Make Up Your Own Caption For This Bizarre Pic From Trump's Traveling Circus Overseas

Something about Saudi men whispering about contrasting cultures and putting women in veils and abayas versus large, constricting gold belts.

Trump Insists This Kremlin Takeover of the White House Would Absolutely Never Be Allowed to Happen—Not Tacky Enough

'Hey, It's Not As Hot Down Here As I Had Expected!' Ailes, In Memoriam (Sort Of)

How to honor a man who built a television empire—even if he did it by exploiting the worst instincts and aggressively proud ignorance of everyday Americans? How to report straightforwardly on his impressive career achievements, without pointing out that his greatest creation paved the way for the current, awful inhabitant of the White House and the national disaster we now wake up to every morning? How does one take a moment, upon the news of his death, to pay homage to the man and his accomplishments—without writing about the fact that, despite his vision and ambition, he was privately a horrible monster who preyed on and abused the women he supervised and ended up being driven from his lofty perch? Back there somewhere, I was a magazine editor and once signed off on the choice of Ailes (they were always a group decision of the staff, these choices—I was but one voice) as "TV Executive of the Year"—about six months before details of his disgusting behavior were revealed. (Happily, an angel on my shoulder told me to stop short of putting him on the cover—something that was seriously discussed and considered.) Still, once the bombshell news of his horribleness broke, I argued for rescinding the award after the fact, which did not happen. (The reasoning was that it was his professional accomplishments that had been celebrated, not his personal life, a distinction I certainly appreciate. After all, if everyone in the media or ad business or any business—especially the people who run those businesses—who got a trophy had to give it back once details of their personal lives were exposed, there would be no awards. Yet, in the case of Ailes, my thinking was that what the guy was accused of and eventually lost his job over amounted to much more than an extramarital affair or borrowing the Girl Scout Cookie money from his kid's Hello Kitty purse.) So, how are media outlets treating the delicate balance this morning of singing Ailes' praises while reminding the public of his indiscretions and crimes? The Times' obit, unsurprisingly, has "ousted" as the fourth word, only to be followed in the same sentence by "pushed out." USA Today, likewise, mentions the dark side of Ailes in its lede. CNN makes no mention of Ailes' troubles till the sixth paragraph in. Predictably, the Fox News homepage sports a giant portrait of Ailes at the top, followed by a story that, just as predictably (since the network got publicly shamed and ended up many millions poorer for Ailes' behavior), makes no mention of the details of its godfather's troubled history, limited to the vague line, buried deep, that he'd left Fox in "a cloud of controversy" over allegations he "strongly denied." As usual, the pithiest, most searing commentary is offered via Twitter, where not only is #RogerAiles a trending topic but so is #RogerAilesIsDeadParty. Marc Lamont Hill, Temple University professor and BET and CNN personality, wrote: "Roger Ailes has died. Wow. Sending deep and heartfelt condolences to everyone who was abused, harassed, exploited, and unjustly fired by him." Jeet Heer, senior editor of The New Republic, offered that "Death demands a humane response. Our thoughts & prayers should be with the countless women Roger Ailes sexually assaulted and humiliated." But it is the tweet by "Diane N. Sevenay," the fictional Funny or Die character, that is most on the nose:

Welcome to Hudson Yards, a Dark, Hulking Icon of a Dystopian, Suburban Manhattan

If this week's issue of New York seems a little thicker than usual, it's because it boasts that truly unusual thing nowadays, for any magazine but especially a weekly or biweekly—a big, fat gatefold cover followed by a multipage advertising promotion for the forthcoming atrocity that is Hudson Yards, the pointless, soulless development on the far, far west side that has made traversing Tenth Avenue a nightmare for drivers, automobile passengers, pedestrians and winos for the better part of the last five years and that promises, when completed, to have Manhattanites who don't live or work in far, far west midtown or far, far west Chelsea making the far, far schlepp over to shop at, eat at and otherwise experience what is basically an overblown, depressing suburban shopping mall—one that will also, as it happens, house the headquarters of corporations like Time Warner, L'Oréal and Coach, thus making it equally a depressing suburban office park. The insert features pithy quotes from the likes of David Chang ("We need to have bigger, bolder visions") and Thomas Keller ("Higher expectation is standard for us"), both among the restaurateurs and shop-keeps banking on the multigazillion-dollar reimagining of the Hudson riverfront. We've all known for some time now about well-heeled department store Neiman Marcus making its New York City debut there, but as the ad details, we can look forward to outposts from other exciting retailers as well. There's Banana Republic, The Body Shop, Kiehl's, Sephora and Zara, just to name a few—in other words, no brands so exotic as to be unknown to your garden-variety, mid-range American mini-mall. And speaking of things that are iconic-slash-suicide-inspiring, what would this new real estate destination be without an overwrought, miserable-looking architectural centerpiece? Here's a sneak peek, from the advertisement, of the multilevel balcony/staircase thingy that will dominate the main courtyard of Hudson Yards:

I'm thinking the inspiration was a honeycomb, mated with an alien ship, mashed up with a sort of DNA double helix and a dash of wig from Pricilla, Queen of the Desert. In other words, a hopeless mess that is not only yet another in the long, long line of exhibits supporting my sincere belief that all architects should be hanged but also a fitting focal point for such a monstrous pile of industrial awful.

The Internet Presents, the Pictures You Could've Gone All Day Without Seeing

Via Men's Health

Oh Dear, I Believe I Have the Wrong Number!

You may have heard of the award-winning British ad agency called Adam & Eve—but as a Google search reveals, that's not the only type of business to appropriate the names of the original sinners. I hope my mother isn't reading this blog.

Paul Ryan Joins List of Most Punchable Faces

For those who don't read or who get their information only from media properties run by Rupert Murdoch, here's why. 

Never Wear Your Husband: The Times Demonstrates Why Punctuation Matters

I felt somewhat bewildered going through the Times's Met Gala slideshow this morning. Who are these people? I kept asking myself. (The question What the fuck are they wearing? is, meanwhile, a given.) Except for Catherine Deneuve, Madonna, the hostess Anna Wintour herself and a couple of others, I caught myself wondering whether I was looking at A-listers from a fashion event or a bunch of juvenile delinquents who'd gotten into their mothers' makeup. The theme of the so-called Oscars of the East Coast this year was "edgy and asymmetrical." Which to me just seems to be an excuse to wear your pants without having them tailored. While the hottest runway models, actresses and musicians were natural choices for Anna's invitation list, others were a little more curious. Katie Holmes, really? Are we actually still pretending she's famous? Just check out her imperious, austere pose—I think she's played Jackie O so many times now that she thinks she is her. Then there are those obviously invited not so much for their pop culture or fashion cred but rather for their genetic provenance. Like Frances Cobain. The Southern expression "Bless her heart" springs to mind. Luckily, Nick Jonas showed up, which always makes everything, no matter how awful, somehow better, regardless of what he's wearing. Or even if he isn't wearing anything at all. Ever see photos of some big, fancy party and wish you'd been a part of it? In this case, it was more like thanking God you were nowhere near it. And as someone whose own sartorial choices run the gamut from J. Crew (high) to Fruit of the Loom (low), there was no shot of that happening anyway.