Okay. First of all, if you haven’t seen (500) Days of Summer, you really should consider rectifying that. It is honest and delightful and that is rare. And Joseph Gordon-Levitt here is great it in. And he’s REALLY CUTE. Like, seriously-consider-having-his-babies cute. So I sort of wish Nylon Guys (I don’t know how to punctuate that. Nylon Guys seems as though it is about men made of nylon. Nylon: Guys is probably the most accurate, but I think I prefer Nylon: Guys! because it seems kickier)…what the hell as I talking about? Oh right: I wish Nylon: Guys! had asked him about (500) Days of Summer rather than G.I Joe, but (a) maybe they did and just decided Joe would be a more alluring draw on the cover for male readers, and (b) perhaps no one truly anticipated that G.I Joe would be as wretched as it allegedly is. But you know what I really wish? That they hadn’t taken someone so adorable and groomed him like someone who hasn’t taken a shower in six weeks and just really wants to talk to you about all his awesome tin cans and how aluminum foil will probably block the government’s mind control rays but only if it’s Reynold’s Wrap. You know what else I wish? I misread that headline on the bottom right as, “David Lynch and Nick Cannon on a yacht with pirates!” and I truly long for that to be made real. Bring me THAT in your next issue, Nylon: Guys!
Fug File: Nylon
[Photo: Nylon: Guys!]
[Photo: Nylon Magazine]
I’M SO SURE. The 80s flashbacks on this week’s Gossip Girl felt less contrived than this does. I can’t imagine either Kat Dennings or Olivia Thirlby got this in the mail and clasped her hands together with glee and gasped, “fabulous! Now more people are going to want to punch me in the face! Just what I wanted!” And yet that is exactly what this has achieved. Girls, allow me to impart a valuable lesson: when someone asks you if you’re interested in recreating scenes from The Wedding Singer on camera, you are allowed to say no. A little restraint in this area will only help your career in the long run.
What is going ON here? Not only is Camilla Belle wrapped in a hellacious hodge-podge of pieces — a cropped coat with alien tentacles attempting to steal second base, a blue shirt with what looks like a piece trailing down the front of some high-waisted formal bloomers, and leggings that look like half-migraine, half-villain in a video game — but she looks super cranky about it. Which does not give me much faith that I will fall in love with any of the 243 looks Nylon insists will tickle my heart. Especially not if I’m supposed to wear this many of them at the same time. If I were in Franz Ferdinand, and I saw this cover, I might react to being named Nylon‘s best-dressed band in the world by immediately burning my entire wardrobe and moving to an alpaca farm in darkest Peru.
I have sincerely been enjoying the way every other magazine in the United States has decided that because November is the month in which we elect a new president (maybe you hadn’t heard), their November covers will be SUPER PATRIOTIC, and they all must OUT PATRIOT each other! Red, white and blue! Babies waving flags! People jumping out of apple pies with baseballs in one hand and the Constitution in the other! If I ran a magazine, I think I would have Michael Phelps on the cover, holding a bald eagle, wearing a red, white and blue striped Speedo and the word “VOTE” written across his chest in Sharpie. (After all, you SHOULD vote. And what better way to insist upon it than using firm pecs as America’s chalkboard? Exactly. How do I not have a magazine of my very own?) And yet somehow Nylon seems to think that the most effective way to get across their love of country is a shot of Paris Hilton in which her eyes appear drugged and unfocused and her extensions are all wonky. Sure, you could say that was a conscious choice, but I prefer not to be so cynical and decide it was just a very, very bad one, especially since Paris has actually been kind of vaguely amusing lately. Still, it seems sort of tragic to have a bedraggled-looking Paris on the cover of a magazine purporting to be all about things to love about the United States, while relegating Jon Stewart to just two tiny words there on the side. Get him and Colbert popping out of that apple pie, and you’ve got my $4.50, kids.
Drunkface strikes again, and this time, she brought her best friend, Tweed. And Tweed went and brought his girlfriend, that bitch Cheap Accessories from Claire’s. And she brought her mom, Lame Ass Partial-Fingered Glove. And she dragged her neighbor, High-Waisted Jodphurs, who insisted on bringing her cat, Mittens. And they were all chaperoned by the person who thought it would be an awesome idea if Nylon‘s cover models looked Scared, Stoned, and About to Sneeze, respectively.
This is just sad, I’m sorry. I mean, I guess I’m kind of glad to see her trussed up in something new — even if it is pleather leggings and a vest and hideous lipstick and a painfully fake-ass pouty expression — but COME ON. ScarJo. You are not a rock star. We all know that this album of yours is nothing but a vanity project. Period. If it isn’t, then why does the video to your first single basically seem to be about how depressed and truly pensive you are while people are putting eye make-up on you? Ooooh, poor sad angel clown. Life is so hard when you’re the center of attention. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOUR PAIN. There, there — dry your professionally made-up eyes with a hundred dollar bill. It IS hard to be a beautiful, successful millionaire. You feel all ALONE, despite being newly engaged to someone totally dreamy. You just sit alone and stare at your reflection in your black AmEx card and you cry cry cry in your lonely heart, I get it. But can’t you just make these little videos and dress up like an erstwhile emo frontwoman and prance around with instruments in the privacy of your own backyard and leave the rest of us free to live in peace without having to likewise pretend you can sing?