Noah Calhoun and Allie Hamilton have found each other once again. After over a year of separation, Noah and Allie were spotted canoodling at a Southern California club where Noah (aka Ryan Gosling) was DJ’ing. For those of you who have not seen The Notebook, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s one of the greatest love stories of all time–second only to Dirty Dancing, which I will write about tomorrow in celebration of its 21st anniversary. The Notebook tells the story of Noah, a country boy with a heart of gold, and Allie, a city girl who had a big ‘ol stick up her ass when she first met Noah. After a carnival, a tender dance in an empty street, a bike ride through the woods, and various excursions on the open water, Noah and Allie became completely enamored of each other. At the time that Noah and Allie first split last year, Noah (aka Gosling) reportedly was accosted by angry women asking Noah to explain how he could let Allie go.
Noah. I’m happy you finally found your way back to Allie. I apologize for all the letters I wrote you, asking you to reconsider the breakup. I’m sorry for calling you an insolent pig. I’m sorry for sending you the tissues carrying my tears at the news of Noah and Allie’s separation. I’m sorry Noah. I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you every day for a year. And boy, did my hard work pay off. Because your love wasn’t over for me. And it’s still not over!
Some clips of Noah and Allie (aka McGosling)
And yes, for those who know me, that last video does hold a special place in my heart.
Disclaimer: I am in no way suggesting that I am a supermodel. I am far from it. I eat cows, chickens, pigs, and fish. Hell, I’m Chinese/Taiwanese–I eat parts of that cow, chicken, pig, and fish that you didn’t know existed. I eat ice cream. I eat cookies. I box. I lift weights. And I don’t throw up voluntarily. Supermodel, I am not.
However, I do love Banana Republic. Their clothes are of relatively high quality, but I don’t vomit when I see the price tag (usually). However, I have come to the conclusion that their pants only fit women who are 6 feet tall. I’ve never received a pair of BR pants that don’t require alterations. Now I’m pretty tall for being a chick (5′ 8″ with my shoes on, thank you very much). But when I put on BR pants, I suddenly feel like I’m a 10-year old wearing mommy’s clothing and perhaps with a gangload of lipstick all over my face and curlers all up in my hair. Wait. That’s not me. That’s some movie I saw. I never did the wear mommy’s lipstick thing as a kid. Although, I did do the mini hair-bear thing. You know what I’m talking about–you were alive in the 80s (and if you weren’t, you suck and you make me feel old). I took the front part of my hair and made it go just high enough on my head to create a little wave. Kind of like this, but much tamer (since I have flat, straight Asian hair). Thank you Ms. Jackson, I think you’re nasty:
Then I sprayed a shit-load of 89 cent Aquanet all over that beauty until it crusted over. If anyone touched the wave, the Aquanet would flake off, creating a snowstorm of nasty, crusty, hair product. In fact, if anyone tells you they once saw snow in the California Bay Area in the late 80s or early 90s, that wasn’t snow. It was some pre-pubescent chick’s nasty ass wad of hair. Imagine that on a California holiday card. Just put a bunch of hair bear chicks in a treehouse. Plant the family underneath. Hair bear chicks shake their crusty scalps, and voila! It’s a White F*cking Christmas.
Anyways, I digress. I have to go to the tailor today to get my pants altered. Because supermodel, I am not.