I write small and weird. Romcoms are not in my skill set.

I myself identify as a recovering Blockhead. You'd be surprised how many twenty- and thirty-something hipster chicks have the NKOTB skeleton in their closet, albeit artfully concealed by stacks of Ksubi skinny jeans and ironic Judas Priest T-shirts.

Whether it's a blatant homage or unconscious mimicry, the Rolling Stones have permanently, indelibly influenced how rock stars look and behave.

These days, the Rolling Stones still have an edge, but that fangs-out ferocity has mellowed considerably.

I've been meaning to write about the Rolling Stones, but I am the furthest thing from a hipster rock journalist.

Now '90210' is returning with an all-new cast of slightly more plausible teens. I'll be honest: I wish the old cast was back. Ideally, this spin-off would be an Ice Storm-esque exploration of the West Beverly gang's bleak adult lives.

Personally, I consider 'Titanic' the most brilliant example of successful counterprogramming; the film actually countered itself by embedding an epic chick flick within a classic disaster movie.

I think I might be one of the only people in America, or at least the only person I know, who saw both 'The Dark Knight' and 'Mamma Mia!' on their shared opening weekend.

I normally ignore the History Channel.

Let it be said that the makeup artist at '90210' made me look better for the fake red carpet than I've ever looked on an actual red carpet.

Fact: The new '90210' is cooler than the old '90210.' It's the lithe, streamlined Skipper to the elder series' venerable Barbie. Gone are the traditional parents - they've been replaced by a hipster mom n' pop who get busted necking in the car.

Couture gowns are like gremlins; you can't expose them to bright light or get them wet.

But here is the single greatest thing about the 'Vanity Fair' party: There are uniformed In-N-Out Burger employees circulating the room with trays of cheeseburgers all night long.

My boyfriend is Italian and from New Jersey, so naturally he was thrilled to meet Joe Pesci.

I've been watching 'American Idol' since its debut season in 2002. Back then, America hadn't yet evolved into a gladiatorial cybernation of bloggers, tweeters, and self-ordained voice coaches.

As a kid, I spent every summer bent over a stack of books, obsessively writing detailed reports on each one.

If I want to get a taste of beach culture, I'll fire up my season 2 DVD of 'Beverly Hills, 90210.'

The fashion industry isn't merely content to encase my meaty flanks in skintight denim. Oh, no! That denim also has to be white, a color that attracts ketchup, wine, garlic aioli, and any other foodstuffs I might otherwise be able to enjoy if I wasn't wearing ridiculously tight pants.

Tabloid photos capture people at their most self-conscious and disoriented; in real life, Paris Hilton is like an elegant paper crane.

The public's appetite for frothy, flippant blondes has waned, but Paris Hilton still fascinates me.

When I was a kid, I attended a small Catholic school in a south suburb of Chicago.

Hollywood is a perpetual summerland, a temperate, godless yaw where the very word 'season' has been co-opted by television executives. There are few harbingers of winter here.

I've always been a writer, I've always been a storyteller, but I never thought about screenwriting.

I would never consent to a lame publicity stunt at a time when I already want to hide.