D A M S E L

PETA Wants You to Go Naked, Adopt a Dog

Just two weeks ago I was applauding PETA for this Thanksgiving ad, in which they let the facts about factory farming (which is cruel and disgusting) speak for themselves. But now I see they're right back to their old ways, using chesty women to bring attention to their cause, even if doing so makes no sense and completely distracts viewers from the point of the campaign. I'm starting to think the organization is run by a closeted meat eater.  —No. 25

[via Beauty Schooled]

90210: A Moral Compass for the Holidays

The holidays are here, which means I've started watching old 90210 episodes with abandon. (Tradition is important, you know?) Thanksgiving weekend alone, I logged 20-plus hours of the newly released eighth season. Before you judge, I ask: Is a Honeymooners marathon really more respectable? Would you rather I watch A Christmas Story even though it makes me want to shoot my eye out?

Besides, like all seasons of 90210 past, eight is chock full of holiday-appropriate life lessons. In the 27 episodes I've watched so far, I've been exposed to the hardships of a painkiller addiction (oh, Donna!), a girl who cuts herself, the struggles of a single mother (played by a pre-Oscar Hilary Swank), a pregnant teen (played by a pre-Maxim Jessica Alba), a gay adoption controversy, roofies, date rape, dometic violence, the reason we need gun control (David!), sexual harassment in the workplace, and teen prostitution. The show is one-part soap opera, two-parts after-school special. Santa's elves couldn't hammer out this gold if they tried.

But, alas, for those of you who drink eggnog this time of year instead of Darren Star's Kool-Aid, here's a reminder of what you're missing. —No. 25

The PETA Ad I'm Thankful For

Usually, PETA pisses me off with its tits-ploitation and erratic behavior. But the group seems to have taken a cue from Jonathan Safran Foer—the genius who wrote Eating Animals—this time around. They let the facts about factory farming and animal cruelty speak for themselves. (And yet NBC still refuses to air the commercial. Oh, America!) Of course I also love how they cast a precocious little girl as the lead, rather than a naked woman.

See for yourself. Then, if you're a consumer of meat, you can curse me for putting a dent in your holiday:
Happy Thanksgiving!! —No. 25

A Site Called 'Hit the Bitch' Promotes Non-Violence

Hit the Bitch, a Web site brought to you by a Danish advocacy group, is supposedly anti-violence. Users control the man hand to beat the model in a Madonna tank. The score board ranges from “100% pussy” to “100% gangsta.” If you bruise “the bitch” up real good (aim to recreate the Rihanna photo boys!), the screen changes to read “100% idiot.” I’m all for violence in video games, but it’s gotta be a fair fight.

For a site that trades in guilt-mongering, the opportunities for culpability are incredibly shortsighted. It would work better if it measured, and broadcasted, at what point a user’s remorse sets in (After one bruise? Two, three, ten?) Or if it automatically emailed the names of dudes who played to game’s end to the local police.

We've all seen risky, over-the-top PSAs before, but do they even work? Or are they just putting unsavory images out into the world? What do you think of the game? Would you play a game that measured your ability to kick a dude in the nuts? After seeing this, I just might. —No. 26

[Via Newswer]

Heidi and Spencer Write a Book—And It Doesn't Suck

When Speidi's new self help tome crossed our desks, we were prepared to chuckle at their expense. We were, however, ill-equipped to contend with the smart, sassy, hilarious piece of writing that is How To Be Famous.

Either these two are the future of the publishing industry or they nabbed the best ghost writer in town. We are seriously impressed, not just by their quick wit, but by their willingness to divulge so many tricks of the trade (plastic surgery dos and don'ts, the virtues of standing by your man, paparrazi 101).

If your mission in life is to be the next Kardashian, Pratt or Conrad, start reading now. We've got an excerpt of the first chapter to get you started:

You can’t just walk out onto the street and say “Look at me!” and become famous. And unless you’re going to do something like crash-landing a plane in the middle of the Hudson River without hurting a single passenger, you’re going to have to take a few baby steps. So start by viewing your surroundings. The easiest way to begin your journey to fame is to find an existing group of moderately famous people and join them. Remember, strength in numbers. Hollywood history is littered with famous gangs. From the Rat Pack to the Brat Pack to the Frat Pack, it’s always been easier to get famous in a group of people than it is by yourself.

An Overachiever's Vacation = A Time to Plan

There I am in a hammock in Mendoza, where I spent two unrivaled days last week on a trip to Argentina with my boyfriend (the rest of our 8-day getaway was spent in tango-central Buenos Aires). At first glance, you might think I'm zoned out in this pic, just chillin' in my oversized shades. But, in fact, I'm probably doing what I do best on vacation: Fantasizing about all the ways I'm going to make my life fitter, happier and more productive—the moment I return home. Don't get me wrong: I relaxed. I laughed. I drank. A lot. But, at the end of the day, I'm a type-A+ person. While I can escape NYC and my office, I can never escape the grind that is my mind. Watching tango dancing at Cafe Tortoni made me wonder, Why haven't I mastered a sensual dance? The Andy Warhol exhibit at el Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires had me scolding myself for not using my MoMa member pass more often (and it expires at the end of this year!). Pronouncing Buenos Aires like Bwaynos Eye-Race made me curse myself for never becoming fluent in Spanish (I've already started researching classes). A trip to La Boca made me lament the fact that I never studied photography (so many bright colors and interesting angles to capture—but how?): 

As my boyfriend—who wished desperately to start a vineyard within our first five minutes at the boutique hotel and winery Finca Adalgisa—explained it, our senses were overstimulated; our minds were running wild. He's right, but I also think the constant desire to do more and enrich our lives also speaks to the fact that we're part of a generation that isn't interested in having a "bucket list" when we're 65 and finally retired. We'd like to experience as much as possible now, and be the well-rounded people we'd imagined we'd be growing up. 

Am I crazy?

Maybe I just need a vacation. 

—No. 25

Retro Housing: Female-Only Residences

If you have a dream of moving to New York, there’s a good chance it’s accompanied by some sort of unattainable, celluloid-inspired fantasy involving women like Carrie Bradshaw, Whitney Port and Monica Geller.

But if you’re more of a Peggy Olsen, Sylvia Plath, Grace Kelly kind of gal, consider the retro appeal of a women-only residence. I’m not saying get thee to a nunnery. I’m saying get thee to the best housing deal in New York City.

Women's apartments were a staple of 1950s New York for ladies hoping to get famous, employed or married and they still exist today, complete with supervisor. The Webster, for example, on West 34th St. goes for $1,000 per month. You get a single room, shared bath, hot breakfast and dinner, maid service, and the use of a walled garden and a roof deck. 

Dudes are persona non grata, but in The Webster, you can entertain your guy in the “beau parlor,” an alcove with a loveseat and a coffee table. Also, curfews no longer exist and there's a security detail, so you'll feel comfortable rolling in at 3 a.m.

But the best thing about lady tenements might just be the company you keep. Residents are mostly women in their twenties and, judging by this rich New York Times article, they’ll likely be an interesting bunch (think Anna Sui intern, aspiring actress, UN worker).

Would you do sorority living in the city? —No. 26

[Photo: Sara Krulwich/The New York Times]

Stop Straight Marriage Now

Maine voters showed their hate stripes last night, voting to repeal a law that allowed gay people to marry. This only makes me that much more confident in my decision as a straight woman* to just say no to marriage. Why embrace an institution that's tangled up in the government and the gods?

This is logic I put aside at a gay rights march in NYC last year, where I went with a candle and a glimmer of hope to stand up for my fellow people. Even if I didn't fancy marriage, all Americans should be afforded the same rights. Plus, yelling Hey hey, ho ho, homophobia's got to go! in a cop's earshot is, generally, a good time.

But now I'm back to square one: So fed up and disgusted by what marriage means to people in this country (man and wife, tradition) that I'm once again finding it difficult to want to fight for anyone's right to marry. I'm compelled, instead, to fight for the end of marriage as a right at all.

At the very least, I feel the need to pull a Brad Pitt and shame straight people out of tying the knot until all people are allowed to do it. Seriously, unless you've already dropped 15K-plus to throw your wedding, take off that engagement ring and declare yourself single-but-committed until further notice.

As for married people, how about staging a mass divorce-filing? Before we know it, the multi-billion-dollar wedding industry will be a gay rights lobbyist. —No. 25

*with the occasional lesbian fantasy, of course

One Tree Hill's Lady Stoner Episode

Double X recently theorized that women are averse to legalizing weed because “we just don’t have any strong pot-loving women role models.” I don’t know that ladies need female druggie mentors to convince them to fire up the bong or fight for a cause they believe in, but DX’s charge that stoner flicks conjure a “no girls allowed” drug culture are right on—just try naming 10 iconic lady potheads.

So you can imagine my surprise—and satisfaction—when I flipped on the CW’s primetime masterpiece One Tree Hill to find a stoner storyline devoted to Haley, Quinn and Brooke. To summarize: While the men were off camping, the women had a girl’s night in. Quinn brought over Haley’s favorite special brownies and fed them to her unsuspecting sister (how this woman went through four years of college without being exposed to edibles is hard to fathom).

The night proceeded with token marijuana references (getting the munchies, paranoia, chattiness) and the odd but drug-friendly introduction of a psychic, a bunny rabbit, a thunderstorm and hiding under a blanket with a broom. All things considered (including the fact that this show has overstayed its TV welcome), this episode worked. And for once, clichéd stoner culture felt new again. —No. 26

[Pot hijinks begin at 1:00]

Best Auto-Tune Ever: Subtle Sexuality

Dunder Mifflin's Kelly Kapoor makes music history. 'Nuff said:

[Subtle Sexuality]