Word: assless
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...looks to me quizzically, tilting her head to the side, and asks “Dirty...Cathy?” I know. This nickname sounds either like I’m trying to recreate Christina Aguilera’s assless-chaps days, rolling around in mud and proclaiming that I’m “too dirrrty to clean my act up,” or that I’m simply just someone who forgoes bathing on a regular basis. In either case, I sound like I have some serious issues, be they sexual or hygienic...
...gay” founder of Exchange Ministries, who believes nobody’s gay and yet gays are born gay and are actually gay because of their insecurities, despite Maher’s rebuttal that it takes a lot of security to walk out of the house in assless chaps. The two make peace in the end, as Westcott bounces over to Maher to give him a hug to the underscoring of the “Brokeback Mountain” theme song. This moment is almost matched when, in a later sequence with a bonafide pothead with clerical credentials, Maher...
...instead to describe how utterly bewildered I am by the ankle boot phenomenon. I actually can’t wrap my small, pea-like brain around them. When ankle boots showed up at fashion shows, I figured that they were one of those ironic things—like assless chaps—that appear in a sardonic, only-Prince-would-ever-wear-them-out-of-the-house way. When the Olsen twins started wearing ankle boots, I suspected that Mary-Kate and Ashley were nursing crack pipes, and laughed at their misfortune. When Lindsay Lohan started wearing them, however...
...bigger story than her music, largely because she appeared to have arrived on the set of the video for her song Dirrty direct from an intergalactic hooker convention. (She earned that extra r.) Aguilera's latest is titled Back to Basics, a signal that she's put away the assless chaps and is ready to focus. Basics, already the top-selling album in the country, sprawls over two discs, the lesser of which is dedicated to the singers who have inspired her. On Back in the Day, over vinyl scratches and a minimalist beat, she ticks off her roster...
Screw performing masculinity through one experimental night “in drag,” I think. I perform masculinity all the livelong day. It’s not only my broad shoulders and my assless, boxy build, but also my dogged insistence on breaking the feminine hegemony of tight pants and drooping decolletage. Indeed, toggling between my “real” identity as a woman and my “fake” identity as a man seems to require little more than a declaration of purpose: tonight, having pretty much changed nothing about my appearance...
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