Endings

This year, we have seen so much fall away, so much shift and change. It has left us unsettled, in question and scared. What next? seems to be on everyone's mind.

In the last two months, we have lost a fair share of icons. Each represented something different. The "me" of the 70s. The excess of the 80s. The buy-one-get-one-free-in-three-easy-payments 90s. The integrity of newscasting through the decades. And now the "lion" of liberals.

We don't use terms like, "Sex Appeal" much anymore. But Farrah embodied it. Today, we would mock anyone who declared themselves King or Queen of something. But, somehow, coming out of the materialistic 80s, we shrugged our shoulders and played along. How many of us got sucked in to buying the latest-greatest-product-ever in the 90s? I am raising my hand as a proud owner of the Caruso Curlers. How often have we wished that Walter Cronkite read us our news? At least then it was the facts, not the hype. And, even with all his faults, we will miss the kind of public service and progressive vision that Senator Kennedy gave.

The past seems to be slipping away from us as we step into an uncertain future. These icons, these anchors, are gone now. I wonder what icon will represent this decade? Will it be Bald Britney? Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan? Will it be the crumbing Twin Towers? That bumbling idiot we were forced to call president for much too long? Will it be the two wars and the soldiers forced to fight them over and over and over again? Will it be Wall Street or Madoff? Or will it be Hope?

In the face of all these endings, it's time to begin. It's time to change, for the better. To be brave and compassionate. To be fair. To truly make this country equal. To be responsible. To provide to those in need. I hope, if nothing else, this decade will have taught us to care, to be involved and to not turn a blind eye. From September 11th to Katrina to Wall Street to today, as this decade winds to its close, I hope we will be courageous enough to write a happier ending and not be afraid to move forward.

The Day I Fell Out of Love With Bono

I am a huge U2 fan. I think they are one of the best bands in the world. And, yeah, they are everywhere. And, yeah, they've lost street cred over the years. Whatever. I don't care. I was never the kind of girl to hate a band she loved once they went mainstream. I never saw the sense in that (I preferred to turn my ire to the Johnny-come-lately "fans" who wrecked the scene).

The closest thing I've ever come to a religious experience was at a U2 concert. Really. It was during the Joshua Tree tour. The show was at the LA Sports Arena, which is a smaller venue (smaller than The Forum and tiny by Staples Center standards). Lone Justice opened (j'adore Maria McKee) and then the Dublin lads took the stage. The entire arena was on their feet. We held hands, swayed to the music and sang every word to every song. It was unlike any show I had ever seen. I wasn't just a witness to it, though. I was part of it. We all were. It was beyond kumbaya. As their shows have gotten bigger and bigger, and more fashionable to attend, I've missed that unity. It's still there, but occasionally interrupted by someone who doesn't get it. You don't ever sit down and you do sing along, people. I always get a little pissed when I see folks like that at their shows. They've taken away a ticket from someone who would actually enjoy the concert. U2 is a big band meant to play to intimate audiences. But, global domination requires stadium-sized crowds. So, I have no choice but to suck up the triple-digit ticket price to get my Bono on.

But yesterday, that all changed.

Yesterday, I got an email from U2.com. Apparently, I am a member. I don't recall signing up, but suspect I did after their last tour when I was still on that U2 high. I did the same after the NIN concert. I know. I'm a total nerd sometimes. Anyway, U2 has relaunched the site and asked me to sign up again. There was something about a free album download mentioned in the email. How very "The Slip" and "In Rainbows" of them, I thought. So, I clicked the link to sign up and then realized that the "subscription" they were talking about cost FIFTY DOLLARS!!!

WHAT. THE. FECK?!?

The biggest, richest band in the futhermucking world is CHARGING their fans for a website subscription? It's time to put down the Guinness, lads. Seriously. You are way too high.

Now, this fee isn't going to charity. That would be different. I double-checked to see if it was going to the ONE or (Red) foundations, but I saw nothing alluding to that. Oh, you get a remixed, remastered download. OF SONGS I ALREADY HAVE! Everything else they offer, I get for free on NIN.com (and they are uploading awesome videos from the Australia shows...at no cost to you).

I sat there with my mouth hanging open. With the state of the world economy, this band -- this mega corporation -- wants to charge its fans? Jaysus. Well, they lost a fan in that moment. My love and respect for U2 wilted. Shriveled to the point that I have no interest in their new release or catching them on tour. Who needs it? If it's not about the art, and it's not about those who appreciate you, I guess it just comes down to the money, honey.

So disappointed. Bono, you really let your woman down.

Vampire Weekday

I love my gym. It is the mecca for all things strange. It's like a continual, bizarre parade of endless, post-modern performance art. You never know what you are going to witness. And, in my nearly eight years of going there, I have seen some sights. My personal favorite is the man who puts the strap of his Walkman MP3 in his mouth and dances about in a fencing manner through the back weight room. Once, the Walkman smacked him in the face when he got a little carried away. He quickly recovered and resumed his ballet. He's not the wackiest, just the most reliably entertaining.

The gym has the typical random professional athletes, random bodybuilders, random actors, random whack jobs. There are a few normal people, too. The odd ones are just more fun to watch. And when you have an hour to kill on the cardio machines, you have a good perch and plenty of time to check out the membership.

A few years ago, I had a thrill when I found a Lost Boy in my gym. I nearly swallowed my gum when I spotted him standing there on the steps to the back room. Jason Patric. Yum-me. Let's face it, The Lost Boys is early girl porn and Jason Patric -- with those eyes, that jaw, those lips and in 501s -- is a girl-porn star. And I get to sweat next to him occasionally. It's not a bad way to start the day, my friends and neighbors. He perspires in such a pretty way. I, however, do not. At the end of my sixty-minutes, I'm more of a red-faced, drowned rat with a ponytail. And it always amazes me the guys who will actually flirt with me when I am in that state. But, that's my gym for you. A bounty of strange rangers.

(I need to take a brief tangent here...not too long ago, I was upstairs on the stretch deck and Jason was there, too. Our mats were across from each other. I was doing my thing, he was doing his. I was taking my time. When he was finished, he put back on his shoes, got up from his mat and headed down the stairs. Then, a flash caught the corner of my eye. This chick had gotten up from where she was stretching and threw herself on the mat where Jason was nanoseconds before. It was far from graceful. I think she kind of hurt herself when she landed. It was spectacular.)

So, yesterday, I was bopping around doing upper body when another fanged wonder appeared in the distance. I couldn't be sure if it was him at first, because I'm only wearing one contact this week. (Long story.) I didn't want to squint-stare, so I lost track of him when I was doing my lats (I can't believe I just wrote that). But, as luck would have it, he came right up next to me when I was doing my biceps and shoulders (I can't believe I wrote that, either) to do his biceps and shoulders (somehow, it's only weird to write workout lingo when it pertains to me). He was on the side of my "good" eye, so I could see him clearly. Stephen Moyer, the delicious, you-can-bite-me-anytime vampire from True Blood.

I was trying not to stare at him through the mirror, because that's just rude. But, Nine Inch Nails was on the iPod (again), and "Ruiner" was playing. I nearly drew blood biting my lip, trying not to giggle as Trent whispered in my ears: "How'd you get so big? How'd you get so strong? How'd you get so hard? How'd it get so long?"

Really. That was the true scene. You try keeping a straight face and proper form with hot vampire actor on one side of you and Trent Reznor inside of you...your head, I mean...saying such things first thing in the AM. It was perfect.

And you wondered why I wake up early to workout.

So Sad

I don’t know about you, but the wind was knocked out of me when I heard the news that Heath Ledger was found dead. It wasn’t like I was a huge fan. I haven’t seen every film he made. I didn’t follow his career. Yet, it was a stunning loss. How very sad that someone so young and talented would be gone so suddenly. And sadder still that a two-year-old will grow up without her father, with few or any memories of him to take with her. But, perhaps the saddest aspect is that cameras, scandal and innuendo will be linked to his passing for the foreseeable future.

It’s a bit too Anna Nicole Smith, if you ask me. And this young man did not deserve that. Have we lost all dignity and sense of propriety when it comes to celebrity death? Why was Heath’s body bag newsworthy? Did TMZ need to stream live to catch it? The throngs of people gawking on Broome Street were not there with hats in hands, heads lowered to give a show of respect. They were there with cameras and craned necks to get a glimpse of his gurney. For what? Money, if they were members of the slimy media covering the scene. And, if not that, is it something worth noting in one’s journal? Dear Diary, Today I camped out in front of the apartment of an actor who died so I could see his corpse wheeled away. Is that something to tell the grandkids about? Loser much?

Heath Ledger had a public career yet he chose to live a private life. He deserved (and still deserves) our respect and for him to maintain that privacy. Unlike the Anna Nicoles, Britneys, Parises and Lohans of the media-whoring world, he didn’t court the cameras, didn’t ask us to watch his every move, didn’t beg us to notice him. Unfortunately, now the cameras won’t take their eyes away.

It’s troublesome that the masseuse chose to call another celebrity instead of 911, but it’s almost understandable if you think that a call to emergency services will go across the police scanners, which the media lives by. Paparazzi would arrive before paramedics. I am not saying this justifies that action. Not at all. But, knowing how some in the periphery of celebrity will go to great lengths to protect those they work with, it wouldn’t surprise me if that was why she made that terrible decision.

I couldn’t be more a defender of freedom of the press and First Amendment rights, but I don’t think the paparazzi falls under that umbrella. They aren’t journalists; they are freelance hunters stalking prey, baiting them, collecting trophies for prize money. What they do isn’t for the greater good of society. It’s for larger sales on the newsstands. And something needs to be done about them before Britney runs over something more that toes.

I hope that in the days to come, some respect will be shown to Heath Ledger and his family. If not for him or them, then for that little girl too young to understand that she won’t see her daddy again.

Where the Sun Shines

It occurred to me the other day that we are now seeing the effects of the first generation of “The Sun Shines Out Your Ass” parenting...and it ain’t pretty. Britney’s vagina, for example. Her knocked-up sixteen year-old sister for another. Mischa Barton’s sad mug shot, Paris Hilton weeping in the back of a cop car, and Lindsay Lohan having a little too much fun in Capri after how many stints in rehab last year? I lost count.

It’s easy to point the finger at these girls because they are infamous. They chose celebrity as a career. Not exactly an admirable vocation, nor are they particularly good at it outside of shopping on Robertson and courting the paparazzi. Yet, somehow, with all their access and assets, they seem to repeatedly not choose to take the sage advice of lawyers, drug counsellors or publicists. I’m all about making mistakes...as long as a lesson is learned from them. Perhaps they believe the sun still emanates from their backsides, they are bulletproof, or so damn cool that they can get away with anything and still be loved, admired and adored.

Not quite. Instead, they are mocked, maligned and bets are set on the outcome of their next faux pas or O.D. I don’t think the money is on Britney coming out the other side of this, do you?

It’s asinine; both their behavior and our attention to it. You just want to shake them and yell, “Grow up!” And then you want to shake their parents and yell, “You screwed up.” They aren’t the only ones. We are able to see their kids’ f-ups, but how many more parents are sitting there watching their twenty-somethings flounder thinking they did their kids a disservice? Too many! And they did do a disservice to them and the rest of us who have to deal with those spoilt, dysfunctional brats in the real world. Ugh. I dread going out in overcrowded public.

At the end of the day, those brats are adults now. At a certain point, they need to take responsibility for their actions and grab the reigns in their own lives to get it back on track. It is possible. We’ve all done it (well...most of us have). Take a look at the original, post-modern “Wild Child”, Drew Barrymore. Rehab at thirteen and fifteen. That was followed by starting over (hello, she did a TV movie and failed series) and paying her dues (hello, TV movie and failed series). With a steady climb back, she reached the top of her game, producing as well as acting in hit films. She may not be the Meryl Streep of her time (you never know, though; her career is far from over), but she is working and respected, and that’s more than we can say for the current crop of tabloid cover girls. Then again, Drew was from a generation who knows where the sun really shines.

These celebutards aren’t thirteen or fifteen, but in their twenties (except for the knocked-up one and that’s a column for another day...about birth control and the lack of prophylactics. Where are the rubbers, people?! HIV! Herpes! Hello?!). I have to wonder, when are they going to learn? When they overdose? Wrap their car around a pole? Kill someone? Their careers are on life support already. What is their bottom? As a clue, the sun does not shine from it.

You know, every snowflake is special, unique and beautiful, but that doesn’t reduce the likelihood that it will be trampled on, melt in a gutter or land on some poo. And I’m beginning to think that if one is raised to believe they are special, unique and beautiful, the likelihood that they will be trampled on, pass out in a gutter and end up looking like poo increases exponentially.

Parents, take note. Your kid is not special. Your child is not unique. Your brat is human and flawed and wonderful only for that reason. You have not raised a prodigy. Your spawn is not the next Einstein. Odds are your kid is annoying if not flat-out obnoxious and needs to really embrace the concept of NO. The world is not his or her oyster. The oyster is communal. It is to be shared. And the community should be respected enough not to have to hear your brat scream in public, bang its utensils in a restaurant, or run riot in a respectable establishment. I don’t like your kid when it behaves that way. I like you even less for allowing it. Take it home and let it know it proved my theory: Your kid ain’t perfect. It’s an obnoxious little creature that needs to learn some manners and respect. And the sooner you both embrace that, what a wonderful world it will be.

Faux Naturale

Is it me, or did Madonna appear both nipped and tucked on the red carpet for her husband’s next flop...er, I mean, film? Now, it seems, she has a pair of black eyes (viewable in paparazzi photos behind oversized shades). Is this faux-Brit patronizing New York to get some work done? Only her surgeon knows for sure. But if an array of photos of her through the years were laid out in front of us, we’d see how often she’s been renewed.

Nicole Kidman claims to be all natural. Really? Like, it’s natural when your lips inflate on their own and your face freezes? Hmmm. I guess if you look at it her way, botulism is natural therefore Botox is, too. Hyaluronic Acid is a derivative of sugar, so Juvederm must be Mother-Nature-made. See, you can be totally plastic and be totally natural at the same time. It’s just amazing what modern science can do.

My favorite Barbie is Demi Moore, who went around claiming her body got better and better with each pregnancy, then spent a reported fifty-grand on total body restoration. Why? It’s not the work that was done, but the lies that were told about it. In this time of scripted reality, people are losing the sense of what is true. We are falling for the delusion. But, what’s worse is that, rather than tell the truth, it’s become vogue to lie about it. It’s easy to keep a straight face when it’s been chemically paralyzed.

Generally, cosmetic procedures are private. A personal choice one makes for whatever reason. Celebrities lose that luxury. From their public existence, we see it all. We have photographic evidence of what has been altered (that is, before it’s been Photoshopped). So why lie about it? How about a simple “no comment” instead? Or even a statement like, “Even though I lead a public life, I choose to keep some aspects private.” But, if you say something like that, then keep your trap shut about what should be private. It’s about consistency, people. You look less like a hypocritical ass if you keep it consistent.

I don’t have a problem with plastic surgery. Not at all. Since I was a young girl and saw my mother in her smalls, I knew a tummy tuck and boob job were in my future should I actually decide to bear children (it was also about that time I saw the purpose of a surrogate). I plan on treating myself to Botox for my next birthday, just to amputate those crow’s feet. And, depending on who asks, and how tactfully they inquire, I will either answer with full disclosure, or simply reply, “What do you think? Do you really think it’s any of your business?”

Still, I want to know who Susan Sarandon and Cindy Crawford sees. That is vital information. I mean, they will talk about their nutritionist or trainer or stylist, til the cows come home, but I want to know about their doctors and dermatologists. That’s only fair, and a true public service. I also want to know who did some of the “odd jobs” we see out there. That’s even more vital so you know whom to avoid. There have been times when I wanted to stop women on Rodeo and ask, “Who did your work?” so I could put the word out.

While I think there is a purpose to some procedures, there are a few things I think it’s prudent to avoid. Like starting when you are too young. Why are these twenty-somethings going for Botox and lip injections when they are in the bloom of youth? And boob jobs at 18? Please. These girls aren’t fully developed physically or emotionally. Going from B to DD isn’t the kind of maturing I would want for my daughter. But that’s just me.

My mother got her boobs done. After two kids, I didn’t blame her. But when she told me, “I have some bras to give you that I’ve outgrown,” I corrected her. “You didn’t ‘outgrow’ anything,” I reminded. You have to keep it real, even when some of it is fake.

The Bitch is Back

Every once in a while, a girl needs to take a break. A little time off. Like, say, three months or so. A respite of sorts. And, sometimes, she doesn’t even know she needs it. It just sort of happens.

The hiatus I took was not planned. (Nor was it a stint in rehab. Please. I’m so not a twenty-something celebutard high on hubris.) April brought much more than expected. I took on a new old job for one thing. An impromptu dinner led to an offer to return to a previous position and, a week later, I started the new old gig while finishing up my old new job. I juggled the two posts for the next six weeks and, during that time, I made a ten-day journey to New York where I attempted to function in both time zones. Needless to say, I failed at that. Miserably. The jetlag I was attempting to avoid hampered me through the end of May.

I had made the mistake of making out with the wrong guy and got a nasty flu accessorized with a hacking cough, which boarded the plane with me. I’m sure flashbacks of Outbreak were running through my seatmates’ heads during the long flight to NYC. At least this was before the TB dude ran amok, or I fear I would have been sequestered. What kind of guy says, “Man, I think I’m coming down with something,” right after he thoroughly verifies your tonsillectomy? So glad it stopped with a kiss and something curable. This is where not being completely slutty comes in quite handy.

I’m a pretty tough broad who runs at a fairly kinetic pace, even with an active bout of Epstein-Barr Virus, but the bug combo’d with the lag and the new work+work schedule just knocked me on my ass. At the end of the day, I had nothing left. By the time May rolled around, the act of balancing two jobs, multiple projects and working six weeks straight with no time off, seemed to rob me of my usual stellar personality. My social life took a nosedive. Phone calls went unreturned, emails piled up in my inbox, plans were often cancelled or reschedule for a time when I had more time. I’m still waiting for that. After work, I would simply pass out shortly after inhaling dinner, only to wake up a couple hours later and start working again. Work work, not my work.

I get really unpleasant to be around when I don’t write. By June, the malaise reached a pretty intolerable level. It’s sort of like a version of PMS, as in: Please Miller Sit-down-and-write-something-for-the-love-of-God-and-all-that’s-holy! I found the creative flow blocked by the lack of verve required to transform a thought to something tangible. There are many half-written, semi-started columns, but my train of thought would easily get derailed. And what a time to run out of writing steam! Look at all I missed! Blohan on video doing blow (and I am so intentionally leaving out “allegedly” since Venice neighbors Santa Monica and its Police Department), Blohan in rehab, Paris in jail, Blohan extending her stay in rehab, Paris leaving jail for a hot minute before getting tossed back in the clink, Blohan spending her 21st birthday in rehab, Paris getting out of jail and Lindsay SCRAMing around after being released from rehab. At least until yesterday.

But, please, there are so many more important things to address: The war, the troops who are dying daily, getting wounded by the minute and being deployed yet again for their fourth, fifth or sixth tour all sidelined by celebutard news. I mean, didn’t we celebrate “victory” there about two years ago? And two years before that? Yet, in spite of W’s victories, we keep losing. What about the Shrub telling his bitch Harriet to stay home; after all, it’s only a pesky subpoena...look what Scooter was up against. The Dub has your back. As long as your back is one of a glad-handing, money-grubbing crony. The rest of us are screwed. How that futhermucker and his Beelzebublican cohort have not been impeached is effing beyond me. Nixon must be cursing up a storm somewhere. Where’s Ken Starr when you need him?

Then there are some people you just don’t have use for. Ann Cuntler showed her wax face and lived up to her nickname. Seriously. You make fun of someone’s dead kid and you have sailed way beyond bitch status and deep into the C. When will she do us all a favor and forget that you shouldn’t blowdry and take a bath at the same time? Yeah, I said it. It’s my karma. I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid. She should be, though. Her public disgrace has got to be on its way. Karma is one thing; hubris seems to bite you in the ass even faster. Especially if you are a blonde celebutard.

Finally, there was the earth-shattering news that the “Sex and the City” movie was finally a go! And I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t about five years too late? Are you like me and will be so totally excited to see it...the night it premieres on HBO? I am setting my TiVo, let me tell you. You bring the Tasti D-Lite and I’ll make the Cosmos.

Yeah, I’m back.

Keep Your Hair On

Oh, Britney. The lengths a girl will go to get the carpet matching the drapes. Now, both don a Brazilian and neither should be seen in public. And while the sight of a Sinead-inspired Spears is more than a tad unnerving, I was probably more disturbed by the fact it appears as though the girl has had on the same cakey, black, round-the-rim eyeliner for nearly a decade. For heaven sake, will someone please teach this kid how to wash her face?!

Now, she has made her way back to rehab, where everyone goes after such antics. Why don’t these clinics all just open a new wing called Humiliation Camp? Well, isn’t that really what it is? Binge drinking at 25 is nothing new, though it should be old hat at that age. Is rehab really the answer? Wouldn’t a stiff shot of reality be more prudent? You’ve been acting like an ass. Knock it off. It isn’t cute. Obviously. Take out a mirror if you have any questions.

If you haven’t noticed, I shan’t be going down the “poor Brit” road. I have zero tolerance or respect for any wealthy celebrity (or celebutard) who has the world at their feet, access to the best and brightest, and clearly refuses to take responsibility for their actions, behavior and life in general. Spoilt brats do not get my pity, undereducated and chemically imbalanced as they may be. When one’s train-wreck life is on the cover of every rag on the newsstand, that’s a pretty large clue you need to do some introspection and maybe spend a few nights in. And, if one finds herself puking on a club’s bathroom floor (allegedly), what more of a wake-up call does one need? Shouldn’t two babies back at home be enough?

Many moons ago, back when Christina was dirrty and Britney was a slave, I wrote a column questioning which one would end up posing nude first...and would it be Playboy or Penthouse? Never did I think it would come to this. Not to age myself, but this harks back to the Prince vs. Michael Jackson debate of the 80s. Prince was the dirty one; Michael, a soft vanilla ice-cream, palatable by parents and children alike. The debate raged over who was more talented, who was the truer artist and, basically, who was less of a weirdo. In the immortal words of Chris Rock, “Prince won.” Now, it is Christina Aguilera, whom we all thought was teetering on the brink of porn back then, who has redeemed herself as the classy Mouseketeer. Who’da thunk it?

This is just proof of what lip-synching can lead you. Pay attention, Ashley Simpson.

Look, we are all human and, to be human, one must err. There’s no getting around that. Effing up is part of growing up. Some F-ups are just more spectacularly public than others. So I’m not chiding Britney for being a young adult, still learning the ropes. I’m just not attending a pity-party in her honor.