Perez Hilton is a D-Lister who happened to get his status by being a celebrity blogger. He seems to get under celebs' skin, pushing the limits to get noticed, and to get his story. Apparently it works, as Hilton recently received a left-hook in a nightclub by the tour manager of The Black-Eyed Peas.
Perez's big claim to his red carpet fame was exclusively outing Lance Bass and NPH...yes, Neil Patrick Harris, AKA, Doogie.
Parts of this don't seem fair.
Part I - Lance Bass. C'mon. Really? He owns exclusive rights to that one?
Part II - OK, NPH. I didn't really see that one coming, and I will give credit when credit is due...or did he really pen this one? I mean, does he do research? And if so, what kind of research, that is mentionable on a PG-13 blog, did he do? Do you just need to throw a dart on a wall of celebrities, out them, and you're famous? If that's the case, why aren't more bloggers famous?
And the following celebrities are now gay - Clay Aiken, Ellen, Billie Jean King, Perez Hilton, Elton John, Chaz Bono, Andy Dick, half of the band 98*, and the guy in roller skates and tiny shorts on Reno 911.**
Part III - Does this mean he is nothing more than a glorified, e-trash man?
Is this all Perez does? He stakes his claims and collects his paycheck?
He either is the jerkiest jerk who ever did jerk, or an absolute genius. I'm still trying to figure this one out.
Why is society so obsessed with personal lives? I mean, why do Hilton, paparazzi, the readers of the trashy mags, and TMZ even care who somebody in the limelight loves? To me, that's all it simplifies and deconstructs down to. They care more about the heart, something people can't control, over the mouth, something people should control.
They don't seem to care about particular religions (although the Madonna/ Torah episode was just odd), they care about their political affiliation and beliefs only when given a microphone on the side of their Oscar when ratings are involved, and they have an odd and somewhat sick obsession with getting the first picture of the star's newborns.
They fall in love with them on screen, stage, or the field, and some develop into an even deeper, unhealthy, unrequited love. They begin following, writing and snapping about every little detail, then scrutinizing their every action or inaction.
We love our celebrities and appreciate them for what they do. I don't understand how people think that is a free ticket to harass, stalk, and possibly create another Princess Di scenario. We don't hound librarians, Apple store techs, or the Vietnamese guy down the street who makes the most beautiful and tasty pho. Though I'd like to, I've learned things: Sharing is Caring; Respect Other People's Privacy; Everybody Has Their Own Personal Bubble; and Don't Stalk.
I believe paparazzi and trash mags are nothing more than a middle school level of love and jealousy that have no form to vent.
Think back to your first crush. When you liked someone and made them a crappy Valentine only to find out they liked someone else, what did you do? Created sabotage. You spread a rumor, something that is really petty as you look back on it. Something along the lines of "that guy has an extra belly button". Then you'd wait in the wings to be the shoulder to cry on and be there to pick up the pieces. It's the whole "if I can't have you, nobody can" complex. It's not right, but fortunately most of us grow out of it during our Elementary School Continuation.
Those who don't grow up and work for TMZ.
Or change their names to sound like an exotic version of a millionaire heiress'.
**The aforementioned celebrities may or may not be actually gay. I hold no responsibility if they are not; however, if they are, you are witness to the exclusive outings of said famous people.**
Recent unexpected and tragic deaths have taken some of America's biggest personalities. A brief, light hearted tribute to those recently departed:
The title of Kill Bill was taken too literally. Kung Fu was fighting a sensei in an intense personal battle, and was tragically a victim of his own Mortal Kombat adage. David Carradine was honored in the film and martial art communities. That is correct, sir. Ed McMahon unfortunately delivered an over-sized check with balloons to Death's door. Fortunately, he will be returning as side kick to Johnny again, and will have St. Peter in stitches for eternity. Then the sickle presented us with Charlie's Fallen Angel and an epic battle, in which we saw an incredibly controversial death scene of a King. The World of Pop now has an empty throne. As we sought some relief, we were pitched another loss. Billy Mays won't have to pay for his own S&H as he goes to a place so white, Oxyclean couldn't hold a candle. When we thought this collection of tragedies was at curtain, another. Football Great Steve "Air" McNair is now grounded.
So what's going on? Film, TV, Music, Sports, and even infomercials are not safe. I thought celebrity deaths came in 3's. Unfortunately, I guess there were 2 Rounds. It's weird to log on and have to read about somebody else that we've heard of, now being gone. I know that celebrities live a life of sensationalism and over-saturation from the media, and we essentially live with them. It just comes as a shock to die by them as well.
I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free to use song lyrics in blogs, but I just can't stand up to some of our American Cultures and Traditions. Funerals for one, as Holden Caulfield would say, just kill me. We dress in black, grieve, cry, and eat all of our favorite, and often times catered, food. This bothers me.
I think it's the phrasing that loses its aesthetic for me.
We are grieving their death when we should be celebrating their life.
It's like when Interstate Highways had to change their wording from "Slower traffic keep right" to "Keep right except to pass". The phrasing of anything can have a psychological impact on our reactions. We go from not wanting to be the slow-ass driver to being respectful and courteous. Or in this case, crying our eyes out in ultimate sadness, to roasting them in the way only your family knows how.
I've seen movies, and have heard of others who follow the Irish Wake tradition and philosophy. I'd like to have one of these...without the keening, or wicked loud wailing that traditionally exists. But raising a glass, sharing a story and a joke, while celebrating the passed life and faith in life to come sounds like my kind of party. I just hope I'm not the guest of honor for many years to come.
I frequent the monthly dues of Netflix, realizing that this is one way the house can't win...or at least the house wins with less capital on top of their overhead. Paying $14 a month is about 1 1/2 tickets to a movie theatre, and I average about 4 delivered movies to my mailbox. With their feature of Watch Instantly, I easily pay only about a crunchy taco per movie...as long as I can keep up my cinematic habit.
The curious case of Netflix is actually quite sensitive. It wants to know you. It pays attention. It listens without all the inquisitive inquiry. It knows what you like, or at least thinks of you while at the video store, calls home with recommendations, and will pick it up for you if you want. And it knows you've been working out, so it will conveniently forget to bring home the Swedish Fish and Reese's Pieces. So thoughtful, one could call it love.
However, an interesting milestone just passed in our relationship. Netflix, with its recent recommendations, thinks I'm gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I recently watched the theatrical brilliant play-turned-film Bent. Clive Owen gives a magnificent performance, and shows the silver screen such honesty, while Sir Ian McKellen forces truth, integrity, and forbids stereotype. Mick Jagger portrays a decent drag performer...not that I can compare him to many other performances that I've witnessed, but we'll get to that. It was a very powerful, touching, and depressing movie that I highly recommend, with a caveat: you will cry, you will leave the film (or your room) feeling unsettled, and you will be angry...but you have a small sense of victory against the Nazis.
I re-watched Higher Learning, which deals with college life and its effects on several diverse characters. It's about as good as I remember, attempting to hit the usual issues that teens deal with while away from home. As expected, it followed one girl and her struggle with her bi-sexuality. This is only one of the many storylines it spotlighted.
Watching these two movies back to back, apparently gave my Netflix the idea that I was gay. Forget about me renting Sarah Marshall, Wanted, Team America, Harold and Kumar and Transformers... It doesn't seem to care. Sure, there are many subcategories of movies that it will so kindly recommend, but for some reason, on the top, front and center, Netflix apparently thinks it is coaxing me out of the closet...not that there's anything wrong with that. I just think my girlfriend might start thinking about things a little.
So what did Netflix recommend for me to watch that makes me think I'm gay?
A Showtime documentary mini-series entitled Transgeneration. This documentary followed the lives of 4 young people on their journey to gender re-assignment. The opening episode introduced you to all of them and their stories, all of whom are also in college. It was hypnotizing. It was truly interesting to see how they had to deal with what they called a physical disability, rather than a mental problem. One female to male actually attended an all girls college and received a lot of flack from the institution itself. She saw herself as a male, but wanted to complete her degree at an all girl college.
Do I recommend this? Well, yes. I finished the 8 episode series in a couple afternoons. The only reservation to have, is that you're Netflix will send you tickets to a Kathy Griffin stand-up special.
I continue to watch and rent Shakespeareans and various independent films, and the belief of Netflix only grows stronger. And for every man film with explosions and guns, there will be a To Wong Foo snuck in there somewhere. I've come to think that this is one friend that just has horrible gay-dar.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I recently gave in, finally watching the first Transformers movie in anticipation for the upcoming blockbuster sequel. I don't know why I was holding out for so long on something that I grew up on and loved as a child. Hasbro was a friend of mine from down the street. I often played with his toys, and now regret breaking and defacing so many of them. I wish I could go back and tell myself not to ruin my future 401(k) plan.
Maybe it's because Shia LaBeouf makes me feel uneasy. There is something about these troubled child stars that I root for to fail. Not only do I root for, but I paint my chest, tailgate, start the wave, and get a Fathead on my wall for them to not succeed. Maybe it's their rise to fame too quickly, the egos that amass, and their over-privileged lifestyle that is their instant parole or acquittal from any type of punishment. It just doesn't seem right that fame and fortune are nothing more than a key to every hot spot in Tinseltown, and a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card. There's something to be said about actually putting blame and punishment on America's Next Top Teen Hollywood Idol. Kids need to see that you can't drink and drive and gladly trade the crime in for 14 minutes in the slammer. That's not even enough time to meet your new boyfriend to acclimate you to the prison lifestyle. I hear the orientations they put on are pretty informative. How come they gave Keifer so much time? I guess Teeny-Boppers don't really watch 24. It's not "hot". If LaBeouf and the rest of them continue to get away with everything, where-oh-where are the future Cory's of America? Haim and Feldman are getting lonely.
Or maybe my reticence came from Director Michael Bay. What a hot mess Pearl Harbor was. Starring hot Hollywood hunks Ben Affleck and Josh Hartnett, the movie centered around their respective love stories. Isn't the title of the movie supposed to resemble something of a tragic event from war on our beloved country? Why the hell do we worry about whether or not they're going to find Make Out Point? Was it named after a tragedy, because they knew that is what it would be on the film world? Did I just compare a horrible historical event to a piece of crap movie?
For some strange reason, I do seem to remember Tre from Boyz in the Hood shooting a big ass gun in his underwear at the attacking air strike. Don't know why that came up. Or even why I had to mention it here. Huh.
Back to Transformers.
My last gripe is that every time I hear Optimus Prime, I'm forced to fantasize about a 72 oz. Texas steak, which I will get for free, if I can eat it in under an hour, complete with a baked potato, pan of corn bread, and a pint of some kind of gravy on the side. Please feel free to insert as many lines from The Great Outdoors as you can. To this day, that is one movie I have not finished watching. I remember as a kid my mom renting it, being a fan of SNL alumni comedies. However, only a few minutes in, I was given the parental line: "If they say a bad word one more time...." Needless to say, she didn't even have to finish that adage before they blew my cover, and it was off to bed for me. I still remember lying in my bed listening to mom hysterically giggling, trying to be quiet as she finished the movie.
Optimus Prime... sounds so delicious for some reason. "Yes, I think I'll try your Optimus Prime, med-rare, side of asparagus, please." Is this just another marketing ploy from the American Beef Counsel? I remember Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix doing the same thing. "Uh, yeah...I think I'll take a half-pound of provolone and a pound of the phoenix please."
I'd continue to boycott Shia "Future Feldman" LaBeouf, but the first movie was just so damn cool. It was the first time I'd ever developed an emotional attachment to a machine....That Bumble Bee is just so dreamy. I guess I have to see Part II, but only for the wonderful "character development" that Megan Fox brings to the Silver Screen, Bumble Bee's warm heart, and because, it's what's for dinner.
This time around when I buy the toys, I will keep them, only taking them out of the box a couple times to get my childhood joy back. They will then be stored in a temperature controlled Swedish account - safety deposit box entitled "Retirement Fund". I'll place all of my old Ninja Turtles in there while I'm at it for future petty cash.
I admit that I was one of the *cough**cough* million customers who ordered a Snuggie. Correction - I purchased two (2) Snuggies; one as a gift to someone who so desperately needs to keep her mildly chilled forearms slightly warmer while eating and changing channels, and another for whom I thought would appreciate a charismatic afghan.
Something that gets lost in the ridiculousness of the Snuggie (besides my book light which I received as a free gift for placing my order, a $15 value) and it's Arch-Nemesis, The Evil Slanket, is that there is functionality behind the laughter. Who doesn't curl up at night with a blanket, then suddenly realize they hate the show they're watching, they forget to email somebody, they suddenly have the urge to cook a 5-course meal, or even worse, they feel the desire to rescue a small village under the constant, evil oppression of wizardry?
As you put on your fleece armor (available in 4 earth-tone colors), and envelope your body in this magical cloak, with Billy Mays and Ron Propeil standing idly by awaiting to hear your best Gandolf impression, it allows your imagination to take you somewhere other than your living room. You travel to the outskirts and Suburbs of Mordor.
The Snuggie is more than a blanket that slept with a hospital gown to breed this unappreciated and often laughed at love-child. It is an attic full of Grandma's old costumes. It is a stage. It is You and The Amazing Monochromatic Dreamcoat. Any dream will do. Just close your eyes, along with your curtains, and see for certain, whatever the hell you want.
It can do what no other cloth will do. It will allow you to simplify.
Infomercial products. They are your slave. They are your gimp you bring out of the closet, throw the ball-gag on, and make your life easier. If you have all of these late night products, your life would be so easy, even you could do it.
Simplify with excess.
Simplify with organization.
Organize your excess with simplification.
Just allow 6-8 weeks for Shipping and Handling.
I used to work in, where else, but a friendly neighborhood bar/ restaurant. This is of course a prerequisite for any work-seeking artist in today's world of desperation, degradation, and whoredom. After punching in my time for a couple years, management met with me to explore the 2nd-tier in the hierarchy of restaurant-eering: Bar tending.
After multiple sessions of splashing bourbon around in a low-ball, and subjecting myself to the Sex in the City de jour, my semester majoring in Mixology was abruptly cut short when my tuition ran out. When I say tuition, I mean the old, obnoxious owner who decided to tell me that I was no longer in the running for Mix-Gun Slinger.
"I'm sorry, Dave, but you don't have the personality to pour drinks, listen to others share their day, and provide conversation for the lonely."
I hadn't done anything wrong, my record was a whistle, and the staff looked to me for a quick laugh...please insert any over-used Piano Man lyric here. And to have my personality in question was a Kimbo punch to the jaw. I was, after all, not necessarily popular with ladies before the age of 21, and without the on-set of alcohol, had to become quite the bard in order to get close to them. After some deep contemplation, only one intellectual and reasonable explanation came to mind:
Tits vs. Wits.
I had the realization that it was nothing against me personally *cough* *cough* or professionally (if one wants to call themselves a Professional Server - sans benefits, stock options, and first class seating) - It was 100%, purely and strictly anatomical.
It was in the weeks to follow that the place where everybody knows your name could give a shit. We were becoming, unofficially, known as the Neighborhood's Best Breastaurant. More and more of the turnover solidified our glory, and our guests only reinforced it.
Tits vs. Wits.
More and more, individual shallowness, low self-esteem, glamour mags, reality TV, and of course, old school pheromones and attraction, have shelved chivalry, intelligence, and experience for pure, unadulterated...wait...that wasn't the best word...gratuitous...sex.
This brings me to my theory of The Kennedy Affliction: Part I.
Scientifically speaking, in theory, humans will rely solely on their physical nature to attain anything of benefit for selfish and personal gain. These may include, but are not limited to, financial, fashionable, drivable, or a corporate ladder which is in fact climbable.
I know some people would prefer to read a book rather than work out. Often due to genetics, it is in fact harder to attain a body for the athletics or for stripper stature, than to complete a novel cover to cover. So why do people put so much effort into not having to work hard for something...by in fact working harder?
I feel as if the exchange rate for Tits over Wits these days seems to have crashed harder than, and I apologize for the sophomoric double pun, General Motors.
One man alone cannot fight the Battle of the Bulges, especially when said man appreciates aforementioned bulges. I feel that my hamartia will in fact be the inability to fight a war I start...after all, any man can make a war, but it takes a real man to know how to solve it.
Perhaps my theory can be just that - all theory and no practice.
I'm not asking for beauty to curb itself, but perhaps a compromise can be made to make minds a centerfold just as often as beauty. While we're flipping the pages, strictly for the articles, we can put self-esteem, confidence, humor, and academia right on in there for an orgy of virtue.
We are PR sluts in America, and we can throw anything in reverse that we put into motion.
The only problem is, that if you are in fact reading this, the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting bigger tits.
I recently chatted (it should be known that by "chat", I do mean physically sat next to an actual human being and conversed) with a friend who has 437 friends on myfacebook, or another one of those glorified e-yearbooks displaying nothing more than photos, signatures, and nostalgia of the present. When asked how many of those "friends" she actually knew, it was well into the low 60's.
So why keep so many acquaintances of friends' co-workers in your addressbook.net if you don't even know what kind of drink they rely on to let go of the day? If we can take all of our friends into Heaven, lord knows I'd save and save. Or I'd just count those who actually show up to my Big Wheel in the Sky Red Carpet Party and consider them my close friends. That'll be my eu-google-gy.
Maybe it's just me, but I actually don't care how many people a fancy Helvetican street sign tells me I have as BFFs. I mean if you haven't worn it for a year, get rid of it.
Just how far will we e-everything to each other? How much longer until our intimate relationships depend on how many hits our profile gets? It's not that far from a current euphemism anyway. I think the comfort level of a roll in the hay of Cyberland would lack the lumbar support needed to make for an enjoyable experience, but that's just me. But they are making laptops thinner and lighter as I'm typing.
How far will we go to avoid the human experience? How soon until I will be blahgging my job from the comfort of my own pizza stained couch? Why do I have this holier-than-thou tone to my "print", when I am in fact giving into advertising billboards of the super highway? How about the Death of the Newspaper; the Constant Butchering of the English Language; My Ever- Growning Love of the Written Medicine by Dr. Gonzo; and the fact that I am battling more than a 7 Nation Army for the resurgence of the written and spoken word. And if I have to hear LOL instead of a real, honest laugh one more time, I'm going to *SMFSFUAAIWFI.
And, I'm just not popular enough yet to have my own Late Night TV show. I'll even compete with Maury; I'm not picky.
Here lies the first of my blogs, for which I AM the father, and if I can get myself over it, I'll conceive more of my own shame to share.
*Shove my foot so far up an ass, I will feel it.
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