Courtney Stodden’s split gets publicly exposed in a new way

Did anyone else notice the earth’s axis tilt yesterday from the energy flare that was generated from the slow hand-clap at the exact moment the Stodden-Hutchison separation was announced?  It was validation day for all the haters who don’t believe in the ever-lasting love magic that can totally be real between a 51-years-young man and his 16-year-“old” bride.  While true love may know no boundaries, sadly we have learned the hard way it has a drop-dead date.

She’s the one that’s 16???

An Official Statement was released from Courtney Stodden’s representative (Mom) confirming the worst fear of parents and pedophiles everywhere: Children will grow up and leave you, but they still expect you to oversee their responsibilities and pay for their shit.

For those of you readers who don’t speak Press Release, I have selflessly busted out my special decoder ring to expose the cloaked truth:

“After two and a half years of marriage aggressive fame-whoring, Courtney and Doug have has decided to become legally publicly separated.  This is a mutual and amicable decision that they’re making together.  Courtney feels her star is on the rise.  As you know, Courtney was married ambitiously gave “it” up at a young age.  Now, at nineteen a legal age, she’s interested in exploring life as an unmarried single young adult  boning other dudes, preferably ones who can make bank – – with the freedom to explore her independence solicit offers from the likes of Vivid Entertainment or book Club dates with Tan Mom.  Doug supports Courtney 100% is living in abject fear that Courtney will spill his beans.  The two will share custody of their precious pup prop, Dourtney, remain living in the same house (for now while shopping their reality show pilot*) in separate bedrooms, and Doug will be co-managing taking his finder’s fee cut from launching Courtney’s public awareness campaign.

“We love each other very much Our ‘careers’ are mutually dependent at this point, want for each other’s happiness earning potential to grow, and will continue being the best of friends for life but we can no longer stomach making sexy time with one another, for obvious reasons.”

* Hot Damn’s insight: Look, the house is rented and they can’t afford to break the lease; Doug put down a deposit and all of the utilities are in his name.  Courtney hasn’t had enough time to establish the required credit to rent her first studio apartment in North Hollywood yet. And besides, …it’s a hassle applying for an additional location permit and hiring more crew to film in 2 locations.  Because I think we all know the MTV show will be announced in 3-2-1…

I know that I am really going to miss seeing splashy candid pictures of these two out inspiring unscripted romance and keeping it real on their private couple dates, like to the pumpkin patch….

Nice punkin’s

…Celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus…

‘Ho! ‘Ho! ‘Ho!

…Or just out grocery shopping on a Tuesday

But forget about my loss.  I’m sure that my sadness is pale in comparison to what poor Dourtney must be going through.  I can only hope that when Doug has his custodial time with Dourtney on Wednesday nights and every-other-weekend that he doesn’t downplay  Dourtney’s need to be fierce at all times.  Because that would be tragic.

Stay strong, bitches!

No shirt. No shoes. No service.

 

Jesus H. Christ.  Would someone please get Iggy Pop a fleece, a Coumadin ‘scription and some Jergen’s Original Scent, stat?  That is all.

Statistical sore spot

The Centers for Disease Control just released data that my home state of Georgia ranks fourth, nation wide, in reported cases of Syphilis. What a dubious title. Apparently, 7 out of every 100,000 residents find themselves with festering mucus membrane lesions. Ewww! Having watched my fair share of The Bachelor, I just assumed that a single swipe from the residence hot tub would have secured California for top honors in the Syphilis Awards. Somehow California showed up for eighth place. Well, we know what happens when one assumes, right? It turns out that all contestants are tested for STDs and the house plus “Fantasy Suite” are fully stocked with condoms at all times. Ewww number two.

However, it actually makes more sense that our nation’s capital city, Washington D.C. “came” in first place with 27.7 people per 100,000 infected. Turns out that they indiscriminately screw more than just the economy around Capitol Hill. But, we already knew that, didn’t we?

What is truly a shocker is that the pride of North Amereica, Florida, did not register in the top five. I know! This is such a head scratcher, considering the stories of true romantic love that the AP routinely reports on from the sunshine state.

Did you hear about the Weeki Wachee couple that landed in central booking on a recent Monday morning? Swingers Tina Norris (39) and her beau, James Barfield (56), graciously hosted an impromptu orgy in their home. Invited were two men, another woman or two, but NOT their roommate, for fun, games and a boat load of drinks on Sunday evening. (This blogger wouldn’t be shocked to learn that bath salts were also in attendance) It’s the Florida way. Things boiled up when the host and hostess made eye contact and didn’t like the way the other was getting on with the guests. Specifically, James didn’t like Tina tag-teaming the men and Tina didn’t appreciate having to see James sexing up the other chick. Tempers flared and a naked rumble from one end of the house to the other left scratches, bruises, bloody lips, busted furniture and broken dreams in its wake. Sounds like someone forgot the safe word and to never make eye contact. The guests did the skedaddle as Tina and James continued to brawl. The sleeping roommate awoke and called the po-po before trying to peel Norris off of Barfield. Arrests were made to the nude and combative couple at 6am.

According to the CDC,

“The surest way to avoid transmission of sexually transmitted diseases, including syphilis, is to abstain from sexual contact or to be in a long-term mutually monogamous relationship with a partner who has been tested and is known to be uninfected.”

Consider this my Public Service Announcement for 2013.  The more you know.

Do you love Black History Month?

The old adage says that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.  Well, that remains to be seen.  What I do know is that February is just about played out, which means that Black History Month is fixing to close up shop for 2013.

Black History Month began as a Negro History Week way, way back in the 1920’s.  Then, during our country’s bicentennial year, 1976, President Gerald Ford said, “Aw, hell.  As long as we’re celebrating all this making of America shit, let’s make Negro History Week a whole month and quit calling it Negro…sounds too much like nigger.”*  And so it was in motion that each February we would set forth to acknowledge the contributions and accomplishments of the African Diaspora.

Don Cornelius (1936-2012): Dick Clark’s brother from anotha mutha

During the 1970’s the most obvious uptick in black awareness took place in popular culture, and nowhere was it more accessible to a li’l Hot Damn than on the tube.  TV shows like Sanford and Son, The Jeffersons and Good Times were mainstream fare.  On Sunday afternoons the only thing on TV to watch was Soul Train (you MUST click this link!), dotted with commercials for Afro Sheen.  Based on the later, I figured that all black teenagers were happy-go-lucky Negros that dressed funny and who, more than anything, liked nothing better than to smile, sing and dance for the man.  This notion continued into the 1980’s with must-see t.v. Diff’rent Strokes and Webster, shows where stuffy white people’s lives were greatly enriched by adopting plucky, yet stunted, black kids.  Although there was that one time they showed Roots, but that was during the school week.

That’s Atlanta’s own Nipsy Russell on the far right

And in cinema there was much ado about “all black ensemble” movies.  That’s cool and all.  Who can’t dig on Shaft?  And where would Quentin Tarantino be without the muse of Foxy Brown or Cleopatra Jones???  But there was a weird movement to release “black” versions of “white” movies.  You may remember Michael Jackson’s acting in The Wiz, co-starring Diana Ross, or the reimagining of Cinderella into the urban Cindy.  In this version, Cindy is too ghetto to have a glass slipper and instead loses her dirty sneaker.   I’d be pissed if I was a black chick…just sayin’.  There was also  Blacula, Blackenstein, The Black God Father and Black Shampoo to only name a few.  Of course this trend continues today, with the recent black version of Steel Magnolias with Queen Latifah and the just announced new Annie with little Quvenzhané Wallis revising the lead role of the loveable ginger-haired, freckle-faced Annie.  I think about how African-Americans would feel if we turned the tables on their art, but then I remember that “we” have Vanilla Ice.

I was also acutely aware of the Negro College Fund along with Ebony and Jet magazines, which I thought of as being like the Thunderbolt Newsletter for black folk.  But it seems like it’s really happened more in recent times that Black History Month is actually about more than Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech, working together or that George Washington Carver invented peanut butter…btw, something that I can’t believe the hysterical hippie-white women that run the Peanut Allergy Police Squad haven’t jumped on and vilified.

Soul shake 2013!

I live in Atlanta, which I think is kinda like ground zero for black history.  We are home to scads of historically black colleges, many civil-rights leaders, and several music legends (and rappers…ugh!) while boasting big-city credibility. During this past month our city made a point to participate in a day of service to honor Martin Luther King, Jr. plus Atlantans have been enjoying seeking out gallery showcases of specifically African-American artists, taking walking and eating tours of the Sweet Auburn district, sitting in on museum lectures, strolling educational exhibits, visiting jazz festivals, listening at literary events at the Margaret Mitchell house, praising in gospel choir concerts and clapping at dance theaters.  Oh, and then there was the Bronner Brothers International Fantasy Hair Show…

This is how Atlanta really celebrates BHM

I think that this picture really tells you everything you need to know about how far we have come with our civil relations.  There’s no way this could have happened in 1953.  I mean, three of those cheerleaders are brunettes!

* This may not have been an exact quote

And, what in the hell is “Black Love”?  Anyone?  Do black people have a special kind of secret love that whitey can’t get in on?

The smell of Fame…Fame stinks

Any one else catch Lara Spencer interviewing Lady Gaga on Good Morning America this morning?  During the spring of 2011 I discussed Gaga’s perfume development deal here.  Well, hold out your spritz wrist because it’s ready for market and the fragrance, a black tinted potion, previously reported to combine scents associated with blood and semen, is called Fame.  However, I think that l’eau d’Bullshit might be more appropriate.

Who the #?!@ puts their bare pit front and center on a perfume ad?

If I didn’t already love GMA’s Lara Spencer, I surely do after watching her keep a straight face while stifling what must have been  very strong visceral urge to roll eyes, throw shade, pee herself then ultimately fall on the floor and dissolve into a puddle of snort-giggles.

Seriously, tell me about Fame. I won’t laugh.

For this planned interview, Ms. Gaga wore a long fuscia sheath dress, a gold-tone crown reminiscent of stalagmites sprouting from her forehead and long, pointy fingernails.  Gaga’s delivery was very dour and stoic, as though discussing herself in relation to her sense of scent was of the utmost importance.  While watching the interview, I felt kinship with the Long Island Medium, as I was able to visualize a teenage Gaga Stefani Germanotta sitting in her bedroom listening to a Sisters of Mercy cassette and writing awful haiku in a black and white composition book.

Here are some of the provocative and deeply meaningful things that Gaga had to say about her new scent:

On why she chose the color black for her perfume:  ”I wanted the black liquid to represent the duality of fame.  The beautiful smell of it, but the dangerous evil propositions around the corner.  It does spray clear.  It doesn’t get on your clothes.  It’s just a nice little artistic statement.”

Lara then led Gaga with a statement about how aromas and scents can lift the mood of a room and change the conclusion of the evening.  As if possessed by Gloria Swanson’s dramatic, self-aware Norma Desmond character in “Sunset Boulevard”, Gaga had this to hiss out in response: “It’s quite like me, I think…I’m a good party ender.  Yesss…Or a party favor.  Anyone would want me to go home with them.  I smell like fame.”  Here, again, I think bullshit is interchangeable with fame.  Even I could smell it from my sofa in Atlanta.

A load of…fame

While gazing off into a sideways distance, Gaga leaned in, dragged her gilt metallic spiked nail finger from her neck down to her décolleté and oozed out this gem: “The fans, when they want to smell me.  They say, ‘Gaga, can I smell the fame?’”  Oh, puhleese!  The last time anyone demanded to smell me, it was my mother when I was in high school.  And it wasn’t me she wanted to smell…it was my breath.  Which of course smelled like…bullshit fame.  And a freshly chewed breath mint, combined with 5 pumps of Binaca masking the feint bouquet of Mad Dog.

Gaga cautions that this Fame is a sexy fragrance; one shouldn’t even go near it unless she is hell-bent on seduction.  In fact, she even warns Lara that “you should never wear it if you’re not likely to look for a lover because it is going to attract them.”  It’s like heat in a bottle.  Well, if that’s the case, I might just save my cash, hit up the CVS and buy some Designer Imposter fragrances instead.  Those fragrances seemed to always inspire strange men to follow you with a fist full of bought flowers every time you stepped outside.  I mean…same result, less bullshit.  Right?

Someone get the vomit bucket!

Speaking of men, Lara asked Gaga what a man should smell like. Like all women of fine breeding, Gaga said that she likes the smells of leather, tobacco, “alcoholy smells and things that smell like you’ve been in a bar being bad all night.  I really like that smell.”  So, stale beer, boot bottoms, ciggie butts and upchuck?  Jodie Foster entertaining on a pinball machine?

She describes her hopes and dreams for her first foray into the world of perfume as, “I wanted it to be a very slutty perfume, because that is sort of the addictive nature of fame.  It is that it is seductive; you want the life of the person that is famous.”

I don’t think she understands what “slutty” is.  Or maybe she doesn’t understand what “seduction” is.  Odds are favorable that I don’t either, but I do understand that slutty doesn’t seduce.  I took Human Sexuality 201 for college credit after all.  Slutty just throws itself out there for the taking with no regard for self-respect, long-term consequence or dignity.  Oh, wait.  So, is Gaga saying that she is slutty because she has fame?  Mother Theresa was famous, but I wouldn’t necessarily call her slutty (though the late Christopher Hitchens might have disagreed)

Holy slutty fame!

Then things got weird-ooooo.  Gaga starts talking about how sexy her Mom was when Gaga was still Stefani Germanotta.  Mom apparently was a real sexpot and Daddy was down for Mom’s sexy, seductive vibe.  Stephanie and her sister really enjoyed seeing their parents not being private about hugging and kissing.  The End.

Ewww.  My kids practically puke up their entire G.I. tract if Big Daddy touches the top of my head.

Lara then voiced over rolling footage of a “performance” from last night’s Fame perfume launch party, held at NYC’s Guggenheim Museum, where Gaga treated fans to watching her get her neck tattooed as she lazed in a giant replicated Fame perfume bottle while noodling around on her ipad.

Thank Sweet Jesus that her hair can grow through this mess

Someone needs to call Dr. Drew stat.  I caught a whiff of someone that needs to spend some time at the Pasadena Recovery Center for the next season of Celebrity Re-hab.

Fiddy Shades of You’ve Got to be Kidding

This week’s New York Times Best Sellers list is a head-scratcher for me.  Number 1?  Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James.  Number 2?  Fifty Shades Darker by E.L. James.  Number 3?  Fifty Shades Freed by E.L. James.  And slipping in at Number 8…yep, it’s the freakin’ Fifty Shades Trilogy by E.L. James.  In the event that you have been tied up for the past few months, the Fifty Shades books are filed under Mommy Porn.  As I understand it, the “plot” explores the erotic relationship between an inexperienced college co-ed and a slightly older, complicated business man who likes to get his freak on with props.  Snore.  Consequently, the books now have people in the BDSM, that’s Bondage-Domination-SadoMasochism, community all twisted up that their fetish is being demonized as a psychopathology.  But, that’s not who’s snatching these books off the shelves.  So.  What.  Ever.

Here’s a quote from the first book that I found online:

“He grabs me suddenly and yanks me up against him, one hand at my back holding me to him and the other fisting in my hair.
“You’re one challenging woman,” He kisses me, forcing my lips apart with his tongue, taking no prisoners.
“It’s taking all my self-control not to fuck you on the hood of this car, just to show you that you’re mine, and if I want to buy you a fucking car, I’ll buy you a fucking car,” he growls.”

I think that Forever by Judy Blume may have been more titillating and for sure better written.  I don’t even know what “fisting my hair” would do besides warrant 15 minutes of “me time” in the bathroom with a bottle of Johnson & Johnson de-tangling spray and a wide-tooth comb.  Ouch, now that hurts!

Over the weekend, girlfriend Tracy said that one of her friends had just posted on Facebook that she had gone to her local library in hopes of checking out one of the Fifty Shades books.  She landed at number 300 on their list of frugal, horny housewives waiting for the book.  Given the subject matter, I am pretty sure that I would want a fresh, unused copy that has not been clutched in over 600 spontaneously self-molesting, public library hands.  I don’t want to be glued to those borrowed pages.  Ewww.

Have you read one, or gasp, all of these books yet?  I haven’t and it is making most of my girlfriends about to crawl out of their skin from frustrating disbelief.  “Oh.  My.  God…you HAVE to read them!”  “Read them with your husband…you’ll be so in the mood!”  “I couldn’t wait to get home and be alone; you know…”  Call me easy, call me predictable or call me consistent, but I still respond enthusiastically to a bottle of red wine and Big Daddy asking, “Did you start working out again?”  Really.  That’s pretty much the entire how-to manual of getting just about any woman to give it up.

Old and Crotchety…Moi?

I know.  I know.  I’ve been absent a bit lately.  Okay, a lot.  Sorry, if by chance you have been counting on me.  Here’s the deal:  I left my full-time-part time job helping pageant queens, prom organizers and bridezillas get their whole-sale sparkle on a few months back.  This was a good thing.  Everybody wins and I had the opportunity to really pursue writing as a full-time gig.

What happened instead was holiday bullshit and an opportunity to get to know Kelly Ripa better….damn minx.  How much do we LOVE Kelly?   I wrapped packages, made merry and took care of stuff.   And then God never sent me winter.  I had to take advantage of nice days while thought I could….and here it is almost April and not a full-length fur made it out of this house in 2012.  Some mink car coats maybe made it out twice. But not any more than that?  Sads.

Imagine this over and over plus, 2+ acres. Sometimes I hate my yard.

So, I have thrown myself in to full-on Stepford.  For instance, today?  I gave my front loading clothes washing  robot a mechanical colonic with white vinegar, then bleach, then a hot rinse, finished by a diluted bleach wipe-down, coupled with a dry cloth buffing.   My hands now smell  like a tidy rest-stop.  Yesterday, I painted my kids’ bathroom ceiling sea-glass green.  ‘Cause why?  I dunno.  Seemed cool.  And the day before that?  I  divided and transplanted perennials, wrote sympathy cards  and re-heated left-overs.  Are you as satisfied as I am?  Doubtful.

It is entirely possible that I am either having a midlife crisis or an existential crisis.  Either way.

And the ring goes to…

I would be remiss if I did not mention that last night’s episode of The Bachelor was brought to you by Fairy Tale Fantasy Capes for Villainesses and Good Girls Alike. Both Bachelorettes arrived via chopper to a staged Swiss vista, complete with added bits of snow and a single remaining rose, wearing long capes clasped at the neck.

So, on last night’s The Bachelor finale it was no surprise that there was lots of talk about “seeing a future” which continued between Bachelor Ben and Bachelorette Courtney, Bachelor Ben and Bachelorette Lindzi, and also Bachelor Mom Barbara and both Bachelorettes, Bachelor Sister Julia and both Bachelorettes. But none of that mattered as much as whom Bachelor Weiner was seeing a future with, using his one good eye. It was a hard decision for Bachelor Ben, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know it was going to be with often naked Courtney. And thank heavens for that, because Bachelor Ben is certainly no rocket scientist.

Separated at birth: Francine from Arthur and Bachelor Ben

Knowing that squeaky-voiced Courtney was going to be winning, it made the rejection of Bachelorette Lindzi excruciating. It was like listening to the lamb going to slaughter as Bachelorette Lindzi’s voice was heard saying, “I want Ben to be my husband. I’ve never felt this kind of love for someone. I can’t believe we’re here at the end of this journey, but it’s sort of a beginning…the beginning of a lifetime of bliss. I’m confident that I could spend the rest of my life with him and be really happy. I hope I live happily ever after with Ben. I love Ben. I love Ben. It feels really good to say that. I love everything about him…just being with him, and how he makes me feel. That’s love. This is the moment that girls dream of their whole life. To see him down on one knee and to just finally know how he really feels is going to be special…I hope that I am engaged after today. I’d like to throw it in.” Then Bachelor Ben hits Bachelorette Lindzi upside the head with a verbal frying pan when he tells her that she’s what he’s been looking for his entire life, and how he had a big moment at her hometown visit in Ocala when he could see himself with her and with kids in their future and that he has fallen in love with her. Then once she is good and stunned, he goes for the jugular when he tells her that he, “needs those moments to last a lifetime and, uh, I’ve found that with someone else…I’m in love with someone else”.

Bachelor Ben gave a gigantic Neil Lane sparkler, final rose and his manhood to Bachelorette Courtney. She exhaled a little girl giggly “of course I will” and was awash in the look of self-congratulation. Then they played kissy-face, exchanged “I love yous” a lot then gloated about happiness and forever.

The truth

Now, if you believe the tabloids…and I do, Bachelor Ben has been hooking up with chicks left and right between the final rose ceremony taping and it’s public reveal. It’s only unbelievable because he’s still working his Peking Man hair-do. Bachelorette Courtney was seen making out with someone, too. I guess what I want to say is, Congratulations Lindzi. Girl, you just dodged a bullet. You win!

Planet of the Bachelor

My shame is great, as it should be.  In the last week or two, I somehow fell into watching The Bachelor.  Sure, I’m a little late to the party, but let’s be honest…it’s only the last few weeks that really count any way.  Right?

I do have to respect that the franchise isn’t afraid to admit to what it is.  Back in December, when ABC was trying to get audiences amped up for the then-coming season, the preparatory commercials just showed a close up of a chick bawling her eyes out, with mascara juice flowing out of her eye-holes, bemoaning, “Whyyyyy?”  I knew that’s pretty much how the first few episodes would go and that’s why I’ve only just recently checked in.  You know, my time is precious.

This is the face that has launched a thousand cat fights?

Let’s just talk about Bachelor Ben for a minute.  The chicks vying for him are all acting like he’s the second coming of Elvis.  I hate to be snarky, that’s not my style at all (go on and insert your eye roll here…I just did).  But, can I be the only woman alive that recognizes that he could also be called “Link”?  As in, he is the missing one… 

I swear that now going forward, any Monkey Shines nightmares that I have will have Bachelor Ben’s face superimposed in them.  The thought that simian singleton, Bachelor Ben, could be coming for any of my single girl friends now haunts me in my sleep.

The need of all of the contestants to sound profound and how they go about it is simply baffling to me. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard any Bachelor say, in their going-in-deep interviews, how he can, like,  “See my life with (insert hometown date bachelorette’s name here)”.  Gag.  That’s not, like, special powers, Bachelor Ben.  I can picture my life with all sorts of people.  Call me imaginative, but don’t call me in love, pensive or smart.  Can I see my life with Adolf Hitler?  Sure!  I could see me dumping him because he is a total ass, plus I’d never be able to abide that dumb toothbrush mustache.  Could I picture a future with Kobe Bryant?  Yes, it involves me looking the other way while he cheats on me and then I get kick-ass jewelry and shop away my sads.  Just because you can picture something doesn’t necessarily mean you do any of it!  Or even want to. Picturing an alternative future doesn’t mean that can can bend spoons with your mind.

Like a Tom-cat in a patch of kittens…dumb kittens.

And then the women.  Oy vey!  Let me just pause here to note that out of 25 women, 44% have names that end with the long “e” sound and 32% have names ending in ‘”a” and 24% have names ending in a consonant.  There were 2 Ambers, 1 Casey and another Kacie, 1 Lindzi and another Lyndsie.  I believe there was one Biblical name represented.  I don’t know what it means, but it must mean something.  “I mean, I am really in love with Ben now!  I know it.”  “I knew I was falling for Ben that first time we were in the jacuzzi.”  What is wrong with them???  This week, the girls all had special dates and overnights with Ben in Switzerland.  They are all in love with Ben, and then knew that he could see a future with all of them, too.  Because that’s what he told them all, right before he forked over the invitation to forgo their single rooms and spend some “alone time” in the “Fantasy Suite”.  And btw, you know that “alone time” is Bachelor code for boot knockin’, right?

Bachelor Ben was on a “I just did it with three girls high” when last week’s discard, Kacie B., made a surprise! trip to the land of neutrality to tell Bachelor Ben that she only wants for him to be happy.  Because she loves him.  From the beginning, all she cared about was his happiness.  Because she is selfless and self-sacrificing when faced with the love of Bachelor Ben.  Oh, and she also wanted to know “Whyyyyy?  What did I do wrong?”  Why can’t they all just move to Utah and become polygamist, since none of them seems to be too bothered that they are all nailing Bachelor Ben?   Well, except that the other girls might see to it that Bachelorette Courtney has an accident that leaves her horribly maimed and unable to speak.  Back to that impromptu visit by Bachelorette Kacie…Hell, I can barely pull it together to get to appointments five miles from my house on time.  How did love-lorn Bachelorette Kacie manage to have her passport ready, alongside a bank account that could afford a less than 14-day advance ticket purchase fare to Switzerland, where she just happened to know where she could find Bachelor Ben, alone in his hotel room, in between all of his international wooing, looking camera-ready in a tie and a head full of dried dippity-do gel?

The episode ended with Bachelorette Nicki leaving sans rose.  Next week is the big season 16 “Women Tell All” reunion show, so it’ll be two nail-biting weeks before we white-knuckle through Bachelor Ben’s mother and sister meeting their possible future skank-in-law to find out if Bachelor Ben will choose Bachelorette Courtney or Bachelorette Lindzi (yes, that is how her name is spelled).  I will NOT be watching the tell-all show.  After watching a Flavor of Love reunion, there is no way that this could ever stack up to my expectations of what a reunion show should be.

Flav knows how do do right be his Baby Mama

Choking on chunked and formed movie scraps

I have long been popping a gasket about how there just seems to be next to no original ideas left for Hollywood and television executives to make do with.  TV shows get made into movies; movies become TV shows.  Why?  I will spare you the full, unedited, throbbing forehead vein version of my disgust and just toss out some examples and then some.

Last year had me contemplating building an ark in which to save myself from the flood of reprocessed films of yore that squirted out of 2011 and 2010 like commercial chicken nugget paste.  And I am not even going to count sequels (there are a ridiculous amount!), prequels, installations, novel-to-screen or adaptations of foreign language films in this.  So, let’s see what that left us: 2011 coughed back up Footloose, Arthur, Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Conan the Barbarian, The Three Musketeers, and The Muppets to name a few.  Then 2010 reintroduced us to Nightmare on Elm Street, Robin Hood, The Karate Kid, Avatar in 3-D, Grease Sings-A-Long (actually the same flick, but re-released as a sing-a-long…shoot me now!), The Last Exorcism (it’s the same as The Exorcism, but new), I Spit on Your Grave, The Tempest, True Grit, The Crazies (featuring ex-pat fellow blogger and mother of Hot Tub’s BF, Kathryn), and Clash of the Titans.  And upcoming for 2012?  Get excited to re-rendez-vous with modern versions of: Total Recall, Halloween, Spiderman, The Great Gatsby, A Star is Born (The first R movie Hot Damn saw in a theater.  It was 1976.), Les Miserables, Logan’s Run, Dirty Dancing, Anna Karenina, The Crow, King Lear, Mad Max, Frankenweenie…and blah, blah, blah.  This week Reese Witherspoon was asked about a remake of her 1996 movie Fear, starring Justin Bieber.  She responded, “Fine. Great. That would be cool. Would he be playing me or Mark Wahlberg?” reports The Huffington Post.  Love her.

 

But recycling old celluloid and “reimagining” past plot lines isn’t that new.  I accept that updating a black and white movie with people speaking in those stilted 1930s accents opens up an audience base for a great movie to be enjoyed by a younger audience.  But then, the big studios decided to recreate successful TV shows.  I’m sure we’ll all be camping out for the likes of The Three Stooges, Dark Shadows, and most certainly 21 Jump Street this year.  Again, why?  Those shows eventually got cancelled for a reason.  There is also going to be a Glee  movie.  Just yuck.  Then studios twisted Saturday cartoons into big-budget movies like: Yogi Bear, Alvin and the Chipmunks, The Smurfs.  And so many movies based on comic books!  Recently: Batman, The Avengers, Superman, The Green Hornet,  X-Men, Iron Man, Fantastic Four, The Incredible Hulk (what were you thinking Edward Norton?), Captain America and so on.

Last year’s success with 3-D reissues such as Jackass 3-D, Saw 3-D and The Lion King 3-D got studio moguls all kinds of worked up to dust off and tweak “old” money-makers and suck them drier than when they were licensed on Betamax, VHS, DVD, Blu-ray, cable, in-flight, on-demand and in some cases to network channels.  Moving into 2012, you can pay an up charge and re-see Titanic 3-D, Finding Nemo 3-D, Beauty and the Beast 3-D, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace 3-D, The Hobbit 3-D, and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3-D.  In discussion are 3-D re-releases of all of the Harry Potter flicks, all of the Lord of the Rings.  On a side note, how long until Vivid Entertainment penetrates this technology?  Ron Jeremy in the glory of 3-D, can you imagine??? 

But Hollywood hadn’t hit bottom yet.  This year will give audiences movies based on dolls; G.I. Joe 2, comes out in June.  Rights have been bought by Relativity Media to base a movie on Stretch Armstrong.  I suspect a story line will explore Stretch being pulled too tight and how the hard, red gel that bursts from his “skin” is contained.  My brothers used Band-Aids.  The sequel will introduce his pal, Stretch Monster, who also oozes red.  It will be a lesson about how we may be different on the outside, but on the inside, we are all made of the same goo.  But wait!  There’s more!  In “oh no, they di’nt” news is the dearth of movies being released inspired by board games.  Not video games like ­Lara Croft: Tomb Raider or Tron and it’s update with a CGI Jeff Bridges (awful, both times!).  I’m talking about the likes of Ouija, based on the banned-at-Church-lock-ins game where a group of girls summon spirits from beyond to answer burning questions like, “When will I get my period?”,  “Has Sonya Adams done ‘it’ yet?”, or “Does Mark Hood like me back?”  No shit.  You’ll have to wait until November 9, 2012 to find out how it all goes down.  In boo-hoo news, Universal Studio has benched plans to make its movie about Clue.  But this is my inspiration for this blog:  Deep breath… 

Sony and Happy Madison have conspired, with the blessings and partnership of Hasbro, to bring to life on the silver screen…wait for it…Candy Land.  Plans have yet to be released referencing follow-ups with Hi Ho Cherry-O and Chutes and Ladders to complete the unholy trinity of the dumbest board games ever to be cinematized.  I am pretty sure that “Hungry, Hungry Hippos” or “Tic-Tac-Toe” would provide more riveting story lines. Worse still is that Adam Sandler intends to both co-write and star in the live-action/adventure-family film.  Mon dieu!  Of the forty four titles he’s acted in, thirty seven he’s produced and seventeen he’s written or co-written, I can vouch for only four…three of which he neither wrote, produced nor developed. 

I should probably consult an entertainment attorney or something first, but I am pumped to announce that I am soliciting to receive funding for a screen-play that I am going to write about sitting in a Cracker Barrel playing the triangle/golf tee game while drinking sweet tea out of a mason jar.  The working title is I Ai’nt no Eg-No-Ra-Moose, I’m Just Plain Dumb.  Cathchy, no?  I will also need to find out whether or not Jim Varney has been cryogenically frozen and if not, I need a contact number for Jesco White.

You aren’t the special person this year

So here we are on the cusp of knotting up another year.  This means that people are in a shopping frenzy, a decorating tizzy and in a state of baking mania.  Parents with waaay too much time on their hands are doing precious, clever and generally creepy as hell things with their children’s elves.  Teenagers are taking exams and foaming at the mouth over what their Christmas get is going to be.  Working adults are wringing their hands over their “holiday bonuses”.  But news rags and publicity pimps have been busy compiling their lists of the most “Intriguing/Interesting/Fascinating” people of the year.  They got rolling en mass this week.  People Magazine and Time Magazine hit stands, Barbara Walters did her televised celebrity lap dance and again I was amazed just watching her frozen Joan Crawford eye.  And America’s aging sweetheart, Katie Couric, got in the game and did a wrap up of the big news of the year, too.  Isn’t that nice?  Honestly, Katie’s recap was a bit too legit for me.  I like to read or watch trash and then feel all highbrow and sanctimonious by blogging about it later.

 

Barbara Walters ran down her “10 Most Fascinating People of 2011” this week.  Of course, I have issues with it.  Didn’t catch it?  Not to worry, that’s what I’m here for.  Big Daddy and I made our own predictions last week.  We nailed six of them.  That is a big, fat D-.  I guess my expectations were a bit too lofty.  Since I blogged 2010’s list here and here, I figured you people would be expecting a recap again this year.  In keeping with her usual droll style, Barbara picked mostly jack-wagons.  And another thing?  Barbara needs to learn how to count.  There weren’t ten people; there were fourteen.  Well, except one has expired, so really it was thirteen.  It went down like this:

Katy Perry:  She is fascinating for being the human embodiment of an overly frosted and jimmied cupcake.  She dropped out of high school, kissed a girl…and she liked it, and married a former heroine addict.  Bravo!  She’s kinda cute and harmless, I guess.  But one of the most fascinating people to come across my radar in the last year?  Maybe if I lives in a paper sack or in an Occupy Anything tent city.

Simon Cowell is honest, generates a load of revenue and makes people’s dreams come true and yet, he’s still a tool.  He admitted that he wanted to get busy with Paula Abdul when they were on American Idol together.  The best I can say is that he would have been able to save the cost and liability of slipping Rohypnol in her drink.

Pippa Middleton is fascinating because she rocked a bridesmaid dress.  Really?  Baby is fascinating because she got back?  I am certain that had Sir-Mix-A-Lot been asked to weigh in on this topic he would have said, “Aw hell no!  Maybe if she’s 5’3″.”  God, help us.

Shucky-ducky, Herman Cain made the list!  I wonder if he would have made the cut if he hadn’t suspended his campaign amid lurid skirt chasing rumors.  Would Barbara have found him fascinating were he in a position to Obama bash while on top of the world?

Amanda Knox has actually held my attention for the past few years.  However, Barbara didn’t manage to score a sit-down with her.  Instead she just showed a newsreel mash up with Barbara’s own voice over.  That’s a fail.

Donald Trump allowed Barbara to tug on his coiffure to prove that it’s not a piece.  Who actually thought that follicular mess was fake?  No one would manufacture something like that.  I kinda half expected it to spring to life and bite her though.  I never thought it was a toupe.  I always assumed it was a yellow ferret draped across his pate.

Duo Eric Stonestreet and Jesse Tyler Ferguson, you know them as openly gay couple Cam and Mitchell from “Modern Family”, were featured.  Are Eric and Jesse fascinating, or is it their television characters that we clamor for?  Well, straight Eric plays the flamboyant Cam, while the more reserved Mitchell is played by for-real-duh-gay Jesse. That’s not fascinating.  It’s acting.  I guess I can be thankful that Babs didn’t try to shove the cast of “Glee” down my throat.  That would have bumped the 10 turned 14 even higher.

Derek Jeter, thankfully, refused to answer Barbara’s probing questions about his romantic dalliances.  She’s such a dirty old lady!

Now, much has been made about Barbara’s hard line tactics with the four main chick Kardashians.   That’s right, four train wrecks for the price of one.  Reuters reported of the segment, “Walters actually went there, telling Kim, ‘You don’t really act, you don’t sing, you don’t dance … you don’t have any — forgive me — any talent!’”  Wow.  She really went in deep.  That was such a risky line of questioning.  I wonder if anyone has ever pointed out that Barbara also neither acts, sings nor dances.

But the mostest fascinating of them all?  Steve Jobs.  Barbara said that he was intended to be her number one all along, but he crossed over the rainbow before she was able to score some face time.  I don’t want to put words in the man’s now silent mouth, but that is one way of having to avoid intrepid questions like, “If you were a tree, what kind do you think you would be?”  Too soon?

 

This week, Time Magazine released their annual proclamation of their “Person of the Year”.   I didn’t think they could get any lazier than that 2006 gimmick, when they named You as their top pick.  Remember?  The magazine cover had a shitty reflective panel on the front so that you could gaze at a distorted version of yourself on the special cover!  Aren’t you so important?  Aren’t you just the most special little snowflake?  Puhleese.  It was like a participation trophy for grownups.  No, this year Time proved once more that they could just dial it in when they crowned Protesters as their whatever in the hell it is that they are calling it now.  Protesters?  I doth protest!  They didn’t even whittle it down to a type of protestor.  I protest about crap all. the. damn. time.  Hot Tub protests by walking mad to his room and then slamming the door.  If he isn’t sure that the message was received, he’ll open the door and slam it again, extra hard, for good measure.  Store clerks at Toys-R-Us protest with a colossal eye-roll if you ask them anything other than where they get their crypto-gel done.  Don’t we all protest?  About work, other people, The Man, our health, the weather, school, our kids?  Without being specific about the type of protestor, we all just got Person of the Year again.  That means that everybody is special, which to those of us who don’t live in a jar of glitter know means that no one is special.  Congratulations, Time just made us all blah.  Again.  Awesome!

Really, this whole matter of an end of the year naming of people to lists of fascination is really just a roll call for the main players in the country’s own News of the Weird.    These aren’t necessarily people who are truly intriguing or have accomplished much of anything besides distracting the collective from the sputtering economy, expanding health problems, abductions, child murders, foreclosures, overweight kids, neighborhood meth labs, garden variety jihads, and personal responsibility.  To that end, I am aghast that, by far, the most fascinating rose of all was not plucked for the Top of the Everything list:

Sixteen-year-old child bride Courtney Stodden is like something created in the basement of Perez Hilton while tweaking out on a meth-mushroom bender with a side of speed-ball and Lindsay Lohan assisting.  She is so fantastically awful and over-done that I can not turn away!  And her fifty one-year-old geezer husband gives me some serious heebie-jeebies.  I have yet to dedicate a post to Mrs. Hutchison, because I just don’t think that I can summon the right words to capture all of my feelings.  You understand, don’t you?  I vow, though, to spend a chunk of 2012 bringing her story of courage and love to the people so that next year, Courtney will take her rightful spot in Barbara’s hot seat.

Awkward sexual moment

I was two-and-twenty the summer I experienced what I ticked off would certainly be the single most awkward moment in my life.  Not embarrassing, not humiliating…I keep hitting the refresh button on those two.  No, what I am talking about is that moment of being inescapably uncomfortable in a situation, where the only possible resolution is to just wait it out, keep quite and avoid any eye contact until you can pretend that you were never there.  Every seemingly maladroit instance since that time has been a walk in the park.  After all, what else could possibly ever rattle me more than sitting in a dark room on the sofa next to my mother while watching Laura Dern and Nic Cage “go at it” in the David Lynch directed Wild at Heart on cable?  If you haven’t seen it, I will attest that it is awful on just about every level.  The dialog, the accents (Cage was clearly working on what he would later use in Con Air, which I have already blathered on about here), and the whole story line in general is just garden variety bad.  And the sex scenes?  It was more like characters acting out and having tantrums while partially and entirely naked.  If I were sitting around with friends guzzling alcohol and watching it, it would be hilarious.  Like when me and Big Daddy got a case of beer and watched Showgirls.  But in a dark room, with my mother…both of us sober and alert, it was punishing.  The sounds alone of the characters were bad enough, but the sights just pushed it to my limit.  The remote control had been set down too far away on the coffee table for either one of us to have gotten to it without a reach over and possibly a grunt.  Neither one of us was mature enough to just throw out a nervous laugh and make the move to end it.  I still cringe thinking about it.  My personal discomfort could never be topped…or so I thought.

 

In fact, there is something far, far worse than watching an eager “up for anything” sex scene in a dark room with your mom.  It’s me being the mom watching an eager, glamorized teenage vampire-mortal sex scene with my own daughter in a dark theater.  Yes, it’s true.

In an unprecedented move, Snakebite wanted to go see Breaking Dawn, which had me breaking down.  But right now, she is the middle school Queen Bee in our house and I just want to earn her approval and am thrilled when she wants to do anything with me.  I complied, mainly because I thought it’d be laughably bad and then I could blog about it later.  Know this: we aren’t up on the franchise.  We both read the first book and saw the movie when my niece came to stay with us one summer.  I thought it was some of the dumbest fodder I’d seen since my friends and I made a slasher movie one bored Sunday afternoon in high school.  This was 1988 and my mom’s huge VHS camera that we used was not equipped with steady cam.  That movie had a richer plot line than Twilight.  If I recall correctly, about 30 minutes into watching that first one, Snakebite said it was weird and lame; she was bored and was going to go to bed.

 

I have a scant understanding of what goes on in the Twilight series because the world is populated with people who call themselves “Twihards”.  Ugh.  I can’t plead that I was ignorant that the girl character, Bella, was going to marry her glittering and frosty vampire beau, Edward.  And I knew from the trailer that they would be starting a family.  It just never occurred to me that they would have rocker Tommy Lee filming the honeymoon.  While nothing as out there as Ron Jeremy showing up in a nurse’s outfit happened, there were ripped feather pillows, broken furniture, tilted light fixtures, body bruises and a lot of position changes.  And they were both allegedly virgins.  There was no, “Ouch, wait, that hurts”, not a single, “You’re on my hair!” nor, “The school nurse said to always use birth-control, Edward.  I am not on the pill.  Did you remember to bring condoms?”  Nope, none of that real life deflowering dialog.   Instead it was Bella glowing and begging for more the next morning and me trying to neutralize the acid reflux in my throat with a fist full of popcorn.  I can’t even discuss the birthing scene that has, like the Pokémon movie, spawned epileptic seizures in movie houses across the world.  The silver lining, I guess, is that Bella didn’t end up with Jacob, the werewolf boy.  That could have been a far worse sex scene to have had to white knuckle through.

What have I learned from this?  Well, for starters, nothing is absolute.  All the things that I thought were awful about being a disgruntled and misunderstood teen daughter myself are now amplified now that I am the mother of a disgruntled and misunderstood teen daughter.  I will never be smug again in thinking that by getting through adolescence and young adulthood I have passed some imaginary finish line where I am now always mature and insightful in the face of awkward moments.  I have not been properly inoculated against personal horror and am therefore not immune to it, as previously thought.  I did exactly what my mom did when Wild at Heart’s credits rolled.  Nothing.  I didn’t mention anything about Bella and Edward’s sexy time and Snakebite announced that she was tired.  And so the cycle is complete…I hope.

My porn got diddled away

I fancy myself as something of an inventor, maybe even an innovator.  The trouble is that I am a lot of lofty ideas and talk, but not so much action.  The sort of marketable genius that I am capable of is documented here, in my first ever blog post.  As you know, I invented the Obama Chia Pet years ago, but never did anything but sit on the sofa and talk about how great a Chia head with an Afro would be.  I lost out on all of that sweet moolah.

Well, this past spring I “invented” something else that I was pretty sure would be a hit.  Allow me to first disclaim that just because you come up with something, or uncover a need does not necessarily mean that it is rooted in a long time obsession.  Sometimes you just get an idea from the corner of your eye.  Having been burned too many times from past ideas and products that have been scooped up by the early birds of the world, I had actually begun trying to figure out how to give this new worm some legs.  It was going to be a cable television show that would hybridize retro-porn movies, Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Beavis and Butthead and an excuse to drink with friends.  I floated it to some entertainment people-in-the-know and got enthusiastic responses.  And then, I was listening to The Regular Guys morning show almost two weeks ago and the guest was Dave Attell, who was promoting his new show:  Dave’s Old Porn.  That.  Was.  Mine.  Damnit.  What he described was almost exactly my concept.  Curse you, Mr. Attell.

I think I was in my early twenties the first time that I ever saw a real porn movie.  “Showtime After Hours”, “Skinimax” or HBO’s late night showing of Lady Chatterley’s Lover do not count.  The first “adult film” I saw was tears-streaming-down-face-hilarious.  It was shot in someone’s groove-ass vaulted den and there was a pizza delivery guy, who looked nothing like my Domino’s dude.  I believe this particular art piece was called F*cking Brunettes.  Guess what the common thread was.  Yep, it was all raven-haired “actresses” getting frisky with everyone from boyfriends, plumbers to pool guys.  Except that some of the “ladies” were peroxide blondes, so they had to wear wigs.  That sometimes slipped.  Better still was that the “talent” really believed that they were there to act and so there was a script that was adhered to…no matter what.  Since this was edited in a time before Mac Book Pro and you actually had to purchase film, editing was more labor intensive and re-takes were costly.  Let’s just agree that the transitions were not smooth.  And because there is no record of this movie on imdb, I am unable to find out any information about the make-up and wardrobe professionals who worked on set.  My guess is that the “talent” was instructed to just wear something made from synthetic fibers and bring their fluffiest, most all-encompassing merkin to the set.

Then in the late 1990s, we had a malfunctioning cable box that for some crazy reason allowed us access to ultimate fighting and the Spice channel.  The Spice channel was not the precursor to the Food Network.  I know, you’d think so, right?  It showed nekid movies.  Even though they were just the soft-core variety, we should have demanded to have that devil’s box replaced, but getting an appointment with the cable company was just such a hassle, so we kept it.  During this time I would watch the Spice flicks, but only the credits…the names of the “actors” were the priceless work of thirteen-year-old boys.  Names like Peter North, Anna Malle, Ben Dover, Jack Hammer, Chesty Morgan, Seymour Butts were subtle, yet oh, so sexy and to the point.  For those of us living in the mainstream, there are several formulas to creating your own porn name, such as combining your middle name with the name of your first pet, or a street name where you spent your innocent childhood.  I could work under the monikers Ann Beechwood or Ann Ranger.  One makes use of the word “wood” and the other sounds like I’d be good at finding things in the wild.  Score!

Occasionally, I would have to actually see some of the movie to get to the credits.  These later 20th century movies showed significant advancements in breast augmentation, laser hair removal, handheld video recorders, and camera effects.  Someone was clearly investing in these movies, too.  The backdrops were often classy “mansions” with lots of white carpet and Levolor blinds, or fancy poolsides with scads of statuary and no shortage of chaise-lounges.  Also different were some pretty weird group scenarios that were never explained by way of any bulky dialog.  In fact, the talking was reduced to lip-lick sounds, grunts and a random, “Oh, yeah!”  Thanks to the elimination of the once important story line, I still have no idea why no woman ever removed her shoes during a scene.  Me?  I always wear flip-flops in the bathhouse at the pool, or in the gym locker room because I don’t want other people’s sweaty foot cooties crawling under my toes.  But these women, while guarding against toenail fungus and potential harmful liver related side effects from Lamisil, are letting all manner of other things penetrate through their exposed skin.  Does that make any kind of sense to you?

And now with the Internets, and sites like youporn.com, there is no shortage of porn for the masses and their mass interests.  And it’s not funny, or culturally amusing.  It’s aggressive and psychologically damaging to watch.  Too many things are going in wrong places, it all looks manmade, and the pretense of even trying to parlay this into an acting career has been dismissed.  Kim Kardashian’s entertainment empire may have been the last successful springboard from nasty porn.  When I first went on line in 1997, I mistyped a search engine name and was directed to something so icky and depraved that I can only say “donkey”.  Shudder.  I couldn’t get out of its page and I finally broke down in tears and called Big Daddy at work.  I was hysterical.  No body needs to see that kind of stuff.  Ever.

And that’s why I had the idea for MY show.  It would be Big Daddy, me and our most funny friends drinking beers and critiquing movies from the Golden Age of porn.  You’d totally watch it, I know you would.  And now Dave Attell is already shooting season 2 of his show for Showtime.  He was on Chelsea this week talking about it.  He did an episode of it with Adam Carolla.  Why did I drag my feet on this?  Could it have something to do with no longer owning a VCR and having to hunt one down to even get started?  I’m pretty sure that Turner Classics has yet to go in and digitize The Rings Around Uranus or Taboo II yet.

Chaz wasn’t the first to waltz across my screen

I recently had occasion to meet a woman who is “on strike”.  This past month, I’ve seen a lot of people on strike in the news, be it in protest of Georgia’s death penalty, Wall Street bonuses or hotel labor practices.  However, this lady was my first in-the-flesh striker.  Her cause?  “Get that Chaz Bono offa my Dancing with the Stars!”  Whoa.  Really?  “I never thought I’d see something like that in my lifetime…”  It turns out that the perversity that is Chaz Bono, twirling and dipping on live TV, pretty much sums up everything that is wrong, wrong, wrong with the world today.  She must be awash in relief in the wake of Chaz’ booting from DWTS last night.  I’m relieved too since this was all we have had to worry about.  Silly me; I have been fretting over dwindling job opportunities and escalating foreclosures, but it turns out that those sorts of things aren’t really root problems at all.  It’s Chaz, and the gays and the “ I don’t know whats” on public parade.  Personally, I did find watching Chaz waltzing across my screen uncomfortable, but not for THOSE reasons.  They kept putting him in those tight, stretchy outfits and I was afraid he was going to burst out of them like a bit of ruptured haggis.  I was afraid for my eyes, not my morality.

 

But as far as I can remember there have always been plenty of gay, lesbian and transgendered characters on television.  People talk about how amazing it is that there is Ellen.  People magazine loves to slobber all over Glee for giving us a gay character.  Really?  This isn’t new.  It’s just that no one really had much to say about it.  Why?  I don’t know; I don’t care.  Any given episode of Hollywood Squares, which began airing in 1965, was likely to feature Rip Taylor, Charles Nelson Reilly, Paul Lynde or all three at once!  Back in the day, attention wasn’t so much focused on a character or actor’s preference or sexual identity, but you’d have to have been a moron to miss it.  Maybe we were all just a little more polite and didn’t need to exploit that kind of thing in the media so much.

Wildly popular early 1980s show Too Close for Comfort was premised on the two Rush daughters moving in to their parents’ deceased transvestite neighbor’s apartment.  The cross-dresser never makes it on screen, but loveable Monroe Ficus, played by Jim J. Bullock, sashayed through 118 episodes of the show.

And what about the ex-con turned sassy decorator, Anthony Bouvier, on Designing Women?  Oh, those southern women were too polite to ever state the obvious, but…am I right?

 

It is generally accepted that Jo Polniaczek on The Facts of Life was playing on her own team, if you know what I mean.  Nudge, nudge.  Wink, wink.  Even though in the past year the actress, Geri Jewell, who played Blair’s cousin, Geri, ‘fessed up, it was tomboy Jo, who set off the gaydar.  To “butch up” actress Nancy McKeon, the wardrobe department gave her a ponytail and a leather jacket.  In her spare time, Jo liked to work on her motorcycle.  Any questions?

There were so many other gay characters on the shows I watched as a kid.  Both goofy Alice and Sam: the Butcher on The Brady Bunch were most certainly bearding for one another.  Don’t you think?  And one being neat and one being sloppy wasn’t the only thing odd about The Odd Couple.  Come to think of it, Skipper and Gilligan were always happy to let Thurston Howell III, clutching his teddy, bunk with them on Gilligan’s Island.  Bewitched had stereo-typical clotheshorse Uncle Arthur, M.A.S.H. featured Corporal Max Klinger, who was begging to be called out for cross-dressing.  Janet from Three’s Company.  Hello?…oh, there are just too many to get into them all.  But the characters weren’t just limited to live action television.

Sensible Velma from Scooby Doo?  There wasn’t enough weed in the Mystery Van to convince Shaggy that she’d ever be receptive to hanging out and having a Scooby Snack with him.   I certainly didn’t need Charles Schultz to pen a memoir to tell me that Peppermint Patty and Marcy from Peanuts would one day become life partners.  And Sesame Street’s Bert and Ernie.  That was a given.

Am I off course here?

Vampires in Florida…What’s up, Doc?

Boo!

Anyone else remember when parents groups got all bunched up about the harmful societal effects that the Bugs Bunny cartoons were having on children?  This was probably around the late 1970s or early 1980s, when media rags like Psychology Today ramped up distribution and talk show host Phil Donahue was jaw-jacking through the miracle of television to Moms while they folded and ironed the laundry.  The gist was that violence in cartoons was causing aggressive behavior in pre-school tots that would later blossom into full-fledged criminal activity.  From then until now I don’t recall any news story of a teen attacking anyone with a cast-iron skillet, a moody adolescent trying to capture the object of his desire by placing an open lasso on the ground with some snacks within the circle or anything about luring children into cauldrons of boiling water to make Hasenpfeffer stew.  I have yet to receive delivery of a bomb making kit from Acme.  Of course, cats do continue trying to catch birds and chicken hawks are still breaking into hen houses.  What do I know?

Insert laugh track

However, I’ve had an unsettled feeling since that first Twilight movie, that trouble was afoot.  I was a bit off-put by how many grown women were going into full swoon over a young Robert Pattinson as misunderstood vampire, Edward Cullen.  Then another faction of women went weak in the knees for the taut Taylor Lautner as loveable werewolf, Jacob Black.  A t-shirt empire was built on whether you were on “Team Edward” or “Team Jacob”.  Ugh.  Ladies, puhlease.

Even Jacob, err Taylor, agrees with me

But it didn’t stop with housewives and their t-shirt messages.  Why not celebrate your love of all things vampire or werewolf with something less likely to shrink in the wash…though more likely to discolor and sag with time.  Enter the Twilight tattoo trend:

Someone is bringing the sexy back

 

Future turtleneck affecianado

If the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote inspired groups to boycott Warner Brothers cartoons, then surely the hint of pedophilia and body mutilation would have parent groups gabbing about the dangers of books and live action movies that romanticize bloodsuckers and body changers by coating them is glitter sparkles and soft fur over six pack abs.  Nope.

Unsexy undead Nosferatu...the way it should be

Maybe if the parent watchdog groups hadn’t been slacking we would have our vampire problem under control in this country.  Anyone else see this story in the news last week?  I must warn you, it’s out of Florida, so it is going to be full-frontal weird.  Panama City, Fl teen Stephanie Pistey, age 18, and four of her friends lured a 16 year-old boy to a house where he was beaten to death then dumped in a storm drain.  Oh, and the house?  It was where Stephanie was babysitting two children.  Stephanie’s explanation of why she was involved in this scene had her telling police, “Since I was like, 12 … I know this is going to be crazy, but I believe that I’m a vampire. Part of a vampire and part of a werewolf.”

Liger's cousin

Really?  A vampire in the sunshine state?  How can this be?  Then I looked at her Facebook page.  Stephanie likes blood, doesn’t read much, hates God and has atrocious spelling and grammar habits.  Her music pages included the likes of Soulja Boy, Hannah Montana, but the most revealing clue of all into her sinister psyche is an endearment to Miley Cyrus.  That. Explains. Everything.

Miley preparing to suck

Coasting through reading rewards

My son read a lot of books last year and was rewarded with a “free” ticket to Six Flags.  This was neither a reward nor free for me.  As a kid, I loooved Six Flags.  I couldn’t get there enough and even had a season’s pass.  By age eleven, my mother would drop me off alone at the gates before lunch with a crisp $20 and pick me up during the fireworks just before closing.  But, I haven’t “done” the park since I was nineteen and had no desire to ever revisit it.  Big Daddy was adamant in his refusal to be the parent to take Hot Tub to redeem his award and celebrate his literacy.  Snake Bite is terrified of “anything carnival”, so it was up to me alone to dust off my Mother of the Year sash and be “fun mommy” for the day.  I knew that Buford the Buzzard was no more, but what else would be different?  And, mon dieu, what would be the same?

There was no Great Gasp, no Highland Swing, no Drunken Barrells nor Jolly Rogers Island…R.I.P.  The Chevy Show, Dolphin show and petting zoo…buh-bye.  The Hanson Cars had moved.  Skee ball at every turn?  Nope.  And while I saw no one walking an invisible dog, I did see a few kids on leashes.  Squirm.  Free Fall was replaced with a diabolical contraption that had me breaking my rule about not praying in public.  No, it wasn’t the same at all.  And that isn’t a bad thing.  And most of the artifacts that I was familiar with, had been updated in someway.

In 1978, The Mind Bender was THE new ride.  You stood in line forever, avoiding being pushed into “the gum tree” that was most certainly a breeding ground for all strains of hepatitis.  And for what?  To be thrust along some rickety sounding rails that flipped you upside down three times.  Now there are lots of roller coasters that go upside down and The Mind Bender seems a little retro.  And the gum tree?  They now swathe and staple the trees in a burlap condom, and when it is full of sticky, gnat pocked infected gum, they just take it off and put on a new one.  A new trend has also emerged with gumming the landscape boulders as well.  I’m not sure how that’s going to play out.

It blew my mind though that with all of the advances in rollercoaster building and amusement engineering, the bumper cars are still as unreliable and junky as they were in the 1970s.  Technology has by-passed them.  They still get stuck, having to be manually unstuck, and are still powered by a flat piece of metal rubbing and snagging along the bottom of a volted chicken wire ceiling.  I thought that for sure by now they would have been able to get the kinks worked out of that.  Six Flags has tried to keep up with the times and be respectable.  The park now has a “code of conduct” that does not allow smoking outside of dedicated corners and even purports to ask patrons to leave if they are using loud profanity.  It seems a bit unlikely, but it was quite a nice change to not be standing in line with hickey coated teenagers with dangling cigarettes from their lips while screaming the f-word, s-word, or any other words that would have made my grandmother blush.  So while that turned out to be a non-issue, I did have to explain the verbage on a lot of neck tattoos.

And Six Flags also says that they have “healthy choices” for park goers’ dining options.  For lunch we went to Dee Jay’s, one of the restaurants tagged as having “healthy choices.”  I couldn’t actually figure out what the “healthy choice” was.  I think it was the “fried chicken tender salad” that I got.  It was three large fried chicken fillets on iceberg lettuce with four cherry tomatoes, carrot slivers and two packets of Ranch dressing that each had 17g of fat apiece.  My other options were bleu cheese or Italian.

Being respectable and healthy has gotten the park on the roll to adopt a more natural look.  For instance, that water that used to course through all to the flume rides and ponds…remember it was the aqua blue color of your high school head cheerleader’s eye contacts (that she insisted were her real eye color).  Well, it’s been ditched in favor of normal-color water.  And they are trying to recycle…starting with the staff wearing collared shirts made out of melted plastic fabric.  Signs were posted about their low flow toilets and hand dryers replacing towels in the restrooms.  I’m all for conservation, but I just don’t think that low-flow is the way to go in a park full of out-of shape patrons who’ve been eating funnel cakes and hot dogs in 97 degree heat.  Thoughts?

So, I rode every roller coaster the boy wanted to ride.  I got soaked in Thunder River.  I stood in lines that harkened to Soviet Russia bread distribution.  I bought $9 diluted lemonade.  I cheered as the boy won a basketball.  I finished off a bottle of hand sanitizer.  I ate things that probably wouldn’t decompose if left in a forest for a year.  And on the way home, R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts” was playing on the radio.  I had always thought that was a song aimed at disgruntled teens about getting through uphill battles and feeling kicked around by the man.  It’s not.  I am pretty sure Bill Berry or Michael Stipe wrote if after turning forty and being jostled on roller coasters.  The “hold on” refrain is a reference not to perseverance, but to actually holding on to ice packs and stair railings.

 

 

Eden Wood has been there, done that and is retiring…at six.

This week the country has been introduced to newly crowned Miss South Carolina cutie, Bree Boyce.  Bree isn’t like other beauty queens; she’s like us.  Well, she was like us.  Over a span of three years, Bree kicked her own butt and dropped a whopping 112 pounds before deciding to give the scholarship circuit a try.  I’d say it worked out.  We like Bree.  She’s been fat and now she is thin, pretty and poised.  We feel inspired by Bree in her bathing suit.

Just days after some of us might be thinking that maybe, just maybe this pageant gig may not be so damaging after all, our world is now officially rocked.  News broke this that Toddlers and Tiaras staple, Eden Wood, will be hanging up her glitz gowns, folding her sashes, tucking away her flipper and retiring at the advanced age of…six.  But don’t put away the spray tan and hair falls just yet.

Did I say retire?  Well, that’s the word the news used.  Eden is really just transitioning into the next, natural phase of her life and career.  After receiving death threats in Australia while “on tour”, momager, Micki Wood, feels that it is time for Eden to point her talent in another direction.  And I quote, “Why not see if we can’t have a Hollywood contract, a reality show, a whatever; you know, a spot on a Disney program.  Why not?  It’s the American Dream.  It’s almost like her destiny.”  Mama went on to say that lots of really important people got their starts in pageants, like Oprah Winfrey.

I had always thought that the American Dream was to immigrate here, start a business, become a homeowner and not fear unwarranted police searches or seizures.  The American Dream is now having a reality show.  I feel like such a fool for not knowing this. Maybe Eden could get a show on OWN?

Looking at Eden’s legal dreamland for pedophiles website www.littleedenwood.com certainly shows that someone is working hard toward her goal.  In fact, Eden has been so busy, that I am feeling like a hack.  By the time I was six I hadn’t done squat.  But Eden is the sole subject of the book Eden Wood; From Cradle to Crown, and she has four singles available on iTunes and as ringtones.  And if that alone isn’t enough, Eden also has a special doll called the “Eden Wood Showgirl Doll”.  It has boobs and is dressed like a blonde Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls.  After shipping and handling, the darling doll only costs $30.95 and Eden will sign the next 50 orders of the limited edition effigy/MacKenzie’s voodoo doll personally.  Did you know how to sign your name when you were six?  Me neither.

The most bizarre of Little Eden’s business ventures is her affiliation with a company called Princess Canopy Beds.  Now, I don’t want to be catty, but PCB has a very poorly edited website and the blog is beyond awful.  However, I suspect that no one is going there to be amazed with explanations of powder coating and sub-strata mattress platforms technology.  They are clicking in to see creepy pictures of a gussied up Eden lounging on a trundle bed.  It’s a bit much.

Eden is available for appearances, book signings and performances.  No lie.  As described in her press releases, Eden in an internationally known pageant superstar and a rising star in the entertainment industry.  So whatever is on the horizon for Eden, I’m sure she’ll dazzle and it will be spectacular.  While you are waiting for her to headline at the Pink Pony South in twelve years, you can watch the train wreck on her website or on her Facebook page.  I know you are supposed to be thirteen to have a page, but regular rules just don’t apply to Eden.  You go girl!

Scenesters get old-school, or just get old

When Hot Damn was in high school, we didn’t have hipsters.  There were dweebs, jocks, nerds, hoods, mallrats, punks, new-wavers, skaters, pot-heads, juvies, rivet-heads, brown-nosers, homos, band-dorks, theater people, scenesters, campers, girls that took The Cure way too seriously and so on.  But, no hipsters.  They hadn’t been born yet.  I’m not exactly sure where I fit on the scale of labels and teenage coolness.  It’s not that I consider myself without definition; more likely it is that I kind of embraced bits and pieces of them all, floating in a social abyss.

One thing I was into was the “music scene” and so I knew a lot of scenesters.  I listened to low-dial college stations, hung out in record stores, made themed mixed tapes, read Maximum Rock n’ Roll and snuck into clubs to see bands.  A lot.  I don’t think I ever copped a beer; I just wanted to hear the music.  My parents thought that I saw Top Gun like every weekend; they were not so okay with me slinking around downtown at night.  Can’t imagine why.  Growing up in Atlanta, there was no shortage of music venues that looked the other way when it came to minor patronage.  The Metroplex, White Dot, 688, Royal Peacock, Dugout, Atlantan Hotel, Margaritaville, The Point, and Celebrity Club all had slack doormen and great music every weekend.  I saw a bunch of great shows at Georgia Tech, Emory and Piedmont Park, too.  Last Husker Du show?  Saw it.  Ditto for The Replacements.  Drivin’ n’ Cryin’ at a burrito shack?  REM at Piedmont Park?  The early version of The Black Crowes in a basement?  Sitting on stage with the Smithereens?  Check them all and then some.  It was good times.

A favorite band from that era, Guadalcanal Diary, had a pearl anniversary reunion show this past weekend.  (They played that cannibal song!)  Going to the show I expected to see a bunch of throwbacks and familiar faces from way back when.  Well, it turns out that aging scenesters…age.  They are virtually unrecognizable.  Their hair turns grey (if they still have it), their clothes get all practical and store-bought, and they have traded in pointy boots for a comfy pair of Merrells.  It’s also mainly old dudes, not old chicks, who turn out for reunion shows.  But if the music still rocks and the beer is cold, it’s all good.  And it was.  Except that it was hot, and we were sore from yard-work and had stuff to do the next morning.  As we were leaving a tad early, a guy looks at Big Daddy and says, “Hey, don’t I know you…from Cub Scouts?”  Cover blown.

You know, Big Daddy and I actually still go out and see our fair share of bands.  We are usually the older people toe-tapping in the middle, surrounded by young hipsters.  Aside from the skinny jeans, 1970s women’s sunglasses and ironic t-shirts, the hipsters aren’t all that different from the aging scenesters.  Well, except that the hipsters all have tattoos and piercings; the pearly scenesters have nicotine patches and wedding bands.

How I got atmosphere induced narcolepsy, or why I hate musicals

Gross

I hate musicals, but why?  When I was a kid I loved My Fair Lady, GiGi, Mary Poppins and even The Wizard of Oz.  On Saturday mornings I am usually belting out “Good Morning” from Singing in the Rain.  But, at some point, after seeing Tommy, I began to writhe in my seat whenever an actor would break into song.  And if so much of a scintilla of choreography is present in anything, I practically get apoplectic.  It’s not like my parents beat me with rolled up Playbills or practiced aversion therapy while screening the film adaptation of Oklahoma.  I can listen to the Cole Porter songbook all day long, and I know most of the words to the Rogers & Hammerstein catalog, too.  Still, I can not watch a musical!  So what gives?

After a lot of soul searching and careful consideration I can hone in on exactly two experiences with musicals that have shaped my disability to sit through any production with singing and not squirm then fall fast asleep so that I can detach from what is happening in front of me.

Can you find the crashed car

I loved The Beatle’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, an album so good that it is rumored to be the catalyst of Beach Boy Brian Wilson’s most significant nervous breakdown.  Who couldn’t lose themselves staring at the cover art?  It was like a Who’s Who of popular personalities, many of whom were recognizable to me at the time, like the Hardy Brothers, Marilyn Monroe or Elvis Presley and others who I wouldn’t recognize until I was older.  Furthering my fascination with the cover were the hidden clues as to whether or not Paul McCartney was really dead.

But the album’s jacket was just a window dressing for what was inside.  The music hit me in a way that was really powerful for a little kid.  I didn’t know what made “Within You, Without You” or “A Day in the Life” so good, but they were.  Songs like “Getting Better” or “With a Little Help From My Friends” seemed like they were written especially for me.

Horror movie

You cannot imagine what a shit bomb hit my life during the summer I turned eight.  At the Franklin Road Theater in Marietta, I was taken to see the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band movie.  It was like watching a puppy being tortured.  Everything that I loved about the album had been perverted.  There was a feminine Peter Frampton in painter overalls cavorting with the BeeGees acting as the Beatles, Alice Cooper, Aerosmith, Steve Martin, George Burns and Earth, Wind and Fire.  Oh, the humanity!  I can only guess that the Beatles green-lighted this mess while they were camped out in India sucking on the hooka pipe and gobbling mushrooms with Ravi Shankar and any two-bit guru with a sitar.

How could this have happened?

So that was number one.  Number two is this:

Simply awful

The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  Holding my sides.  Ugh.  Groan.  Eyes are rolling.  Okay, so what I think happened here is that I have older brothers.  Growing up, they would get to “stay out late” when they were going to see the midnight showing of this crapgasm.  They all allegedly loved this movie.  There was the soundtrack album in our house, maybe a poster and lots of quoting at the breakfast table.  At least that’s how I remember it.   I hope to God this was just an act that was played out for the benefit of my mother, who would allow them to break curfew only if they were at the theater.

I guess I was fifteen when I was finally allowed to go see the movie.  Not only was it the Holy Grail…the midnight show, but it was also going to be my first time seeing it.  The palpable excitement that I felt in the car quickly turned to “What the hell?” as we walked up to the ticket booth.  Where did all of those dorks in costumes come from?  It only got worse as people pelted stuff at the screen, shouted out the dialogue, brandished squirt guns and then got up to dance along with the film’s action.  The crowd participation was more animated than seeing a slasher flick at an all black theater.

I couldn’t tell you what happens beyond the first fifteen minutes. The stress of seeing the aptly named Rocky Horror Picture Show and it’s fans marks the first time that I was able to invoke my atmosphere induced narcolepsy.  I have not stayed awake during a musical performance…film or stage produced, since.  I’ve slept through Cats in London, NYC and Atlanta.  Snoozed through Les Miserables and Phantom of the Opera on Broadway.  Caught winks during Wicked, Grease, and every musical in the Fox series during 1993…when my mother gave me season tickets.  WTF?  And I even rested my eyes when Snakebite was involved in a play at school.

I told you that I am Mother of the Year.

5 Songs about cannibalism that will eat at your soul

By and large, I think that most pop and rock songs are about love, playing in a band, being misunderstood or excitement over a day of the week.  Rap songs are predominantly about prosecution, pimping, money, drugs or some combination of all of the above.  Funk and soul are about dancing and making the sweet, sweet love with a foxy lady. Of course, the topics for songwriting are endless and can lean to the silly, autobiographical, serious or mundane.  Melanie Safka wrote and sang the absurd “Brand New Key” in 1971, about her roller skates.  Madonna, Ben Folds, Squeeze, XTC and any band with working biology have waxed about unplanned pregnancies.  Jimmy Buffett crooned about cheeseburgers of all things.  Tommy Tutone, Squeeze and Mike Jones all have lyrically tackled phone numbers.  However, there is one song topic that only a brave few have really dissected.  Without further ado, in no order, I give you five songs about cannibalism:

1.  “Timothy” by The Buoys:  I single-handedly tried to get this song going again during the Chilean miner crisis and excavation of 2010, but…wait for it…no one was biting.  Timothy chronicles the fate of three trapped and hungry miners.  Guess which one doesn’t make it out alive.  Of note is that Rupert Holmes was a member of The Buoys and is responsible for “Escape (The Pina Colada Song)”.   He should fry for that.

2.  “I Eat Cannibals, Part 1” by Toto Coelo:  It’s a new wave dance song about liking someone so much that you just want to eat them up.  My favorite line is “Healthy recipe, What you got is good for me”.  Forget the creepy insinuation of cooking someone in a stew pot, I am pretty sure that a restraining order could have been issued for the bad melody alone.  There was a Part 2, but it never got the airplay of Part 1.  People were full after the first one.  Really, it’s a disorder at this point.  I can’t seem to help myself with the bad puns.

3.  “I am a Cannibal” by Ke$ha” – Oh, Ke$ha…you try so hard, yet fail so miserably.  Busting a rhyme about Jeffrey Dahmer in auto-tune just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.  This song was meant to be edgy and controversial.  Instead it smacks of something that bored middle-school girls would write during study hall to kill time.  When will Ke$ha write a song that really bares her soul and shows who she is as an artist, and call it “I’m a Talentless A-hole”?

4.  “Michael” by Guadalcanal Diary:  While “Michael” never explicitly addresses eating or being eaten, it is most certainly about the idealistic Michael Rockefeller.  Yes THAT Rockefeller, who disappeared in New Guinea in 1961 and was never found.  Reports from local peoples were that he fell victim to headhunters.  I don’t really have a funny quip about that.  It’s too disturbing.  Also, both band and song are a bit obscure, so I couldn’t locate a clip.  However, if the notion of this song whets your appetite for more information (okay, there…I slid one in), check this out, then this and finally this from the In Search Of series, narrated by Mr. Spock Leonard Nimoy.

5.  “Maneater” by Hall and Oates:  I always knew that there was something dark lurking behind Oates’ mustache!  While the song may present as being about an unscrupulous hooker, I choose to believe that it isn’t about a woman hungry for attention and money at all.  The song wasn’t called “Dollar Grabber” and John Hall must have warned that “she’ll chew you up” no less that a gazillion times in the song.  I think it is what it says it is.  She’s got the hungry for men…she’s a man eater.

An honorable mention goes to…

Before there was South Park, Trey Parker’s first feature film was Cannibal! The Musical.  It’s based on the events surrounding the conviction of Alferd Packer, who allegedly had a few friends for lunch during an 1874 expedition through Colorado.  Set to campy tunes and horrific special effects.  Atlanta’s own Dad’s Garage Theatre has even staged a production based on this cult film.  Personally, I thought it was unwatchable.  I lasted about twenty minutes before I cursed Netflix and threw in the towel.

Gagging on Gaga

Stefani Germanotta Lady Gag(a) rolled into town last night to do her thang.  Hot Damn had better stuff to do, like staying at home to wash her hair.  Because I’m never far from some sort of communicating device, I saw lots of pictures and was pummeled by the play by play on Facebook and Twitter.  Of course Gaga continued her ridiculous banter where she lovingly called fans “her little monsters”.  Personally, I have always understood calling someone a monster to be unflattering.  Aileen Wuornos; that’s a monster.  Ten year old girls with bad musical taste and newly minted gays?  Not really.  But, a case could be made…

Gaga fan let the cat INTO the closet

Known for her outlandish get-ups and performance art styling, Stefani’s Gaga’s look is cutting edge.  Of what, I am uncertain.  Just days ago, adorable “little monster” fan Angela Barnes really went for it when choosing an unconventional standout look to wear to Gaga’s Oklahoma City concert.  Feeling the pressure to dress to impress, Angela got very creative and reigned in the family kitty to inspire her costume.  Oh, wait.  Maybe inspire isn’t the right word choice.  No, no.  I think it’s sacrifice.  Yes, that’s it.  Twenty-year-old Angela mutilated kitty and streaked her face and a long coat in kitty’s blood.  She also put kitty’s liver in a makeup compact…presumably for freshening up her face at the show.  “Little Monster”?  Perfect.

In the past couple of weeks Stefani has been in the media a lot.  There is the video of her busting ass at a concert…

And she’s releasing a new single.  It’s called “Judas”.  Just in time for Easter.

Gag(a) also did a photo shoot and interview for The May cover of Harper’s Bazaar.  I don’t think I have ever rolled my eyes as often or as forcefully as I did when I read it.  Because I have gone there, you don’t have to.  You’re welcome.  In summary, interviewer Derek Blasberg asked about the new pointy horns that “sprouted” from her head and shoulders when she incubated and was reborn on the Grammy Awards show.

Horned cover girl 

“Well, first of all,” she says, “they’re not prosthetics. They’re my bones.”

Okay, so when did the bones appear?

“They’ve always been inside of me, but I have been waiting for the right time to reveal to the universe who I truly am.”

Did she will them to come out for this album?

“They come out when I’m inspired.”

Is she worried that this new look will inspire other people to “grow” similar bones?

“We all have these bones!” she says tersely. “They’re the light from inside of us.”

Errant bones that grow and shrink at will?  We have light inside of us?  Oh, crap.  My doctor has said nothing to me about this, but it could explain so much.

Stefani continues to yawn on nonsensically when she turns her focus to slighting pretty Hollywood types…

“I have never had plastic surgery, and there are many pop singers who have. I think that promoting insecurity in the form of plastic surgery is infinitely more harmful than an artistic expression related to body modification.”

Gaga says, "No".

“And how many models and actresses do you see on magazine covers who have brand-new faces and have had plastic surgery, while I myself have never had any plastic surgery? I am an artist, and I have the ability and the free will to choose the way the world will envision me.”

Wait one hot minute.  So, she has the right to alter her appearance through body modification, but no one else can?  What. A. Bitch.  But then she qualifies her stance on traditional celebrity culture for celebrities and barfed out this gem:

“Am I going to try and embrace Hollywood and assimilate to that culture?  I put my toe in that water, and it was a Kegel-exercise vaginal reaction where I clenched and had to retract immediately.”

In her final attempt at sounding provocative and meaningful,

“I’ve always wanted to be an adjective.”

Object of thirteen year old sci-fi dork fantasies

I have an adjective:  fucking ridiculous.  There.

Bill and Ted’s bogus sequel

Actor Alex Winters is probably exhausted from doing the happy dance all weekend.  Who is Alex Winters?  He is an actor/director/producer who has done loads of voice work on Ben 10 and several other animated projects, acted and sang in many Broadway stage productions, directed on Jimmy Kimmel, was in The Lost Boys…oh hell, you don’t know who I am talking about, do you?  How ‘bout this: Bill S. Preston, Esq.?  The Bill in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure and Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey?  Ring a bell now?  Well, it has just been announced in the past few days that the Bill and Ted’s trilogy will finally be complete, as the third installment is totally going to happen.  Party on and thank God!  I may finally know what the song is that Wyld Stallyns writes and performs that transforms mankind and teaches us to “Be excellent to each other”.  For a while now, I have been sure that it was going to end up being Fergie singing “My Humps”.  (Insert sigh of relief here.)  Awesome!

I actually loved the first movie.  At the time, it was pretty clever.  Which was excellent!  The acting was…well, the biggest launch was Keanu Reeves, who will reprise his role as So. Cal. dipshit, Ted.  In interviews, Keanu has said that the movie will concentrate on Bill and Ted’s obsession with creating their Utopian society and making it happen with music.  They are going to have to do a little time travel.  I am so curious to know if they will still be breaking the time and space continuum in a phone booth.  When is the last time you saw a phone booth?  For me, it was in the parking lot of a Waffle House turned check cashing and title pawn hut on Tara Boulevard.  And of course it is somewhat problematic that George Carlin, who played their guide, Rufus, is stroking a harp while reclining on a fluffy cloud.  However, I am sure that by some CGI Tron weirdness he will be propped up and able to deliver lines Clutch Cargo style.

And there is one other, tiny thing…the script should be ready in about six weeks.  That means that Bill and Ted will be about fifty years old during filming.  I don’t think that Bill or Ted would have ever made it past thirty.  Bogus!

Wrastlin’

This weekend the WWE is bringing WrestleMania to Atlanta.  It’s been a while since we’ve bounced against the ropes in this town.  In fact, it was Black Saturday in 1984 when we saw our last good elbow drop.  There are all sorts of events tied together in this spectacular…there’s a charity golf tournament, a fan “experience” and even an auction of wrestler art at our Fabulous Fox. That last one kinda threw me, too.  There is going to be a new round of wrestlers inducted into the Hall of Fame with Abdullah the Butcher making the cut. 

Hall of Famer Abdullah the Butcher

Abdullah “The Madman from Sudan” the Butcher, who was really from Canada, was a regular with the GCW here back in the day. Grandma Hot Damn can get a little wistful thinking back on the glory days of Georgia Championship Wrestling.  That was before the state of Ohio conspired to take over our city and when wrestling was pronounced “wrastlin’”.  If you have a spare couple of hours to listen to someone giddily detail an era, ask any Southern man of a certain age about Mr. Wrestler II, Midnight Express, Tony Atlas,  or Ole Anderson.

My brothers loved to watch GCW on Ted Turner’s WTBS Superstation when we were kids.  Because it was the 1970s and we had one tv for kids, I also watched a lot of wrestling.  I got just as excited as my brothers did when we saw and met “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes, who kindly autographed every piece of paper we could dig out of my mother’s purse, while we were at a gate at the old Atlanta airport.  He had on light blue boot cut jeans, a tan leather jacket and stacked boots.  And of course, his hair was the color of maize.  He was larger than life, but not as large as he is now.

Champion Dusty Rhodes

You can’t talk about Dusty without having a conversation about “Nature Boy” Ric Flair.  Flair, later part of the evil Four Horsemen, dressed like a pimp from south Florida.  His bottle blonde locks were perfectly zipped and feathered, he always had on Foster Grants tuned to “sun”, some sort of suit and big gold jewelry, when he wasn’t in one of his fancy, custom robes.  For the Nature Boy though, it wasn’t just about looks, because “Whooooo!!!  To be The Man, you gotta beat The Man!!!”  Nature Boy was not modest.

Limousine ridin', jet flyin', kiss stealin', wheelin' dealin' son of a gun Ric Flair

I don’t know what the deal was with wrestlers and the peroxide, but “Wildfire” Tommy Rich must have gone to the same hair stylist as Ric and Dusty.  I like to think of them on an off day meeting up at the salon for a little process and trim then going out for a light lunch together afterward.

Breck model Tommy Rich

As a special treat, a love gift really, my mom took us to the GCW live taping a time or two.  Okay, I had to go because I wasn’t old enough to stay at home alone.  I don’t really know that this was the best place to take a child.  Forget what was going on in the ring with figure four leg locks, sleeper holds, bleeding, superplexes, and atomic drops.  The real action was the sideshow outside of the ring.  To this day, I am unsure whether the audience really thought the wrestling was real, but they sure were enthusiastic.  Fights regularly broke out ringside, with people attacking one another with metal folding chairs, shoes and belt buckles.  One time a guy next to us bawled my mom out for chuckling at the on stage antics.  Then there were certain wrestlers who were allegedly so hated that they needed police escort through the room to protect them from being pelted with cans of Billy Beer.  And an unforgettable sight was manager Jimmy Cornette, with his ever-present tennis racquet, getting into vein-popping shouting confrontations with the wrestlers, the refs, crowd members, girlfriends…whoever was within earshot.  And yet, Jimmy’s character was so upper-crust that we were supposed to believe that he only abandoned the clay courts at PDC for these matches.

This weekend’s WrestleMania is sparing no expense in making an impact in the town from which it sprouted.  It’s going to be hosted by The Rock, and Snooki is going to be here doing something for it, too.  What in the hell has happened to professional wrestling?  It’s not classy like it was in 1981, as seen here.

Play sexy

Everyone is in a tizzy over Abercrombie & Fitch’s new bikini for young girls.  It’s called the Ashley and the smallest size is for eight-year-old girls.  The big gripe isn’t so much that it’s on the skimpy side of things, but that the top has push up pads in it, so that young girls don’t feel self conscious about their chesticles.  It can really cause a lot of anxiety for a girl to not be able to fill out her swimsuit.  Especially in the second grade when she isn’t yet confident enough to tell her playmates at the sandcastle to “Suck it!”.  Really, I don’t see what the BFD is.  Parents buy baseball inspired outfits for their young boys that say “L’il Slugger” on the front, anticipating growing an NBL pitcher.  Daughters twirl in ballerina inspired dresses, dreaming of one day being a principle dancer of a famous ballet company.  Maybe the aspirations that some parents assign their daughters are a little less lofty and a bit more…pedestrian.  Now, doesn’t that bikini top start to make sense?  Because,  let’s make no mistake…eight year-olds aren’t driving themselves to the mall and throwing down the plastic for some new swimsuits to train in.  Mawma and Diddy need to get that money-maker out there early if they want their little precious to be successful in dancing, acting on an “unscripted set”, landing a pro-ball player in lieu of college or where ever she sets her sights.

There is a lot more to it than an A&F bikini to usher little girls along the twisted path of sexual dysmorphia and daddy issues that will lead to an early start on a fruitful career at Tattletales.  I’m not even going to talk about lucite shoes, degrading rap lyrics or Club Disney shows.  I’m a talk about toys.  For decades, feminists have ranted and raved about the unrealistic body image that Barbie dolls presented to young girls.   Mattel mitigated that by giving Barbie her choice in profession, ethnic friends and recently letting her divorce that eunuch husband of hers, Ken.  He was boring.  In more recent years, the Bratz dolls upped the ante by being soft and plush…a perfect snuggly slut baby doll for toddlers.  But just like Hollywood can’t come up with many new ideas, toy makers are now looking to the vamp up past victories for today’s market place.

Strawberry Shortcake works as a stage name

Strawberry Shortcake first came on the scene in the early 1980s.  Her acrylic hair was actually infused with the scent of fresh, wholesome strawberries.  Her friends Blueberry Muffin and Lemon Meringue smelled just as sweet.  What do you think their new-millennium effigies smells like?  I’m betting it’s a combination of cigarette smoke, stale beer and motor-court bedsheets.

Brushes teeth with a bottle Jack

Rainbow Brite now looks like an anime Ke$ha getting ready to dose up with some ecstasy and hit a rave.  I’ll bet she pays at the door with all $1 bills then grinds her jaw all night while giving Starlite the Catherine the Great “come hither” eye.  Shudder.

Dora the Explorer has been to see Dr. 90210 and also made friends with celebrity hair weaver, Ken Paves.  Dora has lost her pudge, injected a little Restylane in her lips, gotten Kardashian extensions and is just shy a pair of leggings and a trapeze top of the pole.  Last year, Nickelodeon teased audiences with her makeover by releasing a silhouette of Dora, before the “big reveal”.

Looks like a mudflap

Just like on Fox’s The Swan.  I wonder if Dora can say “Love you long time” in Spanish.

Hope Magic Milan has condoms in her purse

Not all little girls want to spend time with dolls, though.  They can be a little creepy at night when the full moon is shining through your bedroom window.  What is a parent to do if they want their daughter to have appropriate toys to model and role-play being flirty with???  Thank heavens for the toymaker Playmate (seriously) and their contribution of a line of fashionista whorses.  They are called Struts.  Rhymes with sluts.  Pictured here is Magic Milan.  She is wearing high-heeled horseshoes, dangly earrings and what appears to be a purple and black lace bustier.  Damn, that’s one hot filly!

Trollz...with a z

Even Troll dolls have been retooled.  Now they are called Trollz, because substituting a z for an s is kewl.  But these little figures have a powerful messsage for today’s wallflower little girls: just because you’re a troll, doesn’t mean you can’t be sexy.  Miley Cyrus has built an empire on that premise.  Oops, did I type that out loud?

Gwyneth is special

Anyone who knows me for reals, knows how much time I like to dedicate to highlighting that style of parenting that is all about a child’s almighty self-esteem.  You know the parents that keep telling their kids, “You can do it!  You are special!”  Step off Mom.  Back away Dad.  Just because your precious can do something, doesn’t mean they do it well…doesn’t mean that they should continue doing it.  Thanks to them, I am stuck in a world where there is a whole segment of society that is convinced that they rock at everything, and they have no shortage of enablers out there clapping along like trained seals and nodding like heroine-kicking bobble heads.  Sometimes those enablers are Hollywood producers, media outlets and a lot of people who’ve just gone numb.

Concentrating on the chords

For the love of God, please make Gwyneth stop.  Tell her no.  I can’t take it anymore.  Yes, good job Blythe Danner and Bruce Paltrow with the whole encouraging of the acting.  That worked out just fine.  No qualms.  But then Daddy thought that Baby could sing real pretty and made a whole movie for her to sing in.  Remember Duets, with Huey Lewis?  The easy-listening stations loved their croon, “Cruisin’”.  I ‘spose it was serviceable.  I mean, I sing in the shower and at stoplights, and it’s so awful it jars even me.  I can appreciate that “Cruisin’” was inoffensive, but I won’t say that it was great. It was enough and that should have been the end of it.

Adult-contemporary Gwyneth

After failed relationships with Brad Pitt, remember their matching hair-don’ts during their brief engagement…

Wonder Twin powers...activate!

and Ben Affleck, she married the most boring front man ever, Chris Martin of Cold Play….

Bland

Lack of excitement and moving “across the pond” was the perfect storm of smugness  and boost in self-regard for Gwynie.  This is when she started name dropping “Madge” and witnessing about macrobiotic diets and cupping.

Looks like a nasty case of ringworm to me

There are a couple of years where there isn’t a picture of Gwyneth without that dumb yoga mat rolled up under her arm.  At some point her encouraging mother and ass-hat friends must have said, “Oh Gwyneth, please share your knowledge and wisdom with the world.  Pretty pleeeeease.  You can do it.”  And then she gave birth to something with a worse name than Apple or Moses:  Goop.  That’s her blog.

The "All Doing" Gwyneth

Gwyneth dispenses advice through her blog and directs her audience to things that are super accessible, that can only enhance their lives and make them feel better, smarter and superior, like colon detoxes that run about $1200 a week, the best French pharmacy beauty finds, planning a trip to Hong Kong or Stella McCartney’s must have workout pants.  It was when I read this particular entry that I started stitching my Gwyneth voodoo doll once I quit choking on my own tongue.  She recounts a day in her life from waking up and decorating and stuffing shoe boxes for a Toy-drive with her selfless children before taking them to school, to personal trainer time, fittings (which six outfits am I going to pick for someone to pack for my trip???), phone calls, baking cupcakes, giving foot massages and a girls night out.  At no time does she make mention of a nanny, assistant or troll, and yet the kids got home from school, someone cooked their dinner and we assume that she didn’t leave them home alone while she went out for a glass of organic ice wine.  Ughhhhhh!

Then there is this damn Glee situation.  I don’t watch that show.  Can’t stand it, actually.  But the rest of the country wets their collective pants every time there’s a new episode and I am besieged by whatever happened.  Damn Gwyneth, or as Dlisted’s Michael C calls her, Fishsticks, was on it again this week.  The last time she sang a sanitized version of Cee-Lo’s “F*ck You”.  It got replayed ad nauseum.  And as a further eff to my ears, she did it again for the Grammy’s.  To quote Cee-Lo, “Whyyyyyyy?”  This time around she tried Joan Jett.  Exactly.  Of course, that totally makes sense.

As if

I suffered silently through her live performance of her Country Strong song during the Academy Awards.  You know, the award show where, on the red carpet, she said that she really wants to work with Jay-Z.  I think that was just after she made a point of telling the reporter that earlier in the day she ate an entire turkey burger with the bun and drank a Guinness.  You don’t say?  But I must draw the line.  This week, Atlantic Records signed Fishsticks to a $900,000.00 deal for a full-length album, or whatever they’re called these days.  Again, Whyyyyyy?

How can we make this stop?  Why does America keep saying, “Yes” instead of “Shut the hell up and just act!”?  Do we really need to make Gwyneth feel good about her mediocre singing?  Does she really need our approval about colon cleansing and farming out the bake sale stuff to the help?  People, I am begging you to turn away and end this foolery now.  It’s what’s best for all of us.