I've clearly fallen down on the goddamn job--didn't know Paul Banks had been dating the same successful NYC-based photographer for many years, nor did I know that they recently split, after which she moved to LA and married some other dude. It does something to explain the depressing-ass Our Love to Admire. Anyhoo, don't worry about poor little heartbroken Paul, because--NEWSFLASH--he too has noisily found a new "love" to "light" up his "life" * (and by "love," "light," and "life," I mean "hottie", "float", and "boat," and by "float" and "boat" I mean "be" and "sex-toy").
Granted, I've always envied Helena Christensen**--for the obvious reasons, of course, but particularly because bitch got to roll around on the beach half-naked with a half-naked Chris Isaak in the early 90s in that "Wicked Games" video. And now Paul?
Nice work, lady. But really, you're a supermodel. How much credit can we give you. You probably have a higher percentage of extra-terrestrial DNA than the rest of us, which gives you an unfair advantage. My real congrats necessarily go to the human, all too human, Paul Banks.
True, I've never made it secret that I held Mr. Banks as the most shaggable bloke ever not to be British, but, really, I never considered him to possess supermodel-worthy levels of hotness. True, he has one of the sexiest names in rock--Paul Julian Banks--how could he NOT have been a rockstar? And true, PJB looks particularly dashing these days. Consider exhibit A:
Well hellooooooo (slightly sweaty but still luscious) cornsilk hair, how are you today?
Consider also exhibit B:
Ooooh, feeling dark and mysterious today, Mr. Still Half-Hidden Face, This Time By Sunglasses?
And Exhibit C (last one, promise):
Okay, so eat a sandwich, but regardless of disappearing act--key-oot!
HOWEVER--girl, please. There's still "connect the moles," the always possible return to chunkiness, the threat of recurrent fedora-wearing, and the "gold medal as fashion accessory" faux pas. There are lines like "Her love's a pony!", "girl, you shake it right!", and "you wear those shows like a dove!" (A fucking dove? Shoes?) In other words, odds were against Paul ever scoring with a supermodel. Therefore I must congratulate him; Paul, Helena is a true trophy, an emblem of your success as a popular culture phenom. You have arrived. And you are probably relatively skilled between the sheets of union. Helena is bona fide smokin' hot.
Just don't get herpes, because when you're old and burned out, I'd still like a shot at rolling around in an ashtray with your strung-out, half-naked ass.
[BTW, when I first caught wind of the Paul/Helena rumor, I had to get the real dirt from the Interpol fangirl message boards, and--holy SHIT. Those bitches CRAZY! You can't imagine the vitriol they've rained down upon the generously-breasted Christensen (e.g., "since she fell asleep in the sun for four years and looks like an old shoe, I guess she has to feel good about herself by following Paul around"--yikes!). I'm glad I decided to wait until I was an old lady of 25 to "discover" fangirldom with my compassionate robot, otherwise I might have risked actual heartache when he finally became a bona fide rockstar and commenced sleeping with supermodels, past their prime or otherwise.]