do you believe in planets?

interLOL? pauLOL? LOLpaul? LOLerpol?

Regardless, L! O! L! Regardez:

LOLOLOLOLololololzzzzz...

Eh heh. Eh heh-heh. HEEEEEEEHEEHEEheeheeheeheehe. Hee. Eh. Heh.

Apparently, Mr. Banks also plays a particularly wicked game...

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.]

moley, moley, moley; lord Paul almighty...

ThE-Birthday
Originally uploaded by thelizabeth.

So three of my buds--a fave Portland couple, Logan and Tara, and their close pal Michael--are in NYC right now. I get the following text from Logan last night:

"We just ran into Paul Banks at a guitar store."

Several thoughts immediately occurred to me, like, "NO FAIR! That should be ME!" and "you mean you saw him. 'Ran into' is something you do with a friend. Don't flatter youself." But instead of being that nit-picky of an asshole, I opted for my usual brand of asshole (self-absorbed), replying,

"NO FAIR! Did you talk to him? How does he look? Did he ask about me???"

Logan's reply, in quintessential Logan style:

"Good dresser. Bad skin."

LOL! Love that Logan.

my blog serves a practical purpose?!?!

First of all, for your viewing pleasure:

!!!

I'll get back to that in a minute.

First, though, a confession: I regret not blogging for the past month or so. During that unblogged stretch, I've had some times--and lack of further modification of the word "times" should indicate to you that it's been a mixed bag. But I have a craptacular memory (except for hurty things), and many "times" shoot the gap and escape unnoticed unless I record events properly. I was rereading my "what I did this weekend" blogs from late spring/early summer, and I'd already forgotten half of what I'd spent my time doing then, and was glad for a reminder. Problem is, those "travel log"-type entries are a) the most tiresome to compose, and b) incredibly boring, I'm sure, to read. But they work like a journal. Ever read "On Keeping a Notebook" by Joan Didion? Yeah, it's like that, but kind of the opposite, too.

I guess I can just sort through Google chats, emails, and text messages to piece the last two months of my life together, but what for? I want a nice, neat little package--and a story to tell myself that I can live with. Because that's what settling dues with the past is all about: telling yourself a story you can live with. Right? (I know I'm right; I'm just asking to be polite.)

Back to Paul Banks: WTF?! He's wearing WHITE from head to toe and...is that...an olympic... gold... medal?!? A gold medal? A'right a'right, I'm glad to see he's lost the weight (boy oh boy, did he look godawful for a while der hey)--in fact, he looks...kinda hot...seriously--yet I repeat--WTF?!?!

ANOTHER ONE STARRING JZN

Re: Our Flickr issues.

Exhibit A:

For further comparison, Exhibit B:

interpol 6/5: three things to say

I. The Bravery sucks. DO NOT argue with me about this. Just DON'T.

II. Though my boy Mr. Banks has lost weight, has cut his hair, and continues to belt it out like a champ, his charms cannot compensate for the squealing 15 year-olds in the Under-21 section. I think this may have been my last Interpol show. Ever. I would like to thank the fans.

III. My boyfriend makes me want to break things. Not fragile, easily broken things like glass figurines or ice sculptures. Not finicky, usually broken things like staplers or fax machines, either. Tough, difficult-to-break, I-really-mean-it things. Like ball bearings. Or... like... tupperware?

yourwishismycommandbitches

Word games for you all. Standard format applies.

ThElizabeth is to lung infection as ____________ is to decadence.

Valentines Day is to blank stare as Palm Sunday is to _______________.

is to "I coulda totally had you on Sunday night if I'd only dragged myself to the afterparty" as _______________ is to "in regards to you, I harbor only the sheer absence of delusion."

What I'm coughing up is to cottage cheese as what you're constantly repressing is to ____________________.

My project proposal is to the tearing out of hair as your kiss is to ________________.

There, that's five.  Should keep you busy for oh, I'd say, about a dollar.

enjoying my symptom, thank you

I've always wondered what crazy notion inspires people to overcome/set aside their unhealthy obsessions.  What's the fun in a "cure?"  Silly Anglo-American behavioral psychology crap-patty!

Thus, I will attend TWO Interpol shows Valentine's Day weekend: Feb. 11 in Seattle, WA, and Feb. 13 in Portland, OR.  Damn straight, tiger!

You're Paul Banks! You're often compared to Ian
Curtis from Joy Division but you're infinitely
cooler as you're far more alive.
Also you're the baby of the group but due to
travelling the world and your crazy
intelligence, this never shows.


Which member of Interpol are you?
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