Photo: WireImage

Photo: Getty Images

Photo: Everett Bogue

Photo: Everett Bogue

Photo: Rafael Lett/Courtesy of Steadfast Associates

Martin Margiela Inks Fragrance Deal; Evangeline Lilly Is the New Face of Cool Water

Evangeline Lilly smells like your eighth-grade
boyfriend.Photo: FilmMagic

HAIR
• Beach hair doesn't just come from the beach. It also comes in a can. Alterna’s Caviar Anti-Aging beach hairspray is made with natural ocean water and promises that just ocean-dipped look. Mmm, salty! [Teen Vogue]

MAKEUP
• The spatula-like applicator of Thierry Mugler’s Plexi Gloss ($40) is turning heads, but its holographic shiny pink shade will, too. [Beauty Blogging Junkie]

David Simon Lays It On a Little Thick

Photo: Getty Images

I am now, also, the newly crowded King of Meta. That's right. I am your new lord sovereign of buried, latent, subtextual argument. I dragged it past sarcasm, past cynicism, and all the way to balls-out snide. Crown me up and kneel, ya bitches.

The real story of the journalism subplot this season was not the fabulist, or the cutbacks, or the Pulitzer, or poor saintly Gus Haynes. It was the fact that in the midst of all this, the Baltimore Sun didn't report on all the real stories of Baltimore. And everyone missed it, Simon scolds.

Leaving aside the question of whether this is overkill — it is! But intentionally so — we'd like to point out for the record that a lot of people did discuss this plot point; they gave it about as much attention as its prominence in the plot of this final season occasioned. From our final analysis of the show's place in the pantheon, for example:

But what is [Simon] saying about the cost of lies? Surely the lies that matter to our cities, and to our newspapers, are not the BIG ones, like made-up serial killers. The ones that matter are the small ones, the ones that previous seasons of The Wire exposed so clearly. That's why I thought that some of the most effective scenes in this season involved not the Jayson Blair–esque story line, but instead the moments when we saw news we knew to be earthshaking — the deaths of Prop Joe and Omar — relegated to "Metro" briefs or cut completely from the Sun's coverage.

But those moments, in this season of The Wire, were few and far between. David Simon's yelling loudly at reporters for missing the things that weren't happening on his show is only a half-step above yelling at reporters for missing what the show had to say about the death of the Baltimore Orioles. Simon's point was in there, but it was mostly there by omission, and one of the failures of this season was that it didn't find a way to effectively dramatize this story line in a way that made that point pop. We don't know that blaming your audience for not caring enough about good journalism is the best way to respond to criticism.

The Wire's Final Season and the Story Everyone Missed [HuffPo]

Earlier: Debating the Legacy of ‘The Wire’: Did Season Five Tarnish the Show That Invented the Dickensian Aspect Ratio?

Now Carrie Bradshaw Is Really Going to Need a Cell Phone

Bushwick: Teens here are flipping the bird to military recruiters, instead embracing Che Guevara and Cesar Chavez at their own social-justice high school. [Indypendent]
East Village: Is the end near for that infamous phone booth on Avenue A where "thousands of heroin orders have been placed"? [Neither More Nor Less]
Flatbush: The city wants to refurbish the grand but fading 1929 Loew's Kings Theater, where Brooklyn beep Marty Markowitz got his first kiss. Sexy imagery like that should help accelerate the project. [Real Deal via Ditmas Park Blog]

Gramercy: "Barely Breathing"/Spring Awakening composer Duncan Sheik is looking to move here, putting his massive Soho live-work loft on the market for $2.85 million and relocating his studio space upstate. [NYT]
Midtown: Does Bear Stearns actually own its acclaimed 2001 Skidmore Owings Merrill building, which appears to be worth far more than the bargain-basement $236 million that JPMorgan just paid for Bear? [DealBreaker]
Riverdale: High-school students here are quietly enduring the unremitting boredom of a cultural-exchange program with kids from Maine. [Talk Bronx]
Turtle Bay: Linda Stasi thinks that "animals" putting up massive buildings are ruining this once-classy, synonymous-with-Hepburn hood. [NYP]

This Just In: Botkier for Target

Today in Diffusion News, Botkier will partner with Target for a limited-edition handbag collection:

MINNEAPOLIS (March 2008) Target is partnering with renowned accessories designer Monica Botkier to launch a limited-edition handbag collection, Botkier for Target. This collection is the fifth handbag launch in a series of limited-time-only accessories designers at Target. The Botkier for Target collection will be available at select Target stores nationwide and at Target.com July 21 through Sept. 14, 2008.

Not much of a window there — we suspect the girls on Atlantic Avenue will get a little grabby.

India Fashion Week Show Mocks Paris Hilton

Paris Hilton, inspiration.Photo: Getty Images

Models took a stroll down the red carpet, pouting and blowing kisses as they posed for photographers at the edge of the runway. One model clutched a crystal ball, another a half-filled glass of wine while a third cradled a doll.

…[T]he Indian designers said they were just having a bit of fun at Hilton's expense and not condemning celebrity socialites.

"They are here to celebrate dressing up. They want to enjoy life and we just want to enjoy with them as well," [designer Paras] Bairoliya said.

It's nice to see a fashion show have a little fun with the notion of celebrity, isn't it? Meanwhile, the real Paris Hilton is currently working on a reality show for MTV, in which twenty guys and gals will compete to be her "best friend forever." Which makes India look even better.

'Dandy' Paris Hilton inspires India fashion week [Reuters]

Britney Hit with K-Fed's Legal Fees

Is Amanda Overmyer Idol's "Worst"?

‘Superclass’ Unveils the 6,000 Who Really Run Things

If you're trying to figure out where to throw your Molotov cocktails, David Rothkopf's book proves you've got your work cut out for you. The businessman and former Clinton official spent years crunching numbers and trailing the 6,000 or so "power elite" who make most of the decisions about how the planet works. Neither a gossipfest nor an anarchist call to arms, this measured book demonstrates the way these elite businessmen anonymously influence politicians and dictators, and take advantage of international chaos to advance their own interests.

We're Getting a Lifestyle Lift!

nymag.com's new look!

How Dirty Is That Auden Poem That Was Too Dirty for the ‘Times Book Review’?

Courtesy of Scribner

So how dirty is it, really?

It is really, really, really, really dirty. Like a Penthouse Forum letter, except in lively verse, and with no women. It's sort of great, and also sort of cheesy and awful, and also occasionally hilarious. ("'Shall I rim you?' I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.") We feel compelled to reprint the entire thing, just because we never had any idea that W.H. Auden wrote an unbelievably filthy poem about an anonymous blow job.

According to the editor's note, Auden wrote the poem in 1948, and copies were circulated among friends and fans for years, before Ed Sanders (of the Fugs) printed an unauthorized version in 1965. Auden publicly denied authorship, which is why we can reprint this without permission and with impunity (as does the anthology, which doesn't include Auden's poem on its copyright page). Enjoy!

Hot or Not [NYTBR]

The Platonic Blow
W. H. Auden

It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn't move. I didn't know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
"Will you come to my room?" Then a husky voice, "O.K."

I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.

The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.

Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.

I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.

Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.

I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

"Shall I rim you?" I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.

Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.

I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. "That's lovely!" he hoarsely said.
"Go on! Go on!" Very slowly I started to move.

Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.

I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered "Oh!"
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. "O Jesus!" he cried.

Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.

Thomas Jane Stars in DUI Jam

The 29-Year-Old Desperately in Love With a 19-Year-Old

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the 29-Year-Old Desperately in Love With a 19-Year-Old: Female, Bensonhurst, straight.

DAY ONE
10:30 a.m.: He calls me from work, and I ignore the call on purpose to seem not so interested. He's 19, and I'm 29. This is my tactic to keep him interested and wondering what I'm doing.
10:33 a.m.:: Two minutes later I feel stupid for not answering his call because I really want to hear his voice. I contemplate on whether to return his phone call, but don't.
5 p.m.: I return his call, knowing he's not going to answer because he is on the train coming home from work. I leave him a voice mail asking him to call me back when he hears this. I wish he would come over tonight, but he's very inconsistent.

10:30 p.m.: He has not called me back, I'm frustrated. Though we broke up a year ago, we usually see each other quite often; however it's not clear if he is my boyfriend once again. I'm still in love with him. I want him to come over so badly. Don't want to pressure him, because it's the reason we broke up in the first place. I begin to think, What do I do to keep him interested and wanting only me?
Midnight I text him to tell him that I'm thinking about him. He texts back, "Really? Why?" I send him a picture message of myself wearing a sexy white teddy. We engage in a brief text-message sex, and I hope this will entice him to come over. He texts me back to tell me I look really sexy, he hopes he can see it one day in person. That's it? Ugh!
12:01 a.m.: I go to bed disappointed and alone, so much for good phone sex.

DAY TWO
9:30 a.m.: He calls me from work. I answer this time. He asks what I'm doing later. I say I'm not sure, call me later.
8:41 p.m.: No call from him yet. Oh how frustrating.
10:30 p.m.: He calls me, finally, and asks if it's still okay for him to come over. Of course, I say yes after lying and telling him I'm just getting in so he wouldn't think I was by the phone waiting for his call all night. I was by the phone waiting for his call all night.
11:30 p.m.: I set up my apartment to seem as if I went out, throwing on a sexy red dress, sexy knee-high blacks boots. Coat and handbag thrown on the kitchen table.
11:32 p.m.: He arrives, looks at me, and asks me, "Where did you go looking like that?" I say out with a friend. He sits on the couch and pulls me over, lifts up my dress. He starts pulling my hair, spanking my ass, and telling how he doesn't like that I went out without him looking all sexy. Rough sex ensues and he sleeps over.

DAY THREE
10 a.m.: He calls me from work. I don't answer the call. He calls again. Again, I don't answer. I'm trying to pose a challenge.
10:30 a.m.: I'm on my laptop ordering him a pantygram to send to his job. This will make him get a hard-on and want to come straight home to me when he gets it. A pantygram, for those who don't know, is a very sexy heart-shaped pair of red panties in a black envelope with a message. My message is, "Hold these for me, keep them close to you, and if you want to see them on you know where to find me."
11 a.m.: He text me and asks why didn't I answer his call. He asks if he can come over later, cook for me, and maybe watch a movie. I say yes.
7 p.m.: He comes over. He is making me hamburgers. I hug him while he is trying cook. He takes one look at me, pushes me against the kitchen sink, pulls down my panties, raises my left leg so that it's on the sink and he does me from behind quickly.
7:15 p.m.: Those hamburgers were so good. Burnt, or shall I say "well done," but taste good anyway. So worth it, I tell you.
10 p.m.: We lie in bed together, watch a movie, cuddle, and fall asleep.

DAY FOUR
9 a.m.: I wake up and I can't stop thinking of him. He's already gone, and I want him so bad again.
10:12 a.m.: He calls me to find out how am I. I want to tell him that I need him, but I don't.
3 p.m.: Still thinking about him, I'm so horny and dying to see him. I
want to masturbate, but I don't because I don't want to lose the urge to have his big, hard penis instead of my blue Krystal Wabbit vibrator.
10 p.m.: I call and desperately ask him to please come over.
10:30 p.m.: He arrives, comes through the door and I jump on him. I tackle him down until I get him to fall down on the living-room floor; I give him a blow job that I notice made his toes curl. He then turns me over on all fours and does me doggy style on my living-room floor.

DAY FIVE
10:39 a.m.: We wake up together in bed. He has a morning hard-on and I of course want him again, so I get on him and ride him like a wild horse. He loves every minute, I can tell by crazy facial expressions and the moaning which guys hardly ever do.
11:30 a.m.: We are exhausted, and we start dozing off. He hugs me. Oh, how nice.
1:47 p.m.: Feeling rested, we go into the shower together, rub some of that wet platinum premium body glide which stays slick under water so he slides in and out with more ease from behind while my body is pushed up against the wet shower tiles.
8 p.m.: He asks me can he stay over. I say yes. Wow, what a great day, and I get to sleep with him again, yay!

DAY SIX
7:30 p.m.: Haven't heard from him all day since he left my apartment this morning. What is going on? And why can't I stop thinking about him?
8:14 p.m.: I am on my laptop, looking at porn on pornhub.com, and thinking how I love the way he touches my body, in a way that makes me melt. I want him, ooh!
Midnight: Still haven't heard from him. I go to bed hot, bothered and frustrated.
1 a.m.: He sends me a text message to say good night. That's all folks, can you believe it? Ugh!

DAY SEVEN
11 a.m.: He calls me and tells me that I am so crazy. He got the pantygram I sent to his job. He tells me he wants to see the panties on me.
11:15 a.m.: I'm so excited, the pantygram actually worked! Yay!
6 p.m.: He arrives. I model those sexy, red heart-shaped panties for him, and he goes wild. He rips them off me and throws me on my couch, puts my legs up against his chest, and begins to penetrate. Ooh wow! We didn't even make it to the bedroom.
11:38 p.m.: We cuddle, and I think, Oh, how I love him. We fall asleep.

Totals: Six acts of intercourse, one act of oral sex, three purposely missed phone calls, one act of porn surfing, and one pantygram.

Man Girdles Are All the Rage

Slimming!Photo Illustration: Getty Images, Retrofile/Getty
Images

Robert Verdi, 39, says he began craving a so-called mirdle, or man-girdle, recently after starting to develop a "muffin top." "I'm now at that weird age where I'm starting to have a little bit of a spare tire, that midsection squish," says Mr. Verdi, a New York stylist and TV personality. Feeling self-conscious while prepping for a recent date, Mr. Verdi took scissors to a pair of high-waisted women's Spanx so it fit him like an elongated tube-top beneath his fitted shirt and slacks. "I felt like I was wearing an Ace bandage, but I definitely looked flatter," he says.

And now men don't have to hide their Saint Patrick's Day beer guts with women's Spanx, as a whole slew of "mirdles" are on the market. Saks Fifth Avenue carries 2(x)ist spandex briefs and tank tops that have a trimming effect; upscale men's underwear line Andrew Christian makes the "Flashback Butt Lifting Technology Boxer" that perks up the rump by "up to an inch"; and Go Softwear will introduce "Waist Eliminator" underpants with a high waistband to hold the tummy in. Of course, in light of all this, Spanx is also considering a line for men. Gloria Steinem, you thought this day would never come.

Men Go for It By Any Name Besides Girdle [WSJ]
Earlier: Bra-lleluja! Spanx Bras Hide Back Fat

Artist Jennifer Poon Paints the World's Least Cooperative Bikini

Jennifer Poon’s Pinwheel (detail) (2008).Image courtesy Claire Oliver Gallery.

Radiohead has another offer for you

David Paterson Is Sworn In as Governor, Promises Good Times Ahead

Photo: Getty Images

‘The L Word’: Nothing But One Sad, Unsuccessful Attempt at Reconciliation Sex

Courtesy of Showtime

Hookups
Nothing but one sad, unsuccessful attempt at reconciliation sex. Jodi gets Bette onto the couch during a depressing breakup moment, but Bette can't go through with it and literally tosses her aside.

Processing
Alice and Tasha go apartment hunting, but their search only exacerbates the sudden race and class issues in their relationship. Tasha wants to go hang with her Long Beach friends; she can't afford a nice apartment! Alice also goes to tape another episode of The Look, where she exchanges intense glances with the awkward Aussie lesbian fashion designer on the show that day. Scenes from next week indicate this will unfortunately become a major plot point.

Despite the fact that Jenny and Nikki were fucking like bunnies last episode, when Nikki refuses to walk off set with Jenny in solidarity, Jenny declares her hot young actress girlfriend "dead to me" (if this means their hot sex scenes are kaput, this show will be dead to 80 percent of its viewers). Schecter spends the rest of the episode smoking a homemade bong with suddenly-a-pothead Shane, and, unless we're nuts, it looks like they may hook up in the near future (in which case the show will reclaim 30 percent of its departed viewers). Max pops in and is told he was right — Adele is a psycho. Let's pause for a moment to commemorate the first time somebody has taken Max seriously this season …

Kit finally finds a reason to break out that gun she procured several episodes ago: Dawn Dembo and her lover, Cindi, managed to buy a 51 percent stake of the Planet (Ivan, the tranny Kit used to date, sold his shares to the incredibly annoying duo). In a blind rage, Kit puts the gun in her sweater pocket — which doesn't seem very safe — and heads over to SheBar to enact revenge. She gets spotted by Cindi and retreats to the Planet, where she later finds Bette and Tina's toddler daughter, Angelica, with the gun in her tiny hands, freaks out, and dumps the gun in the trash. L Word lesson time! Guns are as dangerous as pointless story lines. Time to toss this one in the Dumpster before somebody gets hurt. —Chelsea Brady

Vagilante Scott Galloway Crashes Onto ‘Times’ Board

Posting crazy-looking pictures of people always
makes us feel better.Photo: Patrick McMullan

Times Co. To Give Seats to Hedge Funds [NYT]
Earlier: Intel's coverage of Scott Galloway

Pregnant Stars Ditch Press Releases

Rehab Shmehab! Mendes Lands Another Calvin Klein Campaign

Out of rehab, into underwearPhoto: Getty Images

Asked if the image of Mendes' two visits to rehab in February at the Utah-based Cirque Clinic where Lindsay Lohan and Kirsten Dunst have also checked in is expected to impact the campaign, Tom Murry, president and chief operating officer of Calvin Klein Inc., a division of Phillips-Van Heusen Corp., said, "No, it has not. We were already in one [fragrance] campaign when it [rehab] occurred and it did not affect our decision-making for the underwear campaign."

Perhaps Mendes's pre-rehab image — she isn't known for boozing it up on tables all night long, paparazzi car chases, or flashing body parts — has something to do with it. Maybe young Hollywood could learn a lesson from the quiet, classy way she's handled a rather personal matter.

And we've gotta say, we'll be glad to see a lady with curves sell some skivvies (as will some boyfriends, no doubt).

In Love With Eva: Mendes to Be Calvin Klein Underwear's Face [WWD]
Related: Eva Mendes Gets Out of Rehab and Gets Sweaters

Q&A: Steve Van Zandt

The favorite sideman of Bruce Springsteen and Tony Soprano talks about touring, his favorite songs and why he?ll probably never do another solo album Bruce has been dragging out some pretty rare songs on this leg of the tour so far. You never know what's gonna pop out, you know? It's kind fun to have so many songs to choose from. What motivated him to open up the first show with something as random as "So Young and In Love"? I don't know how many songs he has right now. Two-hundred and fifty? Three hundred? He just flips through 'em, and says, "Heeeey, remember this one?" No particular reason other than to just he hadn't done it very...

A museum visitor looking at a Rodin sculpture

Ashton Kutcher, Fashion Cyborg

You always suspected there wasn't something quite right about him…Image courtesy of BNC PR

• Kutcher came up with the cover concept while watching a Gatorade commercial. “I was watching one of those Gatorade commercials where they had a guy on a treadmill, and they’re testing to see what his physical abilities are. I had this idea: What did the creator — God or whatever — make you for? Maybe we’re all doing exactly what we’re supposed to be doing, and we’re all actually robots."

• Despite what birth certificates may say, he doesn’t believe he’s with an older woman. “I don’t believe that souls have an age. I honestly never think about it. If it wasn’t shoved in my face on a daily basis by magazines or people asking questions like this, I don’t think I would even have an awareness of it."

• Kutcher's still knee-deep in Kabbalah. “It’s not like a religion. It’s not something you join, it’s not a club. So the notion of leaving or going — it doesn’t really have that. It’s a personal choice. That’s a complicated answer; the real answer is that no, I haven’t defected. I haven’t had the chip uninstalled." There's a chip? We're noticing a theme here. —Kendall Herbst

Bra-llelujah! Spanx Bras Hide Back Fat

Behold: the Bra-llelujahPhoto: Courtesy of Spanx

So what's so special about the Bra-llelujah? It's made of the same nylon stretch fabric as the control-top panty hose but has special straps to flatten back fat. Yes, that's right: no more muffin back. The bras come in two styles and retail for $62. So they're not the sexiest-looking bust supports, but if it puts our lumps in the right places, we'll take it.

Now if only Spanx made jeans…

Spanx Shouts Bra-llelujah With New Launch [WWD]

Meet the New Girl: Karmen Perdaru

Look deep into my eyes.Photo: Getty

High court to review penalties for language

ABBA drummer dies in apparent accident

Gary Busey Apologizes for Behavior on Oscar Red Carpet

Hot Mama Halle Has a Baby Girl

Abba Drummer Found Dead

Malibu, Calif. Declares War on Celeb Parties

Madonna, Guy Ritchie Squash Rumors Their Marriage Is Over