What are ya gonna get me!
John Waters, the genius
As the holidays near, I wanted to repost this:
Filmmaker John Waters’ excerpt from his essay, Why I Love Christmas and explains why it’s essential to send holiday cards and how to escape post-Christmas depression.
Why I Love Christmas
By John Waters
Being a traditionalist, I’m a rabid sucker for Christmas. In July I’m already worried that there are only 146 shopping days left. “What are you getting me for Christmas?” I carp to fellow bathers who haven’t even decided what to do for Labour Day. As each month follows, I grow more and more obsessed. Around October I startle complete strangers by bursting into my off-key rendition of “Joy to the World.” I’m always The Little Drummer Boy for Halloween, a grouchy one at that, since the inconsiderate stores haven’t even put up their Christmas decorations yet. November 1 kicks off the jubilee of consumerism, and I’m so riddled with the holidays season that the mere mention of a stocking stuffer sexually arouses me.
By December I’m deep in Xmas psychosis, and only then do I allow myself the luxury of daydreaming my favourite childhood memory: dashing through the snow, laughing all the way (ha-ha-ha) to Grandma’s house to find the fully decorated tree has fallen over and pinned her underneath. My candy-coloured memories have run through the projector of my mind so many times that they are almost in 3-D. That awful pause before my parents rushed to free her, my own stunned silence as I dared not ask if Granny’s gifts to us had been damaged, and the wondrous, glories sight of the snow semi-crooked tree, with balls broken, being begrudgingly hoisted back to its proper position of adoration. “O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree!” I started shrieking at the top of my lungs in an insane fit of childhood hyperventilation before being silenced by a glare from my parents that could have stopped a train. This tableau was never mentioned again, and my family pretended it never happened. But I remember—boy, do I remember!
If you don’t have yourself a merry little Christmas, you might as well kill yourself. Every waking second should be spent in Christmas compulsion: career, love affairs, marriages, and all the other clutter of daily life must take a backseat to this holiday of holidays. As December 25 fast approaches, the anxiety and pressure to experience “happiness” are all part of the ritual. If you can’t maintain the spirit, you’re either a rotten Communist or badly in need of a psychiatrist. No wonder you don’t have any friends.
Of course, You-know-who was supposed to have been born on Christmas, but the real Holy Trinity is God the Father, the Son and the Holy Santa Claus. You don’t see fake Josephs and Marys in department stores asking kids what they want, do you? Face it, mangers are downwardly mobile. True, swiping a sheep or a wise man for your apartment from a local church is always good for a cheap thrill and invariably gets you in the paper the next day. And Madalyn Murray O’Hair (the publicity-crazed atheist saint) always gets a rise by successfully demanding in court the removal of Nativity scenes from her state capital on Christmas Eve. But we all know who the real God is, don’t we? That’s right, the Supreme One, Santa Claus.
But if you think about it, Santa Claus is directly responsible for heroin addiction. Innocent children are brainwashed into believing the first big lie their parents ever tell them, and when the truth finally hits, they never believe them again. All the stern warnings on the perils of drugs carry the same credibility as flying reindeer or fat men in your chimney. But I love Santa Claus anyway: All legends have feet of clay. Besides, he’s a boon to the unemployed. where else can drunks and fat people get temporary work?
Of course, to many, Santa is an erotic figure, and fore these lucky revelers, the Christmas season is a smorgasbord of raw sex. Some people just go for a man in a uniform. Inventive entrepreneurs should open a leather bar called the Pole where dominant wrinkle fetishists could dress like old St. Nick and passive gerontophiliacs could get on all fours and take the whip like good reindeer. Inhaling poppers and climbing down mock chimneys or opening sticks ‘n’ stones from the red-felt master could complete the sex-drenched atmosphere of the first S&M Xmas bar.
You could even get fancy about it. Why hasn’t Bloomingdale’s or Tiffany’s tried a fancy Santa. Deathly pale, this never-too-thin-or-too-rich Kris Kringle, dressed in head-to-toe unstructured, over-size Armani, could pose on a throne, bored and elegant, and every so often deign to let a rich little brat sit near his lap before dismissing his wishes with a condescending “Oh, darling, you don’t really want that, do you?”
Santa has always been the ultimate movie star. Forget White Christmas, It’s a Wonderful Life and all the other hackneyed trash. Go for the classics: Silent Night, Bloody Night, Black Christmas or the best seasonal film of all time Christmas Evil (“He’ll sleigh you”). This true cinematic masterpiece only played theatrically for a few seconds, but it’s now available on videocassette and no holiday family get-together is complete without it. I t’s about a man completely consumed by Christmas. His neurosis first rears its ugly head as he applies shaving cream to his face, looks in the mirror, hallucinates a white beard and begins to imagine that he is Santa Claus. He gets a job in a toy factory, starts snooping and spying on the neighbourhood children and then rushes home to feverishly make notes in his big red book: “Jimmy was a good boy today,” or “Peggy was a bad little girl.” He starts cross-dressing as Claus and lurks around people’s roots ready to take the plunge. Finally, he actually gets stick in a nearby chimney and awakens the family in his struggle. Mom and Dad go insane when they find a fat lunatic in their fireplace, but the kids are wild with glee. Santa has no choice but to kill these Scroogelike parents with the razor-sharp star decorating the top of their tree. As he flees a neighbourhood lynch mob, the children come to his rescue and defy their distraught parents by forming a human ring of protection around him. Finally, pushed to the limits of Clausmania, he leaps into his van/sleigh and it takes off flying over the moon as he psychotically and happily shrieks, “On Dancer! On Prancer! On Donner and Vixen!” I wish I had kids. I’d make them watch it every year and if they didn’t like it, they’d be punished.
Preholiday activities are the foreplay of Christmas. Naturally, Christmas cards are you first duty and you must send one (with a personal, handwritten message) to every single person you ever met, no matter how briefly. If this common courtesy is not reciprocated, never speak to the person again. Keep computerized records of violators and hold the grudge forever; don’t even attend their funeral.
Of course, you must make your own cards by hand. “I don’t have time” you may whine, but since the whole purpose of life is Christmas, you’d better make time, buster. We Christmas zealots are rather demanding when it comes to the basic requirements of holiday behaviour. “But I can’t think of anything . . . .” is usually the next excuse, but cut those people off in mid-sentence. It’s easy to be creative at Christmastime. One year I had a real cute idea that was easy to design. I bought a cheap generic card of Joseph and Mary holiday the Baby Jesus and superimposed Charles Manson’s face in the place of the homeless infant’s. Inside I kept the message “He is born”. Everybody told me they loved it and some even said they saved it. (For the record, I’m against donating your cards to nursing homes after Christmas. One would think that after all these years on earth, senior citizens would have had a chance to make a friend or two on their own. Don’t do it!) This season, I’m dying to produce my dream card that I’ve wanted for years. I’ll be sitting in a Norman Rockwell-style Christmas scene, dressed in robe and slippers, opening my gifts moments before I notice a freak fire that has begun in the tissue paper and is licking and spreading to the tree.
Go deeply in debt over Christmas shopping. Always spend in exact correlation to how much you like the recipient. Aunt Mary I love about $6.50 worth; Uncle Jim—well, at least he got his teeth fixed—$8. If your Christmas comes and goes without declaring bankruptcy, I feel sorry for you—you are a person with not enough love inside.
You can never buy too many presents. If you said “Excuse me” to me on a transit bus, you’re on my list. I wrap gifts for nonexistent people in case somebody I barely know hands me a present and I’m unprepared to return this gesture. Even though I’m the type who infuriates others by saying “Oh, I finished my shopping months ago,” as they frantically try to make last-minute decisions. I like to go into the stores at the height of Christmasmania. Everyone is in a horrid mood, and you can see the overburdened, underpaid temporary help having nervous breakdowns. I always write down their badge numbers and report them for being grumpy.
If you’re a criminal, Christmas is an extra-special time for you and your family. Shoplifting is easier and cars in parking lots are loaded with presents for your children. Since everyone steals the checks you must leave for the mailman and garbagemen, I like to leave little novelty items, like letter bombs. Luckily, I live in a bad neighbourhood, so I don’t have to worry; the muggers live in my building and go to the rich neighbourhoods to rob. If you’re quick, you can even steal the muggers’ loot as they unload the car. Every child in my district seems to get rollerskates for Christmas, and it’s music to my ears to hear the sudden roar of an approaching gang on skates, tossing back and forth like a hot potato a purse they’ve just snatched.
“Santa Claus Is a Black Man” is my favourite Christmas carol, but I also like The Chipmunks’ Christmas Album, the Barking Dogs’ “Jingle Bells” and “Frosty the Snowman” by the Ronettes. If you’re so filled with holiday cheer you can’t stand it, try calling your friends and going caroling yourself. Especially if you’re old, a drug addict, an alcoholic or obviously homosexual and have a lot of effeminate friends. Go In packs. If you are black, go to a prissy white neighbourhood. Ring doorbells, and when the Father Knows Best-type family answers, start screeching hostilely your favourite carol. Watch their faces. There’s nothing they can do. It’s not illegal. Maybe they’ll give you a present.
Always be prepared if someone asks you what you want for Christmas. Give brand names, the store that sells the merchandise and, if possible, exact model numbers so they can’t go wrong. Be the type who’s impossible to buy for so that they have to get what you want. Here was my 1985 list and I had checked it twice; the long-out-of-print paperback The Indiana Torture Slaying, the one-sheet for the film I Hate Your Guts and the subscription to Corrections Today, the trade paper for prison wardens. If you owe someone money, now is the time to pay him back, mentioning at the same time a perfect gift suggestion. If you expect to be receiving a Christmas stocking as a forerunner to a present, tell the giver right off the bat that you don’t go for razor blades, deodorants or any of the other common little sundries but anticipate stocking stuffers that are original, esoteric and perfectly suited to you and you alone.
It helps to be a collector, so the precedent is set on what to expect as a gift. For years friends have treated me to the toy annually selected by the Consumer Affairs Committee of Americans for Democratic Action as the “worst toy” to give your child at Christmastime. “Gobbles, the Garbage-Eating Goat” started my collection. “That crazy eating goat” reads the delightful package, and in small print, “Contains: One realistic goat with head that goes up and down. Comes complete with seven pieces of pretend garbage.” This Kenner Discovery Time toy’s instructions are priceless. “Gobbles loves to eat garbage when he’s hungry, and he’s ALWAYS hungry. (1) Hold Gobbles mouth open by the beard. Stuff a piece of pretend garbage straight into his mouth and (2) pump the tail until the garbage disappears.” It ends with an ominous warning, “Feed Gobbles only the garbage that comes with the toy,” and in even smaller print “If you need additional garbage, we will, as a service, send it to you direct. For 14 pieces of garbage send $1 (check or money order; sorry, no C.O.D.) to . . . . ” I can’t tell you the hours of fun I’ve had with Gobbles. Sometimes when I’m very bored, Gobbles and I get naked and play-play.
Over the years my collection has grown. There’s “My Puppy Puddles” (“You can make him drink water, wet in his tray and kiss you”). “Baby Cry and Dry” about whom the watchdog group warned: “Take her out of the box and she smells, the odor won’t go away” and “Baby Cry for You.” (“The tears don’t just drop out, they whoosh out in a three-foot stream.”) Of course, I still cover the winner of the first annual prize (before my collection began)—a guillotine for dolls. “Take that, Barbie.” “Off with your head, Betsy Wetsy!”
No matter what you think of your presents, each must be answered with an immediate thank you note. Thinking of what to write can be tricky, especially for distant relatives who send you a card with two crisp $1 bills inside. Be honest in your reply—”Dear Uncle Walt. Thank you for the $2. I bought a pack of Kools and then put the change in an especially disgusting peep show, it was fun!” or “Dear Aunt Lulu, I was thrilled to receive your kind gift of $5. I immediately bought some PCP with it. Unfortunately, I had a bad reaction, stabbed my sister, set the house on fire and got taken to the hospital for the criminally insane. Maybe you could come visit me? Love, Your nephew.”
I always have an “office party” every year and invite my old friends, business associates and any snappy criminals who have been recently paroled. I reinforce all my chairs, since for some reason many of my guests are very fat, and after a few splintered antiques, I’ve learned my lesson. I used to throw the party on Christmas Eve, but so many guests complained of hideous hangovers I had to move up the date. No more moaning and dry heaving under their parents’ tree the next day as their brothers and sisters give them dirty looks for prematurely ejaculating the Christmas spirit.
I usually invite about a hundred people and the guest know I expect each to get everyone else a present. Ten thousand gifts! When they’re ripped open at midnight, you can see Christmas dementia at its height. One thing that pushes me off the deep end is party crashers. I’ve solved the problem by hiring a door many who pistol-whips anyone without an invitation, but in the old days, crashers actually got inside. How rude! At Christmas, of all times, when visions of sugarplums are dancing orgiastically through my head. One even brought her mother—how touching. “GET OUT!” I snarled after snatching out of her hand the bottle of liquor that she falsely assumed would gain her (and her goddamn mother) entry.
I always show a film in one room: Wedding Trough (about a man who falls in love with a pig and then eats it) or Kitten with a Whip (Ann-Margret and John Forsythe) or What Sex Am I? (a clinical documentary about a sex-change operation). When it’s finally time for the guests to leave, I blatantly get in bed and go to sleep; they know they better get home. Santa is on his way.
Christmas day is like an orgasm that never stops. Happiness and good cheer should be throbbing in your veins. Swilling eggnog, scarfing turkey and wildly ripping open presents with your family, one must pause to savor the feeling of inner peace. Once it’s over, you can fall apart.
Now is the time for suicide if you are so inclined. All sorts of neuroses are permitted. Depression and feelings that it somehow wasn’t good enough would be expected. There’s nothing to do! Go to a bad movie? You can’t leave the house between now and January 1 because it’s unsafe; the national highways are filled with drunks unwinding and frantically trying to get away from their families. Returning gifts is not only rude but psychologically dangerous—if you’re not careful you might glimpse the scum of the earth, cheap bastards who shop at after-Christmas sales to save a few bucks. What can you look forward to? January 1, the Feat of the Circumcision, perhaps the most unappetizing High Holiday in the Catholic Church? Cleaning up that dirty, dead, expensive Christmas tree that is now an instant out-of-season fire hazard? There is only one escape from post-Christmas depression—the thought that in four short weeks it’s time to start all over again. What are ya gonna get me?
Slightly abridged from Crackpot by John Waters – I LOVE THIS BOOK!!!
Anna is the Man!
Took Savannah to her first “art house” movie at The Angelika Film center in Dallas this weekend. It’s been awhile since I’ve been there and I really missed it!! Just watching the previews was like….WHY WHY WHY do I not drive out here more often to see REAL movies!! As with books, I much prefer non-fiction, so I would much rather watch a documentary than watch any big budget romantic comedy any day! I like subtitled movies as well; I’m not scared to read!
Anyhooooo…..we saw “The September Issue”, a documentary about the fashion industry’s most feared, revered and influential icon: Vogue editor-in-chief, Anna Wintour. It was REALLY good; I will never read a Vogue magazine the same way again for sure. I bought 2 issues yesterday to really inspect them.
Anna is the man!!
With honorable mentions to Grace Coddington and Andre Leon Talley.
Now I’m thinking I want Anna’s signature haircut…..I think I could pull it off!
Savannah at The Angelika:
Ohh…..and we shopped at Urban Outfitters and ate lunch at Urban Taco, here are my fancy schmancy tacos:
Upcoming movies at The Angelika that I must see:
Precious
The Beaches of Agnes
Crude
The Young Victoria
Happy popcorn munching!
Hair Scare….
Kathy and I in 1991 on the way to an Arc Angels/Sass Jordan concert…..are you digging my Hypercolor t-shirt and GINORMOUS hair! I think I actually helped Kathy get her hair that big that night. Good times!
Here’s us again……..18 years later on the way to Shinedown/Sick Puppies/Cavo concert last weekend:
Yes, I can still go through some hair products BUT nothing like I did in the 90’s!
Sick Puppies signing my cd:
Shinedown:
Fair Food Fare
Haven’t been to the State Fair in 5 years and back then I had a Fried Twinkie…..I think they are running out of ideas of what to throw in the Fry Daddy.
Texas State Fair Food Fare 2009:
- Twisted Yam on a Stick
- Sweet Jalapeño Corn Dog Shrimp
- Fried Peaches & Cream
- Fried Butter
- Fried Pecan Pie
- Fried Green Goblins – no clue what that is, maybe green tomatoes?
- Fried Peanut Butter Cup Macaroon
- Fried Pork Chips
PLEASE let me know if you’ve had the Fried Butter, very curious!
Viva La Smut!
I understand the premise of reviving Melrose Place, to introduce the young generation of what once was a great dirty little secret of scandal, murder, prostitution and revenge. It was my dirty little secret….long before TIVO; I had to be in front of that TV every week to see what would unfold. No answering the phone, the door, nothing.
My only complaint about this new show is that some of these characters just seem like younger versions of the original characters, the parallels are obvious: Katie Cassidy (Ella) is the refurbished Amanda Woodward, Michael Rady (Jonah) from Swingtown fame is the refurbished Billy Campbell and his girl, Jessica Lucas (Riley) is the refurbished Brooke Armstrong, and wannabe Doctor, but will most likely be a call girl, Stephanie Jacobson (Lauren), is the refurbished Jo Reynolds. Then you got the sweet, naïve Ashley Simpson character (Violet), she will hopefully turn into the crazy firebox, Kimberly Shaw. Poor Jessica Simpson, her sister’s fame is trumping her again.
The cameos are going to be great this season, love love love Sydney, too bad she’s dead again. That super hot mess, Michael Mancini, still looks very good after all these years, hopefully he’ll be intertwined in these young people’s lives more as the season goes on. The original bitch from Hell, Heather Locklear is rumored to be making an appearance as well.
Woot Woot!
Red, White, and Bruce
Normally I wouldn’t be reading AARP Magazine, but Springsteen was on the cover, so I had to take a peek – the magazine featured some GREAT pictures of him as well.
By Ariel Swartley, September & October 2009
He’s our blue-collar conscience, our rock ‘n’ roll sage. Why America needs Bruce Springsteen now more than ever.
The laptop video is shaky, and I’ve seen the song performed a dozen times—so my tears catch me by surprise. When Bruce Springsteen wrote “Badlands” more than 30 years ago, he said he was inspired by the “everyday kind of heroism” of family and friends he saw struggling to eke out a living in the decaying, blue-collar, north-central New Jersey neighborhoods where his father worked as a bus driver. Today, in the wake of the financial meltdown, Springsteen’s badlands have a longer reach. The middle-of-the-night fears the lyrics describe mirror the experiences of many of us now.
But “Badlands” is an anthem, not a dirge. Its bitter observations are buoyed by ringing guitars. Sitting in my Los Angeles apartment, I watch the vast, multigenerational crowd on the computer screen shout the chorus as Springsteen performs in April in San Jose. Their excitement grabs me and pulls me in. My tears are happy ones. Hope, the song insists, is possible. Change can come. September 23rd, Springsteen will turn 60. In the months before his birthday, he will have traveled across America and Europe, putting on more than 50 concerts. At every one he will play several roles—hero, leader, preacher, rebel—the performances unfolding like a novel. His audiences will hold up homemade signs naming rare B sides and rock classics, and he and the band will play them from memory. He will ask fans to “remember your neighbors,” and food-bank reps will traverse the crowds in search of donations.
By writing about his roots, he moved from seedy shore-town gigs to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. His first hero was Elvis, yet the songs—such as “It’s Hard to Be a Saint in the City”—that won him a recording contract were full of religious imagery. The first time I heard one of those songs, the pounding drums and urgent voice thrilled me. “For You,” released in 1973, was about a girl who threatened suicide. I was in my mid-20s, and what struck me was the singer’s understanding of the dangerous glamour of self-destructive behavior. Jimi and Janis were dead, but there was Springsteen, holding out the possibility that rock ‘n’ roll and I could grow up together. “Thunder Road,” released in ‘75, suggested “maybe we ain’t that young anymore.” Springsteen had just turned 26, but he was already reaching beyond rock’s traditional trust-no-one-over-30 audience. Over the years the guitars would still ring and the live shows rock, but Springsteen’s audiences were pushed to think, too—and later, to act.
When Springsteen read Vietnam vet Ron Kovic’s memoir Born on the Fourth of July, it inspired an L.A. benefit concert as well as the 1984 hit “Born in the U.S.A.” Its verses are an angry commentary on the treatment of returning vets, but many listeners—including Ronald Reagan—mistook the title for an upbeat slogan. Springsteen later expressed resentment for people who attributed to their own party “anything and everything that seemed fundamentally American, and if you were on the other side, you were somehow unpatriotic.” His own “American music,” he said, was written “about the place I live and who I am in my lifetime.”
But who is he? Songs from his current tour have him adopting the voice of a carpenter, a murderer, a laid-off steelworker. He finds in his own experiences enough parallels to sing with conviction. In inviting audiences to connect with his characters, he’s inviting them to connect with themselves.
My friend Steve saw Springsteen perform in Los Angeles in April. He and his wife arrived early to get a number for the general-seating lottery. Because they’re grownups and getting loaded in a parking lot no longer appeals, they visited a nearby museum. Their lottery number yielded seats in the third row—a Bucket List moment, Steve said. They were close enough to Springsteen to see streams of sweat “pour off his hands.” We feed off his energy, he said, and in turn become energized. Suddenly we can dance all night—or even change the world.
Going Down?
The Art of Elevator Speak…….
There is no art of elevator speak, it’s pure awkwardness, that’s it.
The part of the workday I dread is getting in the elevator and traveling back and forth to the 10th floor. I would take the stairs, but I carry a lot luggage: computer bag, purse, and tote bag of misc items, sometimes a sack lunch, while holding my cellphone and a Venti coffee. I actually have 2 elevators to ride on everyday, one for the parking garage as well.
I tend to go straight the back of the elevator so I can anonymously observe how people deal with the awkwardness of elevator speak. I also tend to check out women’s toes too, some people have the gnarliest looking toes – long toes, crooked toes, bendy toes, curly toes, toes shooting off in the opposite direction, neglected toes and perfectly polished toes. I have rarely seen a set of good looking toes. I took a picture of mine to see if I could judge them without being biased, yeah – they look good.
Elevator People Types:
The Starer: Stares at floor the whole time
The Texter: Constant typing, never looks up from their phone
The Good-Byer: Never says hello, but always says “Have a nice day” upon exiting
The Looker Upper: Stares at the floor numbers descending the entire time
The Footer: Stares at their feet the entire time
The Grinner: Smiles upon seeing you, but never says a peep
The Yapper: Scariest one of all – Starts conversation with a question:
Is it Friday yet? How’s it going? What’s on the 10th floor? Going up?
Last week, a lady says very excitedly “Can I scream that it’s Friday!?” I was like ummmm…sure, but it’s only 8:30am.
I rarely see someone twice but on the few occasions I do, I will actually move my lips. There is a guy on crutches that I’ve been in the elevator twice this week, very rare to see someone twice in my ginormous office tower. I had to ask him what happened to his peg leg. He was pushed into the HOV lane on his motorcycle and broke his foot 2 places – OUCH. Needless to say, he was in a car that day.
I’m working from home tomorrow, yippee – no awkwardness!
Happy elevator riding!
Cover Me
Was listening to an acoustic cover TLC’s Waterfalls by Steve Poltz on the radio today, it was weird, did not like it at all. So it got me thinking of my favorite cover songs since I listen to Friend of the Devil by Counting Crows almost on a daily basis.
Here’s what I came up with, will probably add to the list once I hear something I forgot about:
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Original: Judy Garland
Cover: Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
Dear Prudence
Original: The Beatles
Cover: Siouxsie and the Banshees
Friend of the Devil
Original: Grateful Dead
Cover: Counting Crows
Dancing Barefoot
Original: Patti Smith
Cover: U2
Bus Stop
Original: Hollies
Cover: Sugarplum Fairy
Man Who Sold the World
Original: David Bowie
Cover: Nirvana
Another juicy cover: Jordis Unga from Rock Star INXS
Personal Jesus
Original: Depeche Mode
Cover: Marilyn Manson
Good-bye Earl
Original: Dixie Chicks
Cover: Me First and the Gimme Gimmes
Blackbird
Original: The Beatles
Cover: Sarah McLachlan
Refugee
Original: Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
Cover: Melissa Etheridge
Whole Lotta Love
Original: Led Zepplin
Cover: Adam Lambert
Teach Your Children
Original: Crosby, Stills & Nash
Cover: Hanson
Aaron Lewis of Staind covers everything in concert, I love his voice. He even covers Piano Man by Billy Joel. Fun YouTubing.
Side Note:
I jumped off the DMB bus years ago, but I really like their new single “Why I Am”.
Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Poker Face
Can’t get this version of Poker Face out of my head ever since I saw it a few weeks ago.
Cock of Love
Found this promo picture from last season’s Rock of Love premiere……I first saw it as a print ad in Rolling Stone and could not find it on the internet forever because I wanted to blog about it. I recently found it accidently…..can’t remember what exactly I was searching for – it was someting innocent I’m sure.
I just need to know – what exactly is going on in his pants??
I don’t think I’ve seen this “look” since 1990. And I don’t know too many women that would find this appealing (and I have some unsavory friends).
What gives Brett???
Get Up and Shake the Glitter Off Your Clothes Now…..
I LOVE me some Adam Lambert…..I really do not want to go to the American Idol Tour but……..don’t know if I can wait for Adam to tour alone!
I LOVE this Muse song!
Adam can do no wrong! I don’t care if he kisses boys or girls, attractive is attractive!
)
Mourn & Popcorn
Really looking at this picture closely – is that a stunt hand? Looks totally off the puppet store shelf. Looks kinda too big, doesn’t it?
I received my Rolling Stone in the mailbox on June 26th, the day after MJ died. Finally read it poolside today along with 4 other neglected magazines that have been piling up…..and this article caught my eye:
Michael Jackson’s Troubled Comeback
The singer’s upcoming 50 concerts will make him rich again – if he holds up.
This is not the actual article published – this is what is on Rolling Stone’s website about the article.
Will he or won’t he? That’s the question dogging Michael Jackson as the King of Pop edges closer to his 50 sold-out concerts at London’s O2 Arena, which are scheduled to begin July 13th. Will Jackson will able to complete the run that would once again cement him as one of the biggest stars on the planet — as well as save him from the giant debt the Thriller singer has accumulated during his lengthy hiatus? In the new issue of Rolling Stone, Fred Goodman takes an in-depth look at the This Is It! concerts, the challenges facing Jackson and promoter AEG Live, and how Jackson’s perfectionism has already forced the postponement of the run’s opening four dates.
In England, bookies at betting parlors are already increasing the odds that Jackson will cancel some shows — a prospect that would devastate fans who snatched up more than 750,000 seats (at prices starting at $81 per ticket). While Jackson has been rumored to be frequently absent from his Los Angeles rehearsals with choreographer and musical director Kenny Ortega, the technical complexity of the shows, as well as Jackson’s perfectionism has been cited for the delayed starting dates. (Jackson is reportedly seeking a children’s choir that knows sign language and is “exactly equal” in racial diversity.)
For Jackson, the stakes are high, as he’s amassed a massive debt of unpaid wages, lawsuits, upkeep on his former Neverland Ranch and a lifestyle that has been described as “a millionaire who spends like a billionaire.” But the pressure is also on for AEG Live, who have fronted all the cash for Jackson’s run, putting the singer up in a lavish estate during its duration and paying $5 million up front to a Bahrainian prince to settle a lawsuit that would have prevented Jackson from performing at all. If all goes well, the London shows would net Jackson and AEG Live $70 million and kick-start a three-year, three-part worldwide deal between the pair. If it fails, Jackson may have burned his last bridge. “He’s doing it mostly for his fans,” Jackson’s former spokesman Dr. Tohme Tohme tells RS. “And he’s doing it for his children and the children of the world.”
Other pop culture nuggets…..
No kids this weekend means me & Robert can go to Rated R movies! So we saw 2 movies.
My pick: “Away We Go”
Robert’s pick: “Year One”
Both were very good, but I’m a lenient movie critic.
But……two popcorn dinners in a row mean I’ll be logging extra miles this week.
Jon & Kate + Hate
Jon & Kate’s “big announcement” tonight wasn’t exactly a surprise, but still kind of sad cause those kids are super cute. I’ll take two please.
I lost interest in the show a couple seasons ago just because Kate was getting too annoying to watch. She’s been beating Jon down since Season 1. I saw a tabloid cover a few weeks ago that had a picture of her and it said “Mom to Monster” and I agreed. I always wondered why her parents don’t want anything to do with her and why her ex-best friend is blabbing to the tabloids now. I found this on the web:
“Many people know exactly why Kate is estranged from her parents. Her dad had the members of his church pull together to help Jon and Kate when she had the sextuplets. They donated clothes and cribs, among other things. Kate rejected the cribs as she only wanted NEW, MATCHING ones, not gently used. Also, she told her dad she only wanted CASH. Kenton Kreider could not go back to his church members and tell them his daughter refused their overwhelming generosity and would accept only cash. So, Kate cut her mom and dad out of the sextuplets lives. They are estranged. So, when Kate says on the show, “They don’t know how to help us,” what she means is that she did not get the cold, hard cash she insisted on. Jon and Kate’s PR people can spin it anyway they like, but the reality is that Kate cut her parents out of her lives because of money. Kate, a self proclaimed “devout Christian” should know the “money is the root of all evil.”
Courtesy the World Wide Web
Wouldn’t you have loved to be a fly on the wall when the “affair” rumors hit the press!? You know he got the ass chewing of a lifetime.
Where are you Dr. Phil??? Why didn’t you try to fix this marriage? Where is their “this is gonna be changing day in your life” intervention!? You’re always butting your squirrely moustache into everybody else’s business, so I blame you Dr Feel.
Recount!
Glambert is my American Idol!
He was the only thing that was interesting this season! I mean……besides Paula’s ramblings and Simon’s hairy arms.
