Being a regular girl is work enough—God knows what being a Cosmogirl entails. A tolerance for fruitinis? The ability to exist on salad alone? The shamelessness required to "[come] to bed in a soaking wet white tee shirt"? We've been gleefully following Cosmopolitan blogger Leo (Smith '07)—her blog's narrative is "one socially awkward girl's attempts to transform into a sexy, social butterfly." At first, we pointed and laughed like bullies—but it was only because deep down, we all feel awkward. We teased her about her use of the word "[doing] the grown-up" as a euphemism for sex, and how she wondered aloud if playing the field was "immoral". We also said that "increasingly, watching her thirty-day evolution at the hands of people who professionally suggest 'how to be a total man-magnet' is like watching a gazelle getting torn apart by hyenas." That was bitchy. But we were rooting for her all along. Leo's written her goodbye post, and we were worried: did the Cosmo machine spit out a Cosmotini-swilling, Choo-wearing girl-droid in the shape of their brand?
Writes young Leo:
"126 posts, 62,321 words, 5 new pairs of shoes, and a couple of romances later, I have to ask myself, 'Am I now a Cosmo Girl?'
Before I can answer, I have to admit that my conception of the “Cosmo Girl” was a tad unrealistic from the start. I saw a flawless woman who was so beautiful and sexy that she had boys begging to date her. She also had money, success, and fame. I came to realize that being a "Cosmo Girl" isn’t about all of that. It’s about being fun, fearless, getting in touch with your sexy side (even when you don’t have a man!), loving your friends, kicking ass at your job, and having dreams and goals. In a nutshell—being passionate about making your life the best it can be."
Whew. Sounds like she's still got her head on straight. But what now? As a commenter helpfully negs, "Keep striving to be better!"
(We're glad she's not a full-fledged Cosmogirl, anyway—it has no future. What do you do as one? Marry an i-banker?)
Pink Floyd's keyboardist, Richard Wright, 
John McCain's first mistake was trying to seem "hip" and "with it" by blasting Van Halen's atrocious song "Right Now" at a stump stop in Ohio. His second mistake was not getting permission to play the treacly Sammy Hagar track from the band, the members of which are not so old that they actually support the grim candidate. The band's publicist says, "Permission was not sought or granted nor would it have been given." It's like the time when Reagan's campaigners totally misunderstood "Born in the USA" and tried to use it as their theme song until Bruce Springsteen told them to cut the crap. Except that "Right Now" can't be misunderstood because it doesn't mean anything, it's just a lot of hopeful noise and... Ohhhh... [
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"Tribune will be an oasis of creativity," says 
The 
Queens libraries have spent years lending "books" to risky borrowers at adjustable rates (from "free" to 25 cents a day!), and now that's coming back to haunt them. With literally millions of dollars lent out without hope of recovery, they are turning now to collections agencies to force their unreliable credit risks to pay up or risk becoming even riskier credit risks. Which means that the Judy Blume book you checked out from the young adult section in 1994 because it had dirty words in it and then lost will prevent you from ever buying a home.
Much as Peter denied Jesus three times, so do some anti-American types deny Rudy Giuliani. Specifically, they deny that HE AND HE ALONE was personally responsible for making New York livable (fun fact: the only people who lived in New York before Rudy were criminals and victims of criminals, most of whom were also criminals) and for saving the entire world on 9/11 by walking uptown with some tv cameras and shooting down that one plane in Pennsylvania that was headed for a school full of orphan children learning to be firefighters. And like Peter, the deniers will die a glorious martyr's death in the inevitable Giuliani presidency. Or so we've gleaned from watching 
Actually! You know what's really great? The story in this week's New York mag about the crew who works at Trader Joe's on 14th Street. "Today's crew includes a filmmaker, an actor, two fashion students, two painters, a film-production intern, and a martial artist. They're mostly college graduates—University of Washington, New York University, the University of Maine—here with dreams of making it in the city's bourgeois bohemia, but currently stuck serving it hummus." The whole thing is awesome. [
Prince Harry, third in line to the crown of England, enjoys snorting vodka shots with shirtless pals. [
For almost everyone these days, a post-coital flop on an Ikea couch to watch reruns of Friends in your comfy green Hanes sweatpants alongside your pal in whom you just were is a discomfiting experience. Sure, there might be a vague feeling of reassurance, and probably the sex was fine— but you know it's just gonna get weird between you two. And you are scientifically correct! Odds on you, genius! According to a new 