Katy Perry: Shine on, Sister

Dear Katy,

Glitter is my favorite, but light-up clothing is new territory for me. Turns out...I saw a light-up dress, and I liked it!

I won't play games here, I want it. Please send me your light-up dress. Here's why this just makes sense: I am really scared of the dark. Each day as the sun sets, I struggle to affix flashlights and glow sticks to my clothing. Why would you let me work that hard when I could just, you know, have a dress?

Look, I promise I will keep it clean and fully charged. I won't play with it while I am driving and endanger others. I will keep it on low when I am near the elderly.

I am truly the perfect person to watch over that dress. Think about it Katy, and I know you'll do the right thing.

Johnny Weir: Glitter Medalist

Dearest Johnny,

I should have known. How could I have been so blind?

You bathe in glitter! It's all so obvious now.

I consider myself to a be well-read, accomplished glitterphile, but it never occurred to me that the simplest way to an all-over shine such as yours would be to douse myself in the tiny mirrored bits of heavenly perfection we call glitter. Thank you sir, for educating me.

Normally at this point in my letter, I would ask you to please forward to me a scintillating item of your own. But this is a special a case as I have never seen, and calls for the ultimate submission, if you will: Can I just have you?

We can hang out and talk sparkles all day and you can teach me how to achieve your Olympic competitor-level shimmer. I will carry you on piggy back all day. You will be my ultimate disco ball accessory/friend and everybody, even Lady Gaga will be jealous.

This is the best idea I have ever had!

Watch out Serena, there's a new diva in town

Dear Roger Federer,

Congrats on your 14th grand slam title! You really are at the top of your game right now and are deserving of all the kudos you are receiving. You are truly a Renaissance man, with all of that skill on the court AND now budding fashionista! Who knew! You have propelled yourself into the highest ranks of dandy gentleman—James Brown, the Pope, and Sargent Pepper.

Such bold Fashion choices you have made...White and Gold lamé, headband, waistcoat, flowing comfy pants. It takes a man with certain type of confidence to pull that off. Also it's a wise move to have your logo all over every article of clothing as well, you travel a lot and things can get misplaced. It's just like writing your name in your underwear for summer camp, only in gold-lamé stitching.

But it's the bag I really need to talk to you about. That is one fancy accessory, it seems like you have a new one for every grand slam that you compete in...so send this one to me. Summer is finally here and I need a new pool bag. Imagine how jealous everyone would be if I had a white and gold Roger Federer original by my side, holding my fluffy Egyptian-cotton towels, SPF 45 and gossip rags. Fabulous.

As for phase 2 of your glamorous make-over, I'm thinking: Scantily clad servants fanning you, maybe a throne (definitely a throne, with your logo at the head), oooo—a cape (with your logo on it) and perhaps a fancy ring (also with your logo), so that when you vanquish your foes, they can kneel at your feet and kiss your fancy ring. Just throwing out a few ideas. Drop me a line I've got a million of them.

Glitter for the street urchins.

Dear Eva Longorrhea,

Don't bend over!

Not even if Felicity Huffman throws a pancake on the floor in front of you. Not even if Tony Parker drops a handful of diamonds. (Okay, you know what? If Parker drops the sparklers, you go ahead and present your rump like a baboon in heat, just scoop up the ice! What was I thinking?) But I digress.

What I'm saying is, you are a lady of means (even on all fours, scrambling for diamonds) and you deserve a whole dress. I am a but a poor lass, begging for alms in the street. 'alf a fancy dress is more than I've 'ad in me 'ole life! (Oh God, apparently I'm also an 19th-century Cockney!)

Now get up off the floor, have a word with your stylist about hem length and send me the shimmery, rainbowy half dress, poste haste. I need to wrap it around Tiny Tim for warmth. You believe me, right?

Bless ye, kind lady!

His and Hers Glitter: Dita at Eurovision


Psssst, Dita,

Hey, I'm a nice girl who likes to help a sister out, so I have to tell you: Your boobs are showing. They are. A little bit. It’s cool, though. I think I have a safety pin. I don't even think that guy next to you saw anything! Say, by the way, I notice your hooters seem to have a touch of the fairy dust where it counts. And now that we're conspiratorial galpals and we share everything, I have to ask: Can you please give me those pasties? I don’t care if the sticky has already worn off. I will just superglue them onto me. That’s how bad I want diamondboobs.

Here's your chance to help a sister out, Dita. I'm counting on you. Thanks.

HIS TAKE (or Nancy's missed opportunity):

Psst "Alex Swings Oscar Sings!" dude,

Oscar (can I call you Oscar? You must be Oscar, right? Cause you're singing and not swinging), LOVE the pants!! Dita is definitely rocking her sparkle teats and she is a lovely drink of water. But let's talk about you for a moment...bravo. Bravo, I say, at your choice of costume! You and Miss Dita are shining (quite literally) examples of the theory to emphasize your best features. I am happy to tell you that Eurovision finally has seen some class upon it's stage. But Eurovision won't last forever and the whole world (except America, of course [side note: HELLO, can we please air this in the USA, please! Come on! Who do I have to blow in programming to get this on the air?]) has already seen these mirrored beauties, so let me have them. I know that I'd have bit of extra manscaping to do, you know down there, but I think they'd be a big hit at the dog park.

Domo Arigato, Mrs Obam(o)

Dear First Lady Michelle Obama,


'K, you know what? I haven't written lately because I haven't seen anything I truly covet. I want to thank you, thank you, Mrs. Obama, for waking me from my greed lethargy with these spiffy kicks. I mean, check you out! You're the wife of the most powerful and coolest world leader on the planet, but you're not swanning in the background in shapeless pastels or stomping around in mannish separates, are you? Nope. Not you, Michelle. (Can I call you Michelle? Cuz I feel like I can.) You are out in front, glittering in cardigans, whooshing in twirly skirts and taking care of business in neato coats. And of course, telling D.C. how it is while wearing...shiny silver and pink sneakers. Wanna be BFFs?

Know what? We should go for margaritas, don't you think? Margaritas...and then J.Crew! Yessss! Um, can you get a Secret Service guy to be the designated driver?

Normally, this is part where I ask for the coveted item, but I'm not going to do that this time. I'm simply going to ask if I can borrow them one time when we're hanging out. Cool? Cool!

Call me!

Inglourious Basterd Boots

photo: Vanity Fair

Dear Mr. Brad Pitt,

Let's get this out of the way...I'm not totally against the 'stache. You are, after all, frickin' Brad Pitt and you've seriously won the genetics lottery. It's dashing in a cheesy Clark Gable-esque way and I'm sure Angelina likes the added stimulation (if you know what I mean).

But I digress. Kudos to the stylist for this look, it's retro in a sexy, stylish way. It makes me think that Inglourious Basterds will be very stylie in deed. But I'm thinking that these are not the clothes one wears for child rearing, and honey, you've got a a lot of spawn running about. The thought of some rug rat puking all over those fine leather boots makes me nervous and queezy.

I offer the only logical solution...hand them over to me. I'll take really good care of them and keep them away from errant bodily fluids. While you are at it, just hand over the whole outfit. I may not wear it all together like you are, that's a lot of look. But let's go through this together: boots—hot, check; corduroy pants—nice, check; sweater—lookin' good, check; Scarf—not my fav, but check; socks—kick-ass with those boots, check; Jacket—winner, check please! Love them all, I'll be waiting patiently by the post box.

Hey you know what? I'll throw in babysitting the kids while you and Angie go out for a burger (please make Angie eat a burger). Deal? Deal.