Kelly Osbourne is all about speaking her mind and her latest interview with Cosmopolitan U.K. is no exception.
Gracing the publication’s September 2013 issue, the “Fashion Police” host opens up about her past drug addiction and how her mother, Sharon Osbourne, even had her placed in a padded room in order to help her kick the habit. Read more at Celebuzz…
Last week, the controversial professor, feminist blogger and personal essayist Hugo Schwyzer announced on his blog, in an interview with NYmag.com and again in LA Weekly that he was retiring his notorious public persona and quitting the internet for good (or— for the time being, he corrected himself some days later in yet another goodbye). Maybe you don’t know or care who this person is and that is just as well. He is a semi-big deal in the feminist blogosphere in the way that Serge Haroche is probably (hopefully) an even bigger deal among mathy-type people (he won the Noble Prize in Physics in 2012, according to this random website I found when I Googled “Nobel Prize winners”). And maybe we should all know more about Serge Haroche. But here we are talking about Hugo. (For a complete list of criticisms of Hugo’s work, you can go here. Or here. Yes, there are entire websites created for the sole purpose of criticizing this man and his work.) [Note: A few of Schwyzer's pieces on The Good Men Project were crossposted on The Frisky a few years ago.]
I can’t help it. Honestly, I’m kind of obsessed with him. As a freelance writer as well as a writing instructor — I teach courses in memoir, personal essay and opinion writing, the genres that both Hugo and I write — this whole brouhaha is pushing all my buttons. Some people are taking a certain joy in this character’s downfall — which I feel is mean but, yes, a little tempting. Like many, for me, the redemptive narrative of Hugo Schwyzer always rang less than true. Keep reading »
Not that we blame them. “Breaking Bad” has totally transformed Albuquerque from that random city that’s spelled weird to the meth capital of the world. What else were the great capitalists of New Mexico supposed to do besides squeeze every last penny from their infamous, regionalized crystal? In honor of Walter White and Jesse Pinkman’s “Blue Sky” meth (99.1 percent pure, thankyouverymuch), the good businessmen of the Southwestern city have been selling donuts, bath salts, and candy all in the name of the fictional, highly addictive, and massively illegal drug.
Keep reading »
I was in bed, half-awake, on Sunday morning when I found out that Cory Monteith, one of the lead actors on “Glee,” had died suddenly of an apparent drug overdose the day before. Monteith was never a celebrity that I would have expected to die at 31. Even though I knew he had struggled with drug addiction and done several stints in rehab, he didn’t have that reputation for reckless living like Lindsay Lohan or Justin Bieber do.
Julie had the presence of mind to throw up a quick post on The Frisky. But my thoughts were firmly fixated on the actor’s family and friends and his girlfriend, “Glee” co-star Lea Michele. I kept thinking about Michele, who was apparently vacationing in Mexico when her boyfriend died in a hotel room in Vancouver, getting that phone call telling her Monteith had died.
I forgot about how I personally find Lea Michele really annoying and have never, ever wanted to see a movie she is in or read a magazine interview with her. But in that moment, I felt for her. I really felt for her. Because I have been waiting for that same phone call my entire life. Keep reading »
“Si, si!” Armani concurs cheerfully: “I’d better tell you the story. It was a long time ago, we were in the office, and we had finished work exhausted. A friend of a friend said ‘hey, take this it will give you energy’, so I thought I’d try it. I didn’t know what it was. It made me laugh and laugh, like crazy… to the point that my back hurt” — he holds his hips — “like I’d just had a baby.”
— Famous people! They’re just like us, takin’ mysterious drugs and hoping for the best. An excerpt from a new biography of Giorgio Armani alludes to the fact that the illustrious Italian fashion tycoon is no stranger to the weird world of ~*~*~psychedelics~*~*~, so naturally The Telegraph sought to expound on his experience. And expound he did! Isn’t it always a “friend of a friend” who is somehow responsible for the party favors? [Huffington Post]
I believe this is what one would call a really bad trip. No one is really sure how, but a 41-year-old Columbus, Ohio, man managed to mutilate his own penis while high on mushrooms. The man was found naked and screaming in from of a Michigan middle school, bloody from the waist down, with parts of his genitals ripped off.
“He really wasn’t saying much at all — a lot of yelling and screaming. He wasn’t making sense. They couldn’t really communicate with him in terms of constructive conversation,” reports said. The man and his dismembered member were taken to the hospital, where he received emergency medical treatment. Once he sobered up and was in stable condition, he told authorities that he was in town visiting some friends and picked up the magic mushrooms earlier that day. He claims to have no history of mental illness or heavy drug use or self-mutilation.
Sometimes drugs are bad. [Metro UK]
I’ve written candidly about Mother’s Day and all the ways I think the commercialization of it fucks up our relationships with our moms. My own relationship with my mom has been easy because … well, she’s awesome. But my complex relationship to fatherhood makes both talking and writing about it difficult.
There are two people in my life that I call Dad – my biological father and my stepfather. I have very different relationships with each of them and writing about one without mentioning the other feels like a weird act of disloyalty. But this Father’s Day, I’m letting go of that and writing about redemption and it’s relationship to fatherhood.
My biological father has a colorful past; he talks openly and nostalgically about his time as a drug dealer and his stint in prison. I remember bits and pieces of it. One time when I was small, my mother took my sister and me and my brother to the prison to see him. We pressed our dirty, little hands against the impassable glass partition that separated us and talked over a black phone that connected the two sides of the glass. When my dad was released, my parents were separated and we were shuffled back and forth between them every other weekend. My parents were young when they had my twin sister and me — just 21 and 22. Now, having a brother who is 25 and a father, it puts into perspective what it must have been like for my dad to have kids at that age. Keep reading »