And Speaking of Taste... I was in the previous post, check out Heather and Jessica, who have the eyes of epicureans when it comes to seeking out the very best in celebrity fashion fumbles. Are their send-ups as shallow as the "articles" in Vogue? No: a critique by them is as pleasurable and witty as a scene in Pride and Prejudice--if Jane Austen came up through Chicago's Second City and now rented a bungalow in L.A.

The women at Go Fug Yourself have a serious project; to ponder the consequences of crowning Chloe Sevigny a taste maker. Why does her every skort and couture dirndl become a paradigm?

Also see Gawker's hilarious send-up of this week's installment of New York magazine's sometimes quirky sometimes barfatating (yes, it's still a word) Look Book feature. Three "experts" lampoon the banker subject's millionaire lifestyle and laugh at his admission that colleagues at Bear Stearns teased him if his tie had paisleys.

Don't get me wrong: I like the new New York magazine, as long as I remember its content bears more resemblance to the fluff pieces in Avenue than the reviews in the New Yorker.

He Ames to Please

Jonathan Ames, why am I on your email list? Why do I have to hear about your one-man monologues? And most importantly, why do I need to be subjected to a photograph of your naked back ruptured by a cupping technique used on you for Dave Eggers only knows some crazy reason? Call me neurotic, but even a second glance at this grotesque image reveals you're not just showcasing the handiwork of a traditionally-trained holistic healer you found on Kenmare Street. You're flexing your back muscles and working it in a manner tantalizing to anyone, I suppose, who ranks huge red welts right up there with a strong jaw-line and nice smile on the attractiveness scale.

People, don't check your taste at the keyboard.