Eat Pray Love is one of those formulaic, cliché, feel-good “women’s films” that nonetheless makes me cry the whole way through. And obviously it’s based on a book, which is based on some woman’s real life experience. The only part that really bothered me about it was the happy ending.

People complained that it was episodic, and there wasn’t a well-developed plot, and it was too long, and the book was better, etc. etc. But at the end of the day I just wanted to watch Julia Roberts gorge herself on pizza and gelato, wear Indian saris, and make out with James Franco (and Javier Bardem). So I got exactly what I wanted, and sometimes, as Martha would say, “It’s a good thing.”

For anyone who complained about the movie, here’s my advice: “It’s ‘Eat Pray Love’ starring Julia Roberts … not ‘Consumption Devil Worship Bestiality’ starring Isabella Rossellini.’”

- Haley Hogan

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Without a job and without a place to live (other than my dad’s apartment, which doesn’t really count), I decided the only thing left to do was to throw myself into charity work. So I adopted a stray cat from the Animal Rescue League of New Hampshire and was immediately gratified by my good deed doing.

She is a miracle of beauty and science. There are no words to describe the adorableness of a kitten cleaning itself, yawning, drinking out of water glasses, chasing its tail, napping, eating, hiding, hunting, etc. The world is a magical place for cats, and they can amuse themselves by simply staring at the water dripping in the tub, or watching the bubbles move in a bottle of sparkling water. I wish I could learn more from my kitten, Princess Mirabella, but unfortunately I can only watch in wonder.

- Haley Hogan

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On a trip to Sweden I got to experience the exceptional tradition of the Swedish summer solstice holiday, Midsummer. The celebrations begin with adorable Swedish children dancing around a Maypole-like structure resembling a cock and balls. The day continues with feasting, drinking (copious amounts of schnapps), and singing traditional erotic songs.

Since it’s never dark in the summer in Sweden, the drinking sort of just continues indefinitely, and inevitably devolves into running naked through the forest and skinny-dipping in a freezing lake.

The best part of Midsummer is that each girl gathers up a bouquet of seven different flowers and places it underneath her pillow, so that she can dream about her future husband. I didn’t have any dreams that night, which is just as well since Leonardo DiCaprio is probably not available to star in dreams.

- Haley Hogan

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I recently realized that I the man I was dating was almost three times my age. I could no longer see the charm in his traditionalist, sexist, colonialist, elitist outlook on life. So I decided to make a run for it. Unfortunately, I had left a lot of valuable personal items in his apartment. I snuck over to his place while he was at work and gathered up all my left-over belongings: special face creams and toiletries in the bathroom, my extra MacBook power charger, the emerald necklace he gave me for my birthday, 12 pairs of pantyhose he always wanted me to wear (because he is a chauvinistic, elderly creeper), etc. etc.

I also took a couple of roles of toilet paper (just to stock up) and contemplated stealing some of his expensive “artistic” photographs of naked women. I guess I wanted some revenge, since my friend recently spotted my ex out on the town, trying to cheat on me with another young woman. Something is wrong with the world that a 60-year-old man can date multiple 20-year-old girls at once, but a 60-year-old woman is lucky to get messaged by an 85-year-old guy on a dating website.

- Haley Hogan

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I had the mixed fortune of being invited to the garret apartment of a middle-aged Parisian fashion photographer. He lives at the site of the famous Lolita-esque Marlon Brando film, Last Tango In Paris.

He offered me fresh strawberries and told me that he had had a rich life, peppered with exciting encounters with Carla Bruni (before she had plastic surgery and became a model), Jean-Michel Basquiat, Karl Lagerfeld, and all the top supermodels of the 1970s. He asked me if I wanted to write his memoirs: “the story of a sensual young man who wasted his life on party people.” I think that, like most fashion photographers, he wanted mainly to have sex with me. So I ate the strawberries and made a run for it.

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It began as a fairy tale story of a beautiful Indonesian model, Manohara (“thief of hearts” in Sanskrit), who married a Malaysian Prince when she was only 17 years old. She claims that her life turned into a nightmare and that the Prince kept her as his sex slave–trapping her in the castle, cutting her with razors, injecting her with tranquilizers, and raping her. The controversy set off a dramatic court case that is the guilty pleasure tabloid sensation in Indonesia.

The public is divided on the topic of this Princess in Flight: some accuse her of being a manipulative gold-digger with mother issues, and others think of her as a tragic romantic heroine with bewitching beauty. She was on the list of Harper’s Bazaar Indonesia called her “Indonesia’s 100 Most Precious Women,” but the existence of this list exists should tell us something about women’s status in Indonesia more than anything else. Wherever the reality lies, Princess Manohara’s career as a soap opera star is thriving, and she even has plans for her own cosmetics line. Looks like all it takes is a good PR specialist to liberate a girl from the conjugal trenches. [Read the full LA Times article to learn more about the debauchery.]

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Tim Burton’s new Alice in Wonderland film is a delicious feast for anyone with a taste for the glamorous gothic aesthetic that Burton does so well. Alice is played by an adorable 20-year-old Australian actress (Mia Wasikowska) who bears an uncanny resemblance to Gwyneth Paltrow and is perfect for the role of “sweet young girl embittered by prim Victorian England.” Hence her upcoming role as Jane Eyre.

The sets are decadent and decaying abstractions that seamlessly blend reality with animation; the costumes are an enviable mix of antique lace, contemporary couture, and damsel in distress; the story line is a feminist one of a girl dumping a classic creeper to explore the world on her own; all the actors are in their elements, even the irritatingly omnipresent Anne Hathaway as the White Queen. Some stories never lose their luster, especially if they involve an escapist scenario to a land of drunken teatimes, psychedelic caterpillars, and a big Hollywood auteur director.

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While skiing in the French Alpine resort town of Val-d’Isère, I encountered many a Slim Aarons situation. From the lounge chairs at the foot of the slopes, to the Frenchies drinking mid-afternoon red wine in those lounge chairs, it was a surreally elegant ski experience.

From my early years, I recall awkward moments at ski school involving a combination ski suit with suspenders and a desperate need to go pee while riding on the chair lift. I always wanted to become that girl in the snow bunny outfit like some Bavarian ice princess at her chalet in Gstaad sipping slope-side champagne and wearing furry boots that look like animals.

This time around, my sartorial choices were more 1970s-pimp than 1980s snow princess. But no matter what sort of Italian magenta jumpsuit or rabbit fur chapka hat you wear, the awkward mountaintop experiences of youth still abound. Ski boots inevitably make you walk like you have a load in your pants, and falling on your ass is practically a requirement.

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Jet setting is the best, especially if it is on the arm of a dashing man or woman who has piles of money to spend on plane tickets and lavish hotel suites. In theory. In the movies, that is.

A flight attendant friend of mine makes a lifestyle out of meeting men in the first class cabin. She’s seen most of the globe and has more stories of luxury travel at the top than Hugh Hefner, or Condoleezza Rice.

She was recently invited for a romantic last-minute trip from Barcelona to New York. Unfortunately, when she arrived to the Manhattan hotel room of her gentleman friend, she picked up his cell phone and found that he had sent the same text message invitation to a multitude of women. It was an international chain text message booty call, and she was the unlucky one who responded. This time the Wanker of the Week met a literal Princess in Flight.

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The lovely indie-chic romantic comedy, 500 Days of Summer, tells the story of a male 20-something phenomenon: the guy who is desperate to settle down to one woman and only one woman. He is the prince in this modern Los Angeles anti-fairy-tale, instead of the emotionally unavailable wanker so prevalent in popular films and everyday life. Unfortunately, the boy falls for the female twenty-something phenomenon: the girl who is desperate to remain “casual” and never commit to one guy. She is the princess in flight.

The disarmingly disgruntled leading man realizes that he is not the prince to his princess. Romantic relationships are so often littered with this imbalance of expectations — one person wants to have a baby, and the other person just wants to go to happy hour at a karaoke bar. You could call it “bad timing.” But for the ones who want to have a baby, it’s more like an extended mourning period of bleak wandering in streets that are haunted by the girl who liked to sing karaoke.

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