Violent drunks and junkies take heart: If Naomi Campbell can turn her life around, anyone can! The scary supermodel has been telling Giant magazine that she's finally been cured of her addiction to cocaine and alcohol by a therapy she calls The Program, which involves body cleanses and a Buddhisty-sounding philosophy that "teaches you to let go." Let go of what, one wonders? Certainly not bad behavior, since Naomi's image as an impossible diva prone to seismic tantrums is, she reveals, nothing but a silly myth, first perpetuated by her spurned former model agency boss John Casablancas. "He had to attack me because I decided to leave. Models can leave agencies. I was not under a written contract. I was shocked to see how he acted." Isn't it awful how one vindictive rumor can dog an innocent person for their entire career?
It turns out that the Silver Hill rehab facility in New Canaan, Connecticut is ideally located for its new glut of customers: local residents whose Wall Street careers flourished due to personal qualities—being risk-prone and adrenalin-seeking with a deluded sense of invincibility and a work hard/play hard attitude—that have led them down the path of drug addiction and alcoholism now that times are hellishly stressful.
Tracy Morgan's "faulty fish tank" set off a fire yesterday inside his apartment at 160 Riverside Boulevard. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the incident. But could we kindly ask that some city official send the frequently drunk comedian a bill? According to fire officials,"25 units and 78 firefighters responded to the blaze, which was declared under control at 9:01 am." [NYP]
Well now, we got our hands on a survey of people who watch Mad Men, the critically acclaimed show that consists of sex, sexism, cigarettes, booze, boozy sex, racism, and a bit of advertising. And guess what? The audience appears to be made up of off-the-charts alcoholics. Forty-seven times the normal rate of hard Irish Whiskey drinkers, for example. But there's one stunning twist in all this here data!
Ah, the good old days of 1947: a simpler time, when titans sat astride the corporate world, and those titans had desks appropriate to men with superhuman prestige—desks that were acknowledgments of the widespread on-the-job alcoholism that was the style at the time. Modern Mechanix digs up a Popular Science story from '47 about an executive dream desk with everything a man could possibly desire: a 'work' side with a six-tube radio, Teletalk Intercommunication Master Unit, and electronic dictaphone; and a 'play' side with a wet bar and fridge. Oddly, the personal safe is also on the 'play' side, but the cigarette lighter is on the work side. A different culture. The cost of this masterwork? "Well into the four figures." Larger image of the story, after the jump.