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.
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