Summer Breeze

first echo end of summer

Pop culture goodness bursting at the


The following outburst of word vomit is brought to you by two cups of coffee and the fact that my office is pouncing to break out early to kick off the final holiday weekend of the season...mimosas in the kitchen, y'all!

The end of summer is always bittersweet. The scent of sunscreen is replaced with the delicious smells of fresh Composition notebook paper and sharpened Number 2 pencils. Box office grosses are overanalyzed (Dark Knight, who knew?). Oscar contenders rev up their engines. And the flab you couldn't get rid of before Memorial Day just gets covered up in those favored "layers" you love to talk about so much (hurrah for scarves and zip-up fleece!).

Before we return to 90210, before we watch Biden duke it out with Palin (I mean, really, the woman's husband is a "champion snow machine racer") and before our sunburns fade and we finally get every grain of sand out of our asses, let us look back a summer that flew by faster than you could say "Hot Tamale Train" (After all, everyone and their mother's cousin seem to be pumping out summer recaps and top 10 lists these days, so why not jump on that wagon?).


Iron is hot. Racer stalls. Sex is great. And Crystal Skull...Oy to the vey. Most importantly, however, SYTYCD begins, and all is well once Cat Deeley struts on stage. Personally: I do Vegas, my dad finishes his two-week stay in L.A., my best friend visits and I hit the beach for the very first time this year (I proceed to rock a bitchin' tan).


Swingtown brings back the porno 'stache. Lindsay's a les. And Jamie Lynn's a mommy. Personally: I get my fill of cocktail birthday parties, host Hot Mix 4 at Happy Ending on Sunset, get treated to the most spectacular steak dinner by an Aussie fashion designer friend, officially become the Managing Editor of and then get my rave on at the Electric Daisy Carnival at the L.A. Memorial Coliseum (My golden tan disappears).


Meryl Streep's crowned "Dancing Queen". The Jonas Brothers are everywhere. Miley Vs. Demi becomes the new Lauren Vs. Heidi. And a psychotic with a bad makeup job torments our Caped Crusader. Personally: Outfest kicks off and I take over Chicago for the first time and Comic-Con in San Diego for the second time.


Michael Phelps Overkill Mania invades the world. Obama chooses Biden. And Personally: I frazzle myself with the ginormous ball of stress that is the Hot in Hollywood benefit and later attempt to further legitimize my blogger status by sending material to a couple of popular websites (names withheld for obvious reasons).

My Labor Day weekend was neither hopping nor hella crazy...

Friday night was a chill potluck dinner at a friend's condo in West Hollywood (Kathleen rocked out her Danish meatballs). Saturday was spent scanning the pages of Esquire in the tire-filled lobby of Firestone while getting an oil change, followed by a surprise birthday party in a penthouse near Century City. Sunday: had a little HIH pow-wow in Echo Park, made a Pinkberry run to satisfy a serious craving (I had dreamed about green tea and blueberries the night before), dropped by a barbecue with Swaga, and then brought some bottles of Miller to a coworker's pool party in Laurel Canyon. I was home my 9:30, in bed with a frozen South Beach dinner, some frozen yogurt and an old Agatha Christie murder mystery in the DVD player. And finally Monday: a screenplay session with Corey at Java Detour in WeHo, meeting Doug in Hollywood to check out his newly purchased condo (I mean, who doesn't have one nowadays?), lunch at Kitchen 24, some cardio at the Arclight gym, and then back home to prep for a Chinese take-out/movie night with some the Medimoores, Cookie and JLCJules (y'all know who you are).

Like I said, wasn't a crazy weekend.

Now, bring on the VMAs, the Emmys and the foliage.

I can't wait to wear my new hoodie.



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