And in today’s outrage to your sensibilities:
Scott Disik, aka Mr. Kourtney Kardashian aka Douchebag Bateman aka The Power Plover (ironic because he loves to kill alligators to make his shoes, Circle of Life, Hakuna Matata) has taking time out of his busy schedule of ignoring his children in order to make insane demands on unwitting journalists who for some reason believe he is a person of interest.
LeBron James has come a long way since his first watch.
“It was this Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles thing,” the 4-time NBA MVP told the Transom last Friday night, at the private unveiling of his latest wrist-wear collaboration, this time with Swiss watchmaker Audemars Piguet. “You know, the plastic one with the rubber strap and you flip its head open to see the time? I think it was Donatello—no it was Michelangelo.”
Big Apple Idolatry
Besides the other big Kardashian Klan news–that Kim Kardashian and Kanye West drank some NyKuil and named their child “Kaidence Donda West,” and that Mr. West’s album dropped today–the real story today is that Kourtney Kardashian finally allowed her husband, professional suspenders model Scott Disik, fulfill his destiny as a Patrick Bateman impersonator to promote his almost-brother-in-law’s record, Yeezus.
So besides the fact that the collaboration between Mr. Disick and Mr. West is a total rip-off of the brilliant Miles Fisher’s video for his cover of The Talking Heads’ “This Must Be the Place,” we can all rest easy knowing that Mr. Disick has finally found his lot in life as one of his wife’s sister’s baby daddy’s entourage.
An Unbroken Series of Successful Gestures
– The Weather Channel’s Jim Cantore (recently profiled by The Observer) was the main guest on Letterman last night after Kate Hudson dropped out. See, in a perfect world, you wouldn’t have the guy who spent 24 hours in Battery Park during Sandy as the pinch-hitter for an actress whose biggest news right now is a cameo on Glee.
The girls, so many girls, dressed in pastel-colored wraps that bared shoulders and the swells of their cleavage, clacked their Louboutin heels up a SoHo staircase one muggy May evening.
At the landing, visibly breathless and sweaty, their eyes lit up. They had entered the penthouse loft of Edward Scott Brady, the boyishly handsome world traveler, former classical cello virtuoso and “retired entrepreneur,” who was throwing a “Welcome Back Bash” to honor his return from his seventh trip around the globe.