Five: Silver tasseled Oscar de la Renta. Ms. Hathaway made a big fuss of how she could make the tassels shake and her cohost James Franco seemed about as unimpressed with her antics as I was at home seeing Natalie Portman’s nightgown. Oh, relax, I know she’s preggers, but she didn’t have to dress like she was heading off to bed, did she?

Outfits Six, Seven and Eight: Burgundy Atelier Versace, electric blue Armani Privé and black lace Tom Ford longsleeved number. I lump these together not because they were any less or more boring than the other dresses—it’s just that by this point I was so sick of the schtick I needed to move my evaluations along. I will give the Armani Privé some props for being shiny and made of a fabric surely composed of crushed fairy wings melded together.

So in summary, while Annie was earnest and James was reluctant, my low point of the evening (Kirk Douglas notwithstanding) would have to be Gwyneth Paltrow’s country crooning. Until next year, I bid you adieu from the Island of Malcontents.