publicists

I’ve been wanting post her for a minute but got distracted. Hazel-E from Love & Hip Hop Hollywood, the publicist turned rapper. I’ve seen over 30 memes going in on this woman’s nose. I won’t repost them because they were shit. No one can control how their face looks. Big features are NOT a bad thing and does not equate to “Ugly”. I’ll say it again, Big features are NOT a bad thing and does not equate to “Ugly”. People are too cruel and are quick to critique someone’s natural features, push them into insecurity and severe depression and play hand into why they get addicted to plastic surgeries, then have the nerve to judge the person for getting the plastic surgeries. If she got her nose done smaller, people will continue to preach “Self Hate” to her. 

This has irked me for a while and I had to vent. Big features are not inferior to smaller features. There’s so many women (and men) with noses like Hazel’s and there’s some people who feel like their noses look like hers and while you are clowning on her nose size, your friends are silently fighting insecurities and wanting surgeries because they see themselves in her and she represents a certain look.

Stop nose-shaming. 

anonymous asked:

No his publicist made a statement saying that it isn't true

mark and travis two people actually in blink 182 made a statement that it is so

anonymous asked:

In order to make money from a picture in media, that picture has to be approved, and it has to be worth paying for. if, for example, the picture a gay man who doesn't want to be outed, nobody is going to buy it, not since the whole fiasco with The Sun outing Stephen Gately, and if media wanted to buy it, a publicist, and/or management can, and often do, pay a higher price for the picture to stop it getting out there. Paps are called to locations to take pictures, they do not live in bushes.

Speaking of paps, I think you’ll find some pictures of Louis and his girlfriend together pretty interesting.

Some pictures from one of their first times hanging out/going on a date:

At the grocery store!

At the airport!

Front row at a Topshop fashion show!

A totally not staged kiss at the Olympics!

Blink 182's Tom DeLonge: Don't pretend there isn't more to the story

After the back and forth of Tom DeLonge’s manager announcing that he quit blink-182, back to his publicist claiming he hadn’t, and then with Mark and Travis’ tell-all exposing his disingenuous behavior over the years, Tom spoke out over Twitter - only then to delete it. His tweet claimed that there is much more to the story, and that even Travis was under consideration for being removed from the band. Check out an alleged copy of his tweet here by clicking “read more” below.

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Shape-Shifting

The reunion happens twice a year, when a certain L.A. girlfriend-slash-publicist comes to NYC for media tours.

The seasons change, but our cuisine—sushi—is always the same.

Where we once maintained a healthy competition over clients, adventures and acquaintances, we now recognize each other as soldiers of an equal stripe: members of the club no girl wants to join.

She remains the veteran publicist—two decades to my one—but in matters of widowhood, I’ve got seniority.

Over the usual sashimi and sake, we exchange updates. Unlike the two previous years, neither she nor I are on the brink of tears. Our late husbands’ names roll off our tongues easily, as if they are people we will see later tonight, back in our hotel rooms, apartments.

And in fact, this is not untrue.

I spent last night dreaming not of Alberto, but of her late husband: the very young, very French and very blond Laurent.

Laurent who was in a fatal Vespa accident en route to rugby practice in Beverly Hills.

In my dream, he appears in his former splendor before smile-winking at me, putting his finger to his lips—sssshhhh—and shape-shifting into a white paper box, festooned with Casablanca lilies.

I’m now holding the white-box-slash-Laurent amid a thickening scent of fresh-ground coffee and exotic flowers.

I stare at the box in my hands and force myself toward a candlelit room containing my friend—his widow—and a hundred people I don’t recognize.

Bits of his voice pulse through my fingertips, up my arms, and into my head:

Tell her…

Coffee…

Football…

The paper is torn, but…

This box of Laurent isn’t coming with a tidy message or gift card so I spend the entire dream searching for an explanation to give his wife about the absurdly unlikely item in my hands.

I feel unqualified to hold it.

Uneasy about setting it down.

I’m still battling my ineloquence when a ringing phone awakens me.

His wife is calling.

Are you OK this morning? she asks. 

Um, you mean other than the fact I dreamt of your husband all night? Other than that, I’m fine. Are you…OK?

Not really. I’ve had vertigo since I got back to the hotel last night. I didn’t sleep a wink and I’m still queasy.

Well, I’m not ill, but I’m kinda haunted…does a white paper box, Casablancas and the scent of coffee mean anything to you?

Actually, yes, she pauses. Tell me everything.