Madison Moore

One of my favorite pastimes is getting lost in a magazine store. Within seconds I’m high off the smell of all those glossy fantasies, the cologne inserts, and millions of dollars worth of ads for things I can’t easily afford.

I may be an art fag now, but I wasn’t always so cultured (British accent). My earliest memories of going to museums all involve me being bored off my ass, constantly ready for lunch, in the museum but not there.

My most dominant and confusing trait is the desire to be seen and hidden, there and not there, mysterious and open, hard and soft, edgy and romantic all at the same time.

What I love about the spread is the audacity to take on something as recent and immediate as the oil spill, and to keep it ugly. American Vogue, for instance, would never, not ever, anywhere, anytime, do an editorial like this. It’s risky. It provokes controversy, and if there’s one thing American Vogue doesn’t like, it’s controversy.

What ticks me off the most is when people with real innovation (often black or gay) don’t get the credit for the ideas that less creative people steal. It is as if it’s A-OK to steal from gay culture, say, because it’s a minority culture, it’s less visible, it doesn’t exist in everybody’s heads.

When I discovered the World Wide Web I started looking at porn online, and I think a lot of what I know about the types of guys I like, even the kind of sex I like, I learned from porn. Mom and dad weren’t going to show me the rainbow ropes, so to speak. So I had to learn from somewhere. Seeing a lot of porn taught me which sexual role I liked best (top or bottom).

You know how you have a list of celebrities you’d sleep with if you ran into them just like that? Or what about how you begin every relationship by telling your new girlfriend or boyfriend, okay, listen, I think you’re totally awesome and everything, but see I have this list. A list of celebrities I want to sleep with. And, um, if I meet any of these people and they want to get with me, I kind of, um, have to go with it…

Season Eight of Project Runway premiered last night on Lifetime, the network for women, and I learned two things. For the first time in the show’s history, Heidi Klum is not pregnant. Ta-daa! I don’t know how many babies Heidi has, all I know is that it seems likes she is preggers every season. Girl, give that uterus a break.

There has been much talk about the state of black fashion models, why there are so few. And time and again I’ve heard the line: if you put a black face on a cover, the magazine won’t sell.

Christopher Nolan’s epic masterpiece Inception is just about as narcissistic as movies can get. I mean really: it’s 2 ½ hours long and you have to stay put the whole time or you’ll miss a crucial plot twist. Also: nobody knows what it’s about.

Don’t cha wish your boyfriend was gay like me? Don’t cha wish your boyfriend was fierce like me? Don’t cha? According to July’s Teen Vogue, gay dudes are this season’s Must Have Accessory. Hurry – everybody put down your ‘It’ bag and go get u a gay before we’re all sold out.

When you put “Gurls” and “Empire” next door to each other, you get the age-old stereotypes about the East coast versus the West coast. Everybody thinks New Yorkers are arrogant, fast, impatient, elitist, wear black, whereas L.A. people are virtually busting at the seams with Botox, candy, implants, and sex. Pick your poison!