The Inaugural Balls went on all night and it looks like Good Morning America's Diane Sawyer enjoyed the open bars. Thanks, ABC, for not pulling her off the air despite all this slurred nonsense.
Everyone in the Australian ad industry is a drunk cokehead! Well, not quite everyone. But according to new survey, "Asked if they knew of work associates who had an alcohol problem, only 7 per cent of those working in media agencies were able to answer 'no.'" Thirty-six percent of the Aussie ad industry said either "yes" or "possibly" when asked if they drink too much. And a fifth said they've used drugs at work. This raises four very important sociological questions:
The time has finally come for Steve Dunleavy—the problem-drinking right wing New York Post columnist who's been called "[Rupert] Murdoch's fiercest, most loyal and longest-running attack dog"—to officially hang it up. The Post is throwing him a retirement party October 1 (click to enlarge the official invite!), putting a -30- on a career that really wound down months ago due to health problems. They don't make 'em like him any more! Is what you say about guys like this. Let's take a fond(ish) look back at the life of "The Prince of Darkness," an angry tabloid legend: Dunleavy was born in Sydney, Australia in 1938. He moved to New York as a stringer in the mid-1960s, and made his way to the Post after Rupert Murdoch bought it in the late 1970s. In 1977 he found time to publish a book called "Elvis- What happened?", a behind-the-scenes look at the life of The King that came out just weeks before Elvis died. Hm. In the 80s Dunleavy was a lead reporter on A Current Affair, the Post of television.
Ha ha, the New York Times ran a story about how all Brits are drunken louts and when they go on vacations to Greece they fight and vomit and drink and cuss and cross-dress so much that Crete is like, wanting to ban British citizens altogether. Ha, unruly people. But for Times reporter Sarah Lyall, all this drunken madness coverage is familiar territory. We must ask, in all seriousness: has Sarah Lyall spent her entire career on the "Drunk-ass English people" beat? Look at this: NYT stories by Sarah Lyall, a selection: 6/2/06 "It's Springtime for Soccer, And For Rowdy England Fans" 1/11/06 "Ever Since Falstaff, Getting Sloshed Is Cricket" 7/22/04 "British Worry That Drinking Has Gotten Out of Hand" 9/2/02 "What is it About British Men? Cheap, Drunk, and Stiff-Lipped." 5/1/00 "Later Pub Hours? Europe Tells Britain It's Time." There's more!
Our friend Copyranter brings this troubling ad to our attention. The ad, from today's USAToday (a highly esteemed bastion of journalism), uses a mugshot of Lindsay Lohan, coupled with what appear to be promotional photos for that Bennigan's off Route 9, to show us how drunk-sensing ignition locks should be used in moderation. Because, I, um, guess there is a gray area when it comes to drunk driving. So, yeah, their cause is pretty bad. But even worse is that they spelled the freckled boozehound's name wrong. It's "Lindsay," not "Lindsey" you dopes. You take out a full page ad in a national newspaper and you can't even spell a damn name right? You've been drinking too much. As have I. Click through for larger.
More of your usual drunks and possible queers this morning, much like a college theatre department. The first item is from the Mirror: "Which celebrity is dating a gorgeous female celeb AND a handsome bloke at the same time? He's desperate to keep up the pretence of being straight. " Hmm. He'll be all the way gay by the end of sophomore year. The drunk is after the jump.
So on accident I went into the Gawker office yesterday and, bored, I picked up the June Spin, which apparently is still being published. The cover story on Marilyn Manson turns out to be written by New York hero Jonathan Ames, he of the old infamous New York Press debauchery 'n' self-hatred column and a few fine novels. (Some of the story is online.) So Jonathan goes out to L.A.—excuse me, Chatsworth, for real— and Marilyn Manson's manservant lets him in and serves him a goblet of absinthe. How goth! And uh oh!
