When all else fails, make fun of celebrities. In the dysfunctional dinner date of life with news junkies, pop culture is dessert. Just as I can’t tear myself away from reading every drop about the latest act of horror, I turn my attention to Gwen Stefani’s video of self indulgence and am surprised by the smile creeping across my sour face. Yes, Gwen selling her sordid family secrets for a hit, that makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Thinking of her nine year old son watching this video also gives me joy. “It’s, like, art!” says Gwen.
Gwen, you valley girl of contradictions, I remember when I used to love you. It was a brief, fleeting love, like a one-night stand with Blake Shelton, satisfying but so embarrassing. You know the kind, you wake up and spy the tribal arm tattoo and you just want to cry.
Gwen Stefani, surprise step-mom to British It-Girl, Daisy Lowe
I did not dig Gwen’s premiere hit, “Don’t Speak,” her pouty song lamenting the demise of her high school romance with band mate Tony Kanal. It struck me as silly and the world knew that Gwen and her six-pack could do better. And she did. Kind of. Gwen moved onto Gavin Rossdale, grunge’s whipping boy. They trudged along with Gwen’s red lips, Gavin’s man-bun, and a few failed attempts at reviving No Doubt. Gavin made the amateur tennis circuit rounds and played small arenas hushing people that dared to speak during “Machinehead.” Their marriage even survived the realization that Gavin was the biological father of Britian’s favorite bad-girl-It Girl, Daisy Lowe. Wowza.
Man-bun-√; Hot nanny-√
But, we all know how this one ends: attractive nanny enters home, has-been rocker pulls a Jude Law and allegedly boffs pretty nanny. The rest is pop-music history and resulted in a big hit for Gwen. Thanks Gavin.
I don’t know what’s sadder- that Scott Weiland died at 48 or that nobody seemed surprised. I winced as journalists reported his death with a matter-of-fact sincerity. Okay, I wasn’t the biggest fan of Stone Temple Pilots, but the man was a pure rock star. He dripped sex, decadence, style and charm. And, if my obsession with Kurt Cobain had allowed it, I bet I would have been a Stone Temple Pilots fan.
I care that Scott Weiland died. I loved “Sour Girl” and thought of it as one of my anthems in 2000. I appreciated Weiland’s beauty and yes, his cheekbones. Those cheekbones were jagged daggers of beauty, those cheekbones could pierce your veins. Scott never lost his coolness, he never stumbled into “Celebrity Rehab,” never had a televised intervention, an unsightly weight gain or an embarrassing stab at acting. No, he penned a fine autobiography, Not Dead & Not for Sale that chronicled a sexual assault at 12 that probably contributed to a life stained with substance abuse and failed relationships. Scott tried; he was a father of two teenagers and thrice married. This Christmas, I plan on adding Weiland’s Christmas album, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year, to my holiday music.
The MTV Video Music Awards are like Christmas to me and this year I was gifted with a cluster of crass and crack.
I can attribute my lack of enthusiasm to either the Naproxen-drip that I was under after suffering an injury while cleaning my filthy home or to that fact that the music was bad. Either way, middle-age hurts, but not as bad as watching Justin Bieber cry.
The Pre-Show: Osbourne Hating & Former Child-Star Lovin’
Who’s taking fashion advice from this woman?
The disappointment commenced immediately with the pre-show. Poor Kelly Osbournemust be so busy cleaning her own toilets that she forgot to select an outfit that fit, conduct a drop of research, or find anything worthwhile to utter. Listening to Kelly sqwauck how “brilliant” every guest is tedious. Kelly, why are you still here? Can’t you, much like your bro, disappear into the wealth of oblivion that your mommy and daddy created?
The pre-show did indulge my new
Is he talented? Oh, who cares?
favorite pastime, thinking dirty thoughts about former child stars. My pleasure started with Nick Jonas gyrating his way through “Levels” but didn’t end there. Who is this new cocktail of pretty boy and rugged handsomeness reminiscent of Brad Pitt-circa 1990? Hello Austin Butler of Zooey 101 and Vanessa Hudgens‘ boyfriend fame. Hollywood, please sprinkle a bit of his beauty into every television show or movie in 2016.
Taylor & Minaj
Nicki Minaj started the show with her usual antics of utilizing her crotch as a bongo drum, looking constipated or sexy (I can’t tell) while cooing “I know that you want it.” I actually wanted it to end until T. Swizzle popped out of Minaj’s vanilla cake of a performance and made it pure red velvet.These two buried the hatchet in a pop duo dreamed up by the best studio executives. It was touching, especially when glamazon Taylor hugged Minaj and it looked like a mother cradling her disobedient puppy.
Macklemore:Don’t Call it a Comeback
Macklemore thinks it is St. Patrick’s Day.(Photo by Frederick M. Brown/Getty Images for MTV)
“I like where this is heading,” I think while pouring myself a drink. Then, Macklemore and his hodgepodge of cacophony and bad fashion trampled on my buzz. I see that Macklemore coerced a bunch of real rappers to perform with him for some much-needed cred, but this guy is one step away from the annoying kid in high school that was really into rap and blasphemously uncool yet energetic and liked to party. You remember that kid? Macklemore’s like the Big Bird of rap.
Oh look, there’s JaredLeto, the perverted neighbor of the
He’ll always be Jordan Catalano to me.
VMAs. Jared is like a cockroach, the man will never age or go away, which must be an asset to all the 20-year old starlets with whom he’s sleeping and mentoring.
“Miley, what’s good?” is the new “It’s Britney, bitch.”
Right when I start ransacking my cabinets for some Lorazepam, Nicki Minaj shimmies up to the podium to accept an award, and then looks prepared to rip MileyCyrus’ eyelashes out in retaliation for Cyrus referring to Minaj as “not too polite” in the New York Times. It was awkward, amusing and a bad look for Minaj. But more importantly, what is good,Miley? I bet the green room’s hors d’oeuvres are amazing.
The Weeknd Saves the Evening
Thank-you Weeknd man.
The Weeknd‘s “Can’t Feel my Face” revitalized the evening; this is the stuff that makes two hours of an awards show worth it. He is electrifying, sounded great and got grumpy Kayne West to smile and dance.
You’ve got a voice, please use it.
That thrill lasted me through a few rounds of Cheez-its chased with ice cream. Now, I’m left guilty and start worrying about Demi Lovato‘s career. Remember when Demi Lovato had an ounce of integrity? Disney Queen to rehab/eating disorder survivor to neutral pop star without subtlety or substance? Demi, bring it back to the rock, this pop world is going to eat you up and spit you out.
Kayne West: Am I missing something?
I don’t know I’m fittin’ to lose after this. It don’t matter though, cuz it ain’t about me. It’s about ideas, bro. New ideas. People with ideas. People who believe in truth. And yes, as you probably could have guessed by this moment, I have decided in 2020 to run for president.”
Kayne, do I love to hate you, or hate to love you?
Just when I start to ponder where my life is heading and why I make so many poor choices, bam, Kayne West lurches in to make me feel better about myself. Mr. West, seated at the head of the Kardashiantable of rot and narcissism, gave the world’s worst public speech since my first wedding. Westy’s stream-of consciousness babble was as bloated as his wife’s ankles. I dig Kayne West, but enough is enough. I can’t tolerate his bid for relevance while his music is not getting any better and he’s surrounded by the most wretched people in Hollywood. Let the kids speak, bro. Indeed.
They say marijuana use causes dry mouth.
Miley Cyrus, what to say? I understand she enjoys marijuana and sex, I think most people her age do. I just wanted more from her, like a few SAT words thrown into her expletive-laden sentences. She’s more talented than her shenanigans portray. And, her hillbilly rant has expired. She, and her family, have been multi-millionaires for 23 years. I am sure that they had a fair share of corn dogs…served on Wedgewood china. I was expecting Miley to be a little more psychedelic with her drug banter, not making ridiculous sketches with Snoop Dog. Her final performance included Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips shooting a confetti filled bong out of her crotch. That’s cool; I just wish they’d sounded better.
Justin, it wasn’t that bad or that good.
Wait, there’s more: Justin Bieber’s performance was solidly decent, but I have no idea why he started sobbing after praying. He looked unstable, but much like Nicky Minaj, Ihave no heart, so I may not be the best judge.
I am not surprised by much, especially not by couples splitting up. Sure as Chris Brown’s death at a young age, the Palin family making asses out of themselves and Courtney Love being the queen of cool, divorces happen.
Summertime has me all heated up, here’s what’s raising my blood pressure:
Smells like bleach.
Divorce: Have we finished shedding tears over the demise of Ben & Jen, Version 2.0? To be surprised that Ben and Jen are divorcing is akin to my shock over my mom jeans being so snug. Pass me my third beer and my size 10 jeans, please.
This is Jen’s second marriage and Ben’s first marriage after
The couple that drinks together.
countless broken engagements. Who can forget Ben planting a smooch on JLo’s derrière? Or his sweet kisses on a young, newly crowned Oscar winner, a less annoying Gwyneth Paltrow? Ben, like most of us, is looking for the next hottest thing, and unfortunately, Jen Garner’s perennially sour-faced look just wasn’t doing it for this Batman.
Jen’s first hubby, Scott Foley.
Now, Garner can devote more of her time to her important celebrity cause: shielding her privileged children from the intrusive paparazzi.
Ugh.
The president and first-lady of insipidness, Kourtney Kardashian and Scott Disick are also kaput. I still don’t know what they do, other than make my roaming eye twitch. I hope that they can keep it amicable for the sake of their three unnaturally hairy-faced children. That’s such a lie, I want to watch this become as unattractive as Kim Kardashian’s maternity wardrobe.
We all know where that tongue has been.
Ariana Grande’s Existence: Scott Disick, meet Ariana Grande. May you fall in love and swelter in each other’s living hell. I initially received backlash for my vitriol of Ms. Grande, but I can see that now I have America on my side! Ariana didn’t just insult us with her awful performance in “Sam & Cat” or with her child prostitute look, she licked and spat on a fresh batch of donuts after proclaiming “I hate Americans. I hate America.” I savor every moment of Ariana’s self destruction,
“I hate America. Wait? Where is America?”
she’s trashing her twelve minutes of fame like last night’s false eyelashes and hair extensions. Grande, you can mess with our ears, but do not touch our donuts. Hmm, I hear Sean Penn is single, it may be a perfect match.
Caitlynn Jenner:
I like my heroes minus neglect & vehicular manslaughter.
I am going into hiding after publishing the following thoughts on Caitlyn Jenner. I can’t tell you where I will be, but follow the trail of gin and mascara.
I completely accept and embrace the transgender community, however the accolades that are being bestowed upon Caitlyn Jenner are so phony. While accepting her Arthur Ashe Award for Courage at the ESPY Awards, Jenner said, “Trans people deserve something vital: They deserve your respect.” I could not agree more, but Jenner, as a human, does not deserve or receive my respect. Regardless of Caitlyn Jenner’s transformation, here are a few observations about her:
She neglected her four oldest children: The former Olympian has admitted to going years without calling or seeing her four oldest children Burt, Casey, Brandon, or Brody. She now suggests that this was during a difficult time with her identity, how cowardly to blame the abandonment of one’s children on gender issues. In Vanity Fair’s article, son Burt Jenner “remembers seeing his father no more than twice a year for a period of roughly 10 years.” How brave, how courageous.
Lady Macbeth
She procreated with Kris Jenner: Kris Jenner is the matriarch of a modern-day house of horrors. She has financially masterminded an explicit sex tape starring her daughter, allowed a 17-year old girl to receive lip injections and let her young daughters be filmed on a stripper pole. Kris has the maternal instincts of an alley cat and Caitlyn was marred to this nightmare for 23 years.
Caitlyn’s transformation comes with a hefty price tag: $5 million: “E” is paying five million buckaroos to Jenner for the new docu-series chronicling her transformation. I’d like to see how much of this money goes back to the transgender community.
Jenner recently and allegedly caused an accident that resulted in a death: Accidents happen, but Jenner’s year of living well is insensitive after allegedly causing an accident in February that left one woman dead.
Jessica Steindorff, another driver in this accident states,“I find it difficult to understand how the culture we live in can honor a person who is responsible for taking a life and injuring several others with both an award and a reality show…I would hope that someone who seems to greatly value the importance of human existence would be more sensitive to the fact that she ended another person’s life. Sadly we are living in a tabloid society.”
Yes, we are, but I don’t have to drink the kool-aide, unless it’s got some good vodka in there.
I found my new substance in the form of an HBO subscription. I could no longer take myself seriously as a cool person without watching “Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck”, the heartbreaking and honest Kurt Cobain documentary. The HBO purchase gave me bliss, entertainment and a reason to stay inside. I haven’t left my television since the transaction, unless you count last weekend’s three parties.
Frances Bean Cobain, executive producer and Courtney embrace.. (Photo by Chris Pizzello/Invision/AP)
Montage of Heck was just what I needed to revamp my fascination with Kurt Cobain and my love for Nirvana. I could not look away. Frances Bean served as the executive producer and she sprinkled cool-girl meth dust all over the film. It is unflinchingly bold, sad and beautiful. Kurt’s parents cast him away like a used Temple of the Dog c.d. and his mother’s ignorance concerning her obvious neglect and poor maternal instincts is paramount. Listening to his obese step-mother ramble on about Kurt’s unfulfilled quest for family life broke my heart more than watching Kurt nod off in a heroin daydream while trying to hold Frances.
I challenge anyone to watch this movie and not be spellbound by Courtney
Love’s performance. I say performance because she’s always playing a part, and she is mesmerizing. The home videos of her and Kurt ridiculing Guns & Roses, showcasing their mess of a home and getting ready for the day are filled with humor and love. Viewers get a good look at Love’s nakedness, physically and psychologically. She is the best that Frances has and her punk rock parenting and fits of pop culture musings are hysterical.
Expect much more from Frances Bean.
As Kurt’s drug abuse deepens, so does the movie’s somber tone. Kurt’s suicide was not his first attempt and he looks haunted, hungry and confused as we know that his days are numbered. Kurt’s drive was strong, his ambition was intense, but ultimately drugs and depression took over his life. Fame was his ultimate dream, but he lost himself in the pursuit. His music, artwork and spirit live on in Frances’ impressive future.
I was, and am, an enormous Nirvana fan. I vividly remember being stuck in my all-girl dormitory in my stuffy Catholic college waiting for my bad-boy boyfriend to pick me up for a secret weekend away and receiving a phone call that Kurt Cobain died. My boyfriend’s kernel of comfort as I numbly relayed the news was, “Wow, who’s going to headline Lollapolooza?” I subsequently stumbled around in a thicket of smoke for the weekend while my mother kept trying to call me to see how I was taking the news. This was before the invention of cell phones and it was tricky to pretend that I was safe in my dorm bed while I was sneaking around. I bought a Jack Kerouac book that weekend and found a new love, but my sadness was very real.
Lena’s body is my body.
I then watched the entire last season of “Girls” in an insomnia-plagued stupor, is this show supposed to be as funny as I think it is? Do Lena Dunham and I have the same exact body, and if so, could I have scored a real rock star boyfriend along the way? Just watch the show for the sex scenes. Seeing Allison Williams, Brian Williams’ lovely daughter with the mediocre singing voice and enormous forehead, in the most compromising of positions is a gift from the television gods.
Do I lose my feminist card because I think Adam Driver is the best part of “Girls”?
Girls is so wretched it is awesome. I know these characters and I loathe them and that is the point. Their self-absorption, feigned intelligence and hipster vibe is right on. To know Marnie is to hate her and Hannah’s horrible writing is akin to Lena Dunham’s mediocre writing, but astute observations. I dislike Lena’s Hannah in the same fashion that I dislike myself: she’s another smart woman with all of life’s advantages that chooses to sit around on her fat ass complaining about life’s inconsistencies instead of actually doing anything to change them. Ow, that hits me right where my stretch marks start and my crow’s feet end.
I have zero interest in conducting myself appropriately. I want to tell everyone my problems and I want to hear all of theirs. I’d love to tell you how much your pit bull disgusts me, but I’m too polite. I’ve decided against cutting my frizzy fountain of hair, it’s against my religion to sport black pants and the dirty dishes in my sink mean nothing to me. I always compose a thank you card, rarely miss church and I go to every social event that will have me. I have my own code of etiquette so I suppose it may be argued that I am trapped by a set of standards, but the rules are twisted and I am finally embracing my bona fide weirdness .
Butt JLO, is that all there is?
With all my acting up, I’ve lost track of the celebrities. Jennifer Lopez continues to astound everyone with her beauty, awful choice in men and knack for displaying her robust rump. Sarah Jessica Parker may be filming “Sex and The City 3,” the plot centers around vaginal dryness, souffles and hot podiatrists.
Kate Hudson, Dead Inside?
I am nodding my head to both the new Mumford & Sons album and the new Muse single, Dead Inside. Kate Hudson’s jilted baby daddy and Muse front man, Matt Bellamy, must have been thinking of her …”On the outside you’re ablaze and alive, but you’re dead inside”. Deceivingly sunny Kate Hudson does suffer from a deadness behind the eyes, or is she perpetually stoned? Anyone that constantly craves to be that effervescent is hiding some serious darkness. Take that from this disturbed former-cheerleader.
Remember when Jim James used to be cool?
I want to ignite a social media battle with my new enemy, My Morning Jacket’s obnoxious and bloated lead singer Jim James. 2003’s It Still Moves and 2006’s Z are high up on my list of favorite albums, but since then, Jim’s ego has grown as large as his hipster beard and his waistline. In the latest issue of Rolling Stone, Jim James cements his reputation as pretentious and professional whiner by reviewing Nick Jonas’ “Chains” with the following mind-blowingly uninformed summation:
Definitive proof that computers have taken over the world. Nothing is real in this artic-tundra frozen landscape of a ringtone-commercial song.
Then, Jim went on to spew this utter nonsense about country music:
I feel like modern country is deliberately dumbing down the human race. They’re deliberately making people take glory in being uneducated and racist, and it’s just sad. I think it’s absolute mind control.
Jim, you’re so sad. I don’t think that a semester at University of Kentucky qualifies you as being educated and your mediocre new music does not sound a lot different than country. Jim, when you took that nasty stage fall that you can’t stop crying about, did you hit your head? I’ll take my rock stars minus the cooler-than-thou spirit. More Nick Jonas, less Jim James.
Betty, I feel your pain.
Thank you, Betty Draper Francis, for years of confusion, love and frustration. She’s the mother that leaves an impact with her icy stare, style and the back of her hand while rarely cracking her porcelain structure. We watched Betty get frisky with a washing machine, shoot pigeons, gift a smitten young boy with a lock of her hair, weather an unattractive weight gain and slowly kill herself with a steady diet of Virginia Slims. In the end, Betty was right, life’s not fair, but she never promised anyone that it would be. Rest in peace Betty, and may January Jones continue to quietly shine in another role.
Madonna strikes again. It pains me to ridicule Madonna because she raised me for a few years, she was my moral compass and I looked to her for all the answers. Then, she released True Blue and married Sean Penn and I realized that everyone, even my idols, make mistakes.
The kiss? Not surprising. I’ve been telling y’all that Madonna, like JLO, is staying young by sucking the souls of the younger and more talented. Madonna is feasting on Drake, while JLo gets Iggy Azalea’s flesh to nibble for a few more years of relevance.
Check out this True Blue video to see a young Debi Mazar as backup dancer:
Shailene Woodley’s On-Set Tutor Should be Fired
I know Shai, you’re just like us.
I want to apologize to my eight readers; I could not watch the MTV Movie Awards. While I am intellectually-challenged, even I have my breaking point. I had to turn it off after listening to Shailene Woodley’s two rambling thank-you speeches. Wow, this beautiful, talented actor is unaware of her obvious lack of intelligence, and no, it can’t ALL be contributed to her pot intake. Can you explain to me what the following means?
“In that, I keep marveling at this idea at who we pick up on the trails along the way and who becomes our communities. What am I trying to say? I just have no idea! Looking at all of you, I know some of you, I don’t know some of you, but for all of you who have been pillars to me, thank you, and for all of you who I have been able to be a pillar for, I will continue to be a pillar for. Whoever your community is, be pillars for these people. So, let’s trailblaze on!”
Then poor Woodley somehow mistook John Green, mediocre writer of young-adult literature, with J.D. Salinger. Girlfriend, what is your on-set tutor teaching you? Some of the accolades that Ms. Woodley bestowed upon Green include the following:
“His words will transcend time because they transcend any age. There’s not one single demographic that won’t be affected by the wisdom and the compassion and the beauty that he laces into every single thing that he does in his life.”
Okay, you’ve got me, Shai, I have not even seen Fault in our
It. Will. Change. Your. Like. Life.
Stars, Shailene was excellent in The Descendants and I dig her Southern California stoner vibe, but enough with the phoniness, her freshness is wearing thin. I don’t have to watch The Fault in our Stars, I’ve seen it before: Two teenagers meet and argue with obvious chemistry, teenagers fall in love, hilarity and sadness ensues, parents are unfair, teenager or troubled parent dies. Life changes, like, forever. The end.
Gwynnie published a post on Goop to illustrate what $29 a week can get a family on SNAP food stamps for a week of supplemental grocery shopping. So far, so good- Go Gwynnie! Unfortunately for Gwynnie’s likability, her findings contained seven limes, more parsley than I thought one could purchase as one time, scallions and a bunch of other rich people food.
Oh G, take it from this white, privileged, shallow gal: If I know enough not to spout on about food stamps in the U.S., you should know better. Were you smoking American Spirits during Social Studies at The Spence School? I understand that being married to Chris “Boring” Martin was a form of coolness starvation, but let’s leave the important stuff to important people. You, Gwynnie, just worry about your luscious locks, lean legs and perfect pout.
Does Coachella have to be an annual event?
What do Kendall Jenner, Fergie and Baldwin- spawn have in common? Hint: It’s not talent.
Must be Coachella time of the year again because I keep getting emails from chain mall stores attempting to sell me “festival-wear” and I am visually assaulted with pictures of Hollywood starlets and Hollywood has-beens like Fergie sporting the latest in festival-street-walker fashion. These poor kids, don’t they know that after a few tabs of acid, the clothing doesn’t really matter; you just need to know where the water and the medic tent are located. That’s rock festival 101!
Do the Jenner’s get a family plan for plastic surgery?
Ugh, I’m so old. To watch Kardashian/Jenner filth get the best seat to this festival while donning gladiator boots and $800 cut-off shorts is grosser than when Metallica headlined Lollapolooza in 1996. I remember it so well, I was decked out in the best of my “riot-girl” finery: dirty white slip, combat boots and a black bra. I’d taken care to draw the word “Slut” across my bony upper arms, dirty hair grimy on my neck, chain-smoking while Metallica fans made fun of me. Oh, those were the days,I’m so old.
Thank you Courtney Barnett.
Courtney Barnett sings and writes about the most mundane aspects of life, yet she transforms these stories of ordinariness into a dynamic tale of living life. Born in Australia, Courtney is currently rocking my world in a very comforting and quiet way. Check her out if you enjoy a folk-singer with a sense of humor, a quick wit and a terrific voice.
A crack about Madonna breaking her hip is just too obvious, I am more worried that she may have fractured the tiny souls she’s consumed over the years to look this good at 56. Those souls live in her body and Madonna thrives off of their sweat, tears and blood. Don’t worry though, Kabbalah heals all.
Is it an insult to smell of weed and patchouli at 18? That was my ode to life scent.
Guiliana irks me as she fuels the fire for strangers to urge her to eat a cheeseburger. I try to keep my thoughts on people’s weight to myself because, well, have you seen me lately? However, for G, as her E News’ family of horrors call her, she made her health personal by chronicling her infertility and her fight with breast cancer. Her insights were touching, but G’s insistence that her career necessitates that she be rail thin is bogus, she demands that on herself. I don’t pretend to understand, kleptomania and an eating disorder are probably the only two dangerous behaviors I did not
Do not take fashion advice from these idiots.
dabble with in my troubled youth, but G looks frighteningly frail. Regardless, Fashion Police should end and G needs to take a few weeks off, regroup, get back to her “journalistic roots” and rejoice in the absence of Kelly Osbourne.
Kelly, my favorite, most annoying violet-haired, uneducated
Remember when Kelly O. was young, untalented and always looked ridiculous?
celebrity spawn. Let’s all celebrate that she jumped from the sinking ship that is E Fashion Police, but spun it to appear that she was offended by G’s ruthless comments about Zendaya. Kelly O. is not as dumb as I thought, she’s got some of Sharon’s rotten blood flowing in her veins: she knew that without Joan Rivers, this show is useless and she got out before it got really bad.
I don’t know if he can act, but his abs can.
ABC’s Secrets and Lies is worth the watch. Ryan Phillippe is the star and his glorious abs have a costarring role. I never knew how much I missed Ryan until I watched a few minutes of this show. How I longed for his strong jaw, shifty eyes, off-key delivery and yes, his abs. Juliet Lewis strips herself of her usual quirkiness and plays a detective, the best in her field, of course. It’s entertaining and there’s some kind of murder mystery wrapped around Phillippe’s defined biceps.
Kid Rock’s getting stale.
People are like, ‘Beyoncé’s hot. Got a nice fucking ass.’ I’m like, ‘Cool, I like skinny white chicks with big tits.’ Doesn’t really fucking do much for me.”
An excerpt from Kid Rock’s insipid interview in Rolling Stone.
If you want a hearty laugh of the “oh, where’s the humanity?”
Kid Rock: American Bad Ass
variety, pick up the latest issue of Rolling Stone and read the Kid Rock article. No, I’m not whining about his love of hunting, I’m no PETA card-holder, but just read it to witness Kid Rock’s coolness thin like his scraggly hair. I don’t hate Kid Rock, he’s stayed relevant for years and he hasn’t changed his redneck ways, but I have a problem with his created existence. Kid Rock is from Romeo, Michigan. His father owned several car dealerships and the family lived on a six-acre orchard where they would ride horses and pick apples. Sounds ideal, right? Sounds drastically different than his “American bad-ass” persona. Yes, rednecks can hail from affluent backgrounds, but that is not what Kid Rock professes to be. He wants you to read about his simple life, shooting wildlife in his double wide. Bore.
Harrison Ford for President?
Harrison Ford is landing a plane at the age of 72 and I need to swallow a fistful of anti-anxiety meds to get on a plane? Damn, this man is a true American bad-ass, can he show Kid Rock how it’s done? In true Beverly Hills fashion, after Harrison Ford landed his plane, he was assisted by a spine surgeon who just so happened to be golfing in the area Ford crashed. Only in L.A.
More Prince every day and in every way.
Hello Prince.
In my mind, Prince was on the basketball team that I cheered for in high school, but then I remember that my high school was 99.4 free of funk.
The Oscars, I powered through every second of dreaded overtime, I winced at each Neil Patrick Harris joke that bombed and when in doubt, I looked to Oprah to guide me on how to react. Hosting the Oscars is a thankless job and I give Doogie Howser M.D. a “B ” for effort, but I prefer a host that goes full-throttle with the celebrity insults. I want to watch Adam Levine squirm in his Armani, I want to see Gwynnie break out in hives. Here are a few observations:
Is Oprah laughing? Can I laugh?
Oprah Winfrey: the country’s moral compass & fairy godmother? Why must the camera capture every one of Queen O’s animated observations? Can we only applaud after Oprah deems a joke worthy of her well-manicured hands making noise?
Travolta’s Best Role: Lecherous Neighbor
ScarJo will take 30 showers to wash this off.
John’s Scientology-drenched creepiness gets ickier with every sighting. First, he manhandles Scar Jo on the red carpet and then he caresses Idina Menzel’s face like it is a fresh toupee. Travolta, get into an auditing session quickly, you’ve got some demons to expel.
Terrence, did Courtney Love give you some of the good stuff?
Terrence Howard, what are you on, and how can I get some? I am enjoying every second of his starring role in Empire, and I think that Courtney Love’s guest appearance may come with some added benefits. T. Howard, keep doing what you are doing, you were the most entertaining presenter up there.
Dakota Johnson: Her mother’s, like, so annoying.
And, the award for the most spoiled, boring celebrity spawn goes to…Dakota Johnson. Her interview on E’s wrecking ball of a red carpet show was cringe-worthy. I suspect that Melanie slipped Dakota a Quaalude just to be able to spend time with her. These two have less chemistry than Dakota and Jamie Dornan in “Fifty Shades of Grey”.
Dakota, don’t bite the hand that gave you your career. Next!
Don Johnson has more charisma in his ear hair than his daughter has in her body. Dakota, your soon-to-be canceled television drama series is waiting for you, give it a few years, but we’ll see you there.
Wake Me When the Music Ends: The musical performances ran the gamut, from boring (Tim McGraw) to insipid (“Everything is Awesome” fiasco).
Oh, “Into the Woods” wan’t THAT bad.
Much like Brad Pitt, I am obviously missing a sensitivity chip because while I thought the J. Legend and Common performance was good, we just saw the same damned thing at the Grammys. However, watching Chris Pine cry was worth it. Chris, I know that you haven’t had a bonafide hit in a while, but don’t cry about it lovely.
Allow Elliott Smith to Show Them How It’s Done: I long for an Oscar-worthy performance like Elliott Smith’s showstopper in 1998. Elliott, clad in a white, borrowed Prada suit, gave a surreal, haunting version of “Miss Misery” from Good Will Hunting. Sandwiched between Trisha Yearwood and Celine Dion, he was magic. Celien Dion went on to win the Oscar, but Elliott won a legion of new fans and he talked about how kind Celine Dion was to him throughout the Oscar week.
This was pretty amazing.
It was not all bad.
Lady Gaga can really sing, Julianne Moore is a gem, Patricia Arquette’s rousing speech for women’s equality was great, and I love her rebellious stance on the whole shindig. Yeah, she needed a brush, but she’s an Arquette, and they are the connoisseurs of cookoo cool and cognac . Keira
I’m guilty, I didn’t know Lady Gaga could sing so beautifully.
Knightley is donning the best maternity clothes of all time and Anna Kendrick is a fresh breath of air.
Praise Oprah, there were no reality stars there! Minus the horrid E Red Carpet Inferno of Stupidity, I did not spy a Kardashian trollop there, not even soulless supermodel Kendall. I want to thank the Academy for their decency.
The Grammys were dull and filled with ballads, but I watched it all, every off-key note, every exposed side boob and each time Sam Smith recited a totally uninspiring acceptance speech. Yawn.
Kayne, let me introduce you to a true visionary, Mr. Beck Hansen.
But who cares? Beck won three Grammys and if there’s anything you need to know about me, it’s that I love Beck in an unnatural way. I love Beck the way I should love my family. So, now I have a new enemy: Mr. Kayne West Kardashian. By now, we all know that Kayne, in his bare chested glory, swaggered on stage while Beck was accepting his well-deserved Grammy in protest of Beyonce not winning. What a clown. Mr. West Kardashian, you’re needed in the lobby, Kris Jenner needs her colonic and your dad-in-law Brucey needs to be reminded where his soul and testacles are located.
The Grammy Goods
Miranda Lambert What a surprise, I never knew that Miranda Lambert was a rocker. She was the first good performance of the evening. Lambert commandeered the stage and was the only rebel that had to be bleeped for swearing.
Sia with Kristen Wig and Maddie Ziegler. What can’t Kristen
I’ve got nothing but love for this.
Wig do? She’s hysterical, a fine actress and a captivating modern dancer. “Chandelier” was the most enthralling performance of the evening, and my most-loved song of the year. How kind of Sia to write a song documenting my early 20s.
Annie Lennox & Hozier Annie Lennox was the strongest vocal performance of the night. The woman can sing and she and Hozier made a dynamic duo.
Beck Speaks Beck won three Grammys, including the aforementioned Kayne-infected Album of the Year triumph. Beck spoke and I listened to every word he
Beck is fond of redheads. Marissa Ribissi, Beck’s wife since 2004.
uttered. He kissed his wife, Marissa Ribisi of “Dazed & Confused” fame and Giovanni Ribissi’s twin sister, and thanked his children. Beck went on to harmonize with Chris Martin for a beautiful performance of “Heart Is a Drum”.
This is what we do in lil’ Rhody.
John Mayer & Ed Sheeran Who cares about this performance if not for the fact that Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift are pals as all we Rhode Islanders know by seeing the pictures of Ed hanging with T. Swizzle in our sweet little state. John Mayer broke TayTay’s young heart and continues to bash her in the media while dating her nemesis Katy Perry. Got all that? Hmm, where was that camera crew to get Taylor’s reaction to this collaboration?
I’m attracted to redheads and pretentious men. Really, I am.
John Mayer reminds me of most the boys I went to college with that wouldn’t date me for all the Brooks Brothers clothing in the world. He resembles most Connecticut bred assholes I’ve ever met: good looking, well-dressed, from a solid background and completely obnoxious.
Madonna Madonna was never famous for her pipes and voices
It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad.
don’t get stronger with age, but she’s Madonna, and she’s freaking 56 years old. I don’t know how much puppy blood she’s consumed to look this good, but keep doing what you’re doing Madge.
The Boringly Bad
Ariana Grande, pure mediocrity at it’s prettiest. Is Ariana the new rich man’s X-tina Aguilera?
Katy PerryI do not care if this was a powerful anthem about domestic abuse, it was a sonic Ambien. The performance reminded me of my childhood dance recital skits- overly emotional, too much makeup and a lot of accolades for nothing. Katy, your crowning moment from the Super Bowl was short-lived and you’ve been placed back on my Queen of Drivel list.
They must see the same dermatologist.
Nicole Kidman & Keith Urban Are they morphing into one another? Just an observation.
Meghan Trainor mentioned her Nashville roots. I’m confused because she is from Nantucket, MA, just about as far from Nashville as possible. Maybe she meant that she and Brian Williams both saved Nashville from a zombie apocalypse brought on by her nasally voice. That makes sense.
Gwen Stefani & Adam Levine The worst performance of the night must be given to my usual love Gwen Stefani. She warbled her way through some soul-sucking ballad with Adam Levine. Ouch. I am fond of Stefani, but let’s stick to the silly stuff and keep the power ballads to, well, anyone else. After this debacle, I don’t think she should be judging anyone’s voice on “The Voice”. Don’t believe me? Take a listen.
Mary J. BligeOnce Mary J. Blige and all her self righteousness takes the stage, that’s the sign it’s time for the show to slowly peter out. I’m Sam Smithed out and his pairing with Mary J. Blige sounded great, but once again, what a bore.
Back to Kayne, one last time.
I just know that the Grammys, if they want real artists to keep coming back, they need to stop playing with us,” Kim Kardashian’s better half blabbered. “We ain’t gonna play with them no more. And Beck needs to respect artistry and he should’ve given his award to Beyonce.”
Kayne, you really are a joke and the punchline is that you don’t know it, and that makes the universal joke just so much funnier.
Could this be the biggest box-office bomb of the year? Oh Johnny.
Gwyneth Paltrow’s recent endorsement of vaginal steaming sounds as appealing as stomaching thirty seconds of Mordecai. Who is still giving Johnny Depp movie roles? It’s hard for him to continue playing the rebel when he resembles the patriarch of a small Midwestern taxidermy cult. Paltrow’s hysterically out-of-touch lifestyle website, Goop, explains vaginal steaming:
“You sit on what is essentially a mini-throne, and a combination of infrared and mugwort [plant] steam cleanses your uterus.It is an energetic release — not just a steam douche — that balances female hormone levels. If you’re in LA, you have to do it.”
Sounds frightening, but not as frightening as Johnny Depp’s movie selections.
The marriage will last two kids, three more bombs, one Oscar nomination and both their affected accents.
I know that Johnny Depp has it in him to star in another watchable movie, but he’s obviously in the midst of a mid-life crisis. Let’s check out possible warning signs:
Super attractive, formerly bisexual fiancee 23 years younger than him.
Penchant for dressing out of one’s age bracket, which for Johnny appears to be a
Johnny, I’ve had nights like this.
104-year old lunatic with a love for baubles.
A drunk, babbling turn as an awards show presenter at the recent Hollywood Film Awards. His best performance in a decade!
P.S. Johnny, we know you’re from Florida and Madonna is from Michigan. It’s okay, you can let go of the affected accent. We loved you when you were trashing hotel rooms and dating starlets (still doing the starlet thing). Johnny, we want you back. Think superhero movie villian.
Hello Shiloh Fernandez
Shiloh Fernandez, I like your squint.
I watch VH1’s Top 20 Video countdown every weekend strictly for research purposes. While recently pretending to loathe Selena Gomez’s auto-tuned-to-near-perfection single “Heart Wants What it Wants”, I was instantly smitten with the man that plays her Bieber in the video. Move over James and Dave Franco, I’ve found a new squinty-eyed bad boy. Agents, can you give this man all the roles you’re still giving Depp?
I May Enjoy football & Katy Perry
I watched the Super Bowl, like, really, watched the Super Bowl and I found it fascinating. Who Knew? There’s drama, fights, rivalries and celebrity sightings. It’s better than The Housewives of Beverly Hills! Tom Brady takes off his helmet for the world to watch him think, stress, wince and jump up and down with joy. The Super Bowl was like the best reality show of all time with actual talent. I was hooked.
Katy did not disappoint. Did I really admit that?
My shock continues, I can’t believe I’m writing this: Katy Perry was good. She delivered. She provided fun, recognizable pop music to the masses and was unpredictable with her surprise guest of Missy Elliott. Yeah, it was painful to watch Katy Perry, in her bedazzled glory, try to show off her newly found street cred up there with Elliott, but Missy Elliott is welcome any time and as I looked around my home, I saw everyone watching every moment.
Lenny Kravitz, the baby-daddy of arena rock, was another wise move. Lenny’s popularity is multifaceted due to his performance in The Hunger Games. I do not dig Katy, but I have got to give it to her, she entertained me for the whole twelve minutes.
Another month, another awards’ program to stomach.
Tina Fey and Amy Poehler were their usual breath of hot foul air breathed in the faces of Hollywood elite. Special thank you to both for publicly flogging Bill Cosby, he deserves every lash. Who is encouraging Cosby to continue with his ill-advised comedy tour? It’s so gross. I digress, onto the Globes. While I don’t criticize the fashion much because my own style blends Cyndi Lauper circa 1988 with grandmother chic couture, I can certainly pick on a few attendees.
Let’s try some red lips, feathers and purple. It’s time Jen.
Jen Aniston, if you applied some red lipstick and donned a big purple dress, I think we’d all forget about that silly Brad Pitt thing. You have not changed a highlighted hair on your head during your long career and the media can’t forget about your past because you don’t change. Please, consider something drastic.
Kate Hudson, you effervescent flower child with the visible clavicle, can you alter your California girl look? We are so proud of you for resisting the urge to have hit up Goldie for some C cups when you were a teenager, but must we be reminded at every award show? Please, I beg you for a high necked gown.
I wanted to cry too.
Chrissy Teigen and I looked alike for a brief second; she cried with joy over her husband John Legend winning Best Original Song from Selma while I cried because Lorde was robbed of the title. Yellow Flicker Beat is such a better song.
Prince, you can do no wrong. The 60 seconds that you graced the Globes with your presence were the best moments of the show. More prince in everything.
The Week in La La Land
I want to be happy for perpetual cool unmarried girl Cameron Diaz finding matrimonial bliss with a Madden brother, but I
These tattoos may not age well.
The Madden Bros., they’re marrying well.
notice his odd shape, and how uninspiring his tattoos appear and I start to feel bad for her. Much like my first wedding, I know that the hip kids were taking bets on how long the union would last. My bet? Four years.
How did these Madden brothers, of marginal talent, marry Hollywood royalty? Does Lionel Ritchie have to pass the peas to the Madden brother twins while trying to figure out which one is married to his daughter?
This is five minutes of pure, deeply uncomfortable joy. I enjoy this Sia song as interpreted by Shia Labeouf and Maddy from Dance Moms. I love that the video is bothering so many people and that it’s disturbing to watch.
365 days filled with Kardashian filth, Meghan Trainor’s increasingly annoying voice, Chris Pratt’s hotness, ebola and a flurry of hacking scandals.
2014 Loves
Donna Tartt’s latest novel will capture you for days.
FKA Twigs, currently better known as Robert Pattinson’s girl, is a fresh face in music.
1. Movies were good, “Gone Girl” “Guardians of the Galaxy” and “Boyhood” were highly entertaining. Cool books include Donna Tartt’s “The Goldflinch” and Meg Wolitzer’s “The Interestings” and “Belzhar”. New music by Lana Del Rey, Jack White and FKA Twigs were stellar standouts.
2. Lana Del Rey is exactly what I crave from a rock star; she’s troubled, intelligent and beautiful with addictive tendencies and questionable taste in men. Del Rey’s sexiness and darkness make up for all the stupid things she keeps saying in interviews and for her lack of credibility. I do love a Connecticut girl gone bad. Her macabre album Ultraviolenceis hauntingly cool and her videos are luscious.
3. Jay Z. and Solange:Hate in the Elevator This was the must see silent movie of the year. It cements my belief that Beyonce is not human, she’s actually a robotic alien that Jay Z. created when he was slinging crack as a teenager. She never did give birth to Blue Ivy, Blue Ivy is actually a robotic alien that eats money and platinum for nourishment.The silent movie of the year.
4. Jack Whiteis the coolest man in the world. It’s unhealthy how much I dig him. I don’t know that I can ever forgive myself for missing his Newport Folk Festival performance this year. Lazaretto does not disappoint.
5. Who was Lena Dunham first? Her or me? I think I could have been Lena Dunham, but better. I watch “Girls”, speed read through her ridiculous friggin memoir “Not That kind of Girl” and smash my modest upbringing, “I’m Lena Dunham without the NYC pedigree and famous folks!”
She’s stealing my shtick.
Sour grapes? Maybe. I love to hate Lena Dunham, hate to love her. I’m repulsed and turned on by her constant state of undress. I cringe at and envy her homely designer clothes. I appreciate her rocker beau’s band The Bleachers. She’s so complicated, a lot like someone else I know.
6. Nick Jonas: Goodbye purity ring, hello abs.
Nick Jonas, you can put your shirt on now. We get it.
I always knew that Nick Jonas was the hottest Jonas Brother, even when he was the 12 year old kid breaking Miley Cyrus’ heart. Nick Jonas, welcome to the perverted world of every middle aged woman that took their kids to see Jonas Brothers: The 3D Concert Experience and could sense your pre-pubescent attractiveness lurking under your fedora. Did I mention that I am fond of this song?
7. Shovels & Rope is a terrific new band, this husband and wife duo are a gritty mix of whiskey, talent and love. Bruno Mars’ Uptown Funk” may be the best song of the year, and he was the best part of both the Super Bowl and Saturday Night Live. NBC’s Parenthood is just about as good as a television drama can be.
The Lowest of the Lows
1. Bill Cosby is a predator and anyone that is defending him is on my shit list. Whoopie, I am talking to you. His first public display of poor decision making was firing my first bad girl love Lisa Bonet in 1991 for “creative differences”. The girl was merely exercising her artistic freedom.
Fun times.
2. Gwynnie and Chris Martin “consciously uncoupled” or started to loathe each other after a bland ten years together and filed for divorced, as we mortals call it. This breakup will remain friendly until they start fighting over the juicer machine, tan cashmere sweaters and yoga mats. Yawn. Martin almost redeemed his own mediocrity by dating Jennifer Lawrence while the rest of the world just gazed at Jennifer’s nude photos. Didn’t last long, but good try Chris.
Kardashian broke the internet and her face.
3. What do I despise about the Kardashians? I hate their deep voices void of infliction or words over three syllables long, I cringe at their dead valley girl jargon. I detest their dark, shiny and glossy hair screaming for a different style, I abhor their hairy babies with stupid names. I’m disgusted by their mascara application habits and shared taste in bohemian wear and I especially cannot tolerate that I once thought Kanye West was the real deal.
Andy,stick to scouting for Housewives trash.
4. Andy Cohen, you need an image consultant. 2014 thrust you on the edge of awful. I actually sat down and read this “book” you just published “A Deep Look at a Shallow Year”. Andy, I am worried. I thought you went to BU? I thought you were smart. After reading this book I was reminded of my journal as an 8th grader. But, you are a 46 year old man. Your first novel was a fun read, but this is a waste of time. Do I have to read 24 pages to get to two stories that include you partying with Madonna? Your Housewives franchise should partner with America’s Most Wanted. Tacky.
5. Roger Goodell, most of Sony and my local Starbucks barista should be fired.
During my misspent youth I was fired for getting my nose pierced, wearing a Ministry t-shirt to work, habitual lateness and for throwing up in a cafe bathroom during 4th of July weekend in a tourist town, but these executive-level assholes just can’t get fired.
Isn’t there another person that can do a better job for over $40 million?
I make a sport out of not watching football, but this season has been difficult to ignore.No amount of Tom Brady closeups can get rid of the taste of domestic assault, child abuse and rapes that Goodell is not handling properly. Roger Goodell made $44.2 million in 2013. Why is he still employed at the NFL? He is a public relations disaster.And those public service announcements that are now being played ad nauseam are terrible. Stop. Yes, I know nothing about football but I do know a thing or two about being fired. Let him go!
I give Amy Pascal another 7 months at Sony.
Amy Pascal and the gang at Sony are guilty of not having a clue. Don’t we all know to be careful when composing corporate emails? How can this group of professional ass kissers still be employed after biting the hands that feed them? The stars that they are paid to worship.
Yeah and my local Starbucks barista is a mess. I can’t believe that I give him money to screw up my coffee order every week.
I will pay you to stop Grande’s career. Her brother may stay, but she’s got to go.
6. Ariana Grande is as wretched a human being as she is a pop star. Reports surfaced that she berates staff, insists on being cradled like a baby after performances and only allows photographers to frame the left side of her face. What can I do to stop her meteoric rise? Can I pay someone with my soul to produce audio of her saying racist words? Can we drum up a child abuse story? Anything, just put an end to the Ariana.
kathleenlala 