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.

Certain Things I Just Don't Understand

I'm not a hatemonger. Nor am I a country music fan. But with the return of Mann C^#tler to television, I found myself asking: How is that tacky broad allowed on the airwaves after all the lies and despicable things she has said over the years, but poor Natalie Maines utters twelve little words and the Dixie Chicks were made pariahs?


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Sure, that happened in a different place in time. But so did this:


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Haven't we moved beyond this type of hype? Didn't November show that we have had enough of that? And yet, there she is.

I suppose the Left has better things to do than boycott "The Today Show" and "The View" or picket the bookstores who bring that thing in to promote her particular brand of ignorance and hate. I guess all those who chose to vote for a man of color with the middle name of Hussein are able ignore the rantings of a loon and accept her freedom of speech, no matter how offensive it may be. Maybe that's the difference between the Right and the Left. We have better things to do, like bring down Proposition H8, welcome in a new President and era, focus on solutions to our economy and environment, and work on coming together rather than dragging us apart. And Mann should be most grateful for that.

Karma, however...well, that's something we can't help her with.

Catching Up, Eventually

Holy crap. I am now totally convinced that I am living in a parallel universe. Malibu must have some sort of weird vortex. I see the most peculiar stuff driving to and from it. I realize some of the disconnect is from sleep deprivation (coming off the vampire hours has not been easy). Part of it might be from working in the Bat Cave all day without cable access or cell phone reception. I actually work at work, so there's no Twitter time or chance to hit the gossip and news sites. Sigh. I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on in the world. When I come home, I TiVo (fast-forwarding through the commercials), eat, blog and sleep. I am out of the loop on so many levels (I am doing my best to keep up with the debates). Just imagine my utter shock when I finally heard that OJ was convicted.

I have to say, Karma is the sweetest bitch I know.

Yeah. I'm a Buddhist and I said that shizzle. It's my karma. I'll deal with it.

The rest of you not disconnected from reality know that the verdict came crashing down on the thirteenth anniversary of his acquittal. How sweet is that? It's utter poetry, if you ask me. Even better, his sentencing happens the day before Fred Goldman's birthday. You know it will be life with a big red bow wrapped around it. At least I hope so, for Fred and Kim, and the Brown family.

Of course, we can't forget the other victims: Nicole's children. They are adults now. I can't imagine what the last fourteen years have been like for them. Or the wounds this must open up. It's beyond sad in so many ways. Resolution is brought to one side; more pain to another.

Still, when I see something like OJ's comeuppance, I think the Universe is at work. You can believe in random coincidence if you want, or see the eloquence of cause and effect. Sure, that man was swimming in hubris for ages, and it was only a matter of time before it pulled him under. We've seen hints of it over the years. Seen it coming. Felt it in our bones. There was no way he'd get away scot-free, not with his level of douchebaggery. And, finally, his get-out-of-jail free card was pulled.

Way back in the day, I had a moment with George Clooney. He was reading the Newsweek with OJ on the cover, and I asked, "So, George, what do you think?" George got really impassioned (melt) and said, "Oh, he's guilty. But he'll get off." After I stopped swooning, I said, "No, George. You can't think that way. He's guilty. We have to believe justice will prevail." It seems we were both right. Typically, my timing was a little off. I only wish I could have seen Dominick Dunne's face when this verdict was read. I bet if there was a jaw-drop this time, it was followed with a smile.

Hope you are feeling much better, Mr. Dunne.

Hill's Bills

Hi. I’m wondering if you would help me retire my debt? It seems that my campaign to lead a fabulous life has cost me much more than I had anticipated (and I’m not even a label whore). Student loans, personal loans, credit cards...somehow, they piled up to a point where repayment just isn’t feasible...or convenient. I mean, it wasn’t gross mismanagement on my part that got me here. More like over-enthusiasm. I really believed my time was going to come, and soon, so I campaigned for it fervently. And probably a little longer than I should have, truth be told. Splurges here and there — mainly to soothe my ego and bolster my esteem — buying time, if you will, as I waited for rock star status, and all the perks that would bring. A human flaw, really, which should be forgiven if not overlooked entirely. After all, I’m me. You probably thought my time had come as well, right? Sucks to be wrong, eh? So, if you and your benefactors would see fit to help me out, checks and/or money orders would be greatly appreciated. I could even set up a PayPal account if you’d prefer to charge it. Or just click the Google ads on my website. All of them (there are a few). Thanks so much for being a team player. Really. Your generosity makes all the difference. Cheers!

Is that a ridiculous request or effing what?

But that hasn’t stopped Hillary.

Why should anyone pay Hillary’s bills but Hillary and Bill? She stayed at the party too long, and now the hangover has hit. That’s not my problem. It’s not yours. Please. How long were we all telling her to bow out gracefully? She failed to listen. And now it’s up to Obama’s supporters to bail her out? Quoi? To that I say, in all sincerity, fug dat.

Entitled. That’s how she carried herself throughout her campaign. She behaved as if this was her party, her ticket, and her time had come. Therefore, no one should have gotten in her way. How dare anyone run against her! So, she dug in her heels (thick heels to boot). She was going to keep going no matter what the cost to the party, the people or her purse. It was embarrassing. And I was embarrassed for her.

I mean, I’ve been there. Upstaged at my own shindig by a newcomer, one so shiny that everyone was mesmerized by her glow, and I was left to busy myself picking up napkins and refilling glasses wondering how the hell this could happen at my own fete...and how could I get back the reigns. But, instead of sitting on her date’s lap and licking his neck in revenge, I simply sat down in my chair and participated in the conversation like a grown up. Let her have her moment. Because that’s what you do once you leave high school, no? Hill, on the other hand, did the political equivalent of a lampshade-hatted table dance.

It was one thing for Hillary to exaggerate her trip to Bosnia with the bullets whizzing by her. Jetlag causes me to hallucinate, too. Or maybe that’s the vodka tonics on the plane. Either way, I get it. But when she went so far as to say she was staying in the race because, well, of what happened to Bobby Kennedy, I threw up a little in my mouth. What kind of person says something like that? A few expletives come to mind, but I’m trying to take the high road here...unlike some people during the race who will go unnamed. At the end of her tedious campaign (which was repeatedly spun as noble in its effort), she was plugging the leaks in her yacht with hundred dollar bills. Now, she’s drowning in a red sea $22 million deep. Of course, twelve of that is her own cash, which she’s not asking for back. How incredibly gracious. She just wants the ten, please.

Shall we imagine, just for a moment, how many houses that money would build in the still-ruined Gulf states? Or help those now affected by the floods? It’s a shameful request. And it seems to be a tad forced. Almost as to say that if Obama would like Bill’s thumbs up, see if his supporters will cough up the cash and foot the tab. I don’t think anyone should give her a bloody dime. As a matter of fact, she might want take to the stage one last time and politely refuse any donations. Perhaps suggest that money should go to more worthy causes. There are plenty of them out there. Besides, Bill’s book money can bail her out. All he needs to do is give a couple of speeches and it’s taken care of. So why the panhandling? It’s tacky!

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Clintons. Remember the good ol’ days when Bill was in office getting serviced my Monica, the economy was solid, the budget was balanced and gas was about a buck? Ah, those were the days. And, as a Feminist (note the capital), I would like nothing more than a woman running the show here. Hillary, however, was never electable. Come on, let’s be honest. Unfortunately, there are a lot of skeletons in the Clinton closet, perceived or otherwise, and those surely would have been put on display by the GOP-ers sometime in September. (We all know how the game is played.) Hill could have been a strong contender for the VP position, creating an unbeatable ticket. But, she shot that to hell with the Kennedy comment. Hubris. It has a high price tag. Which is why I can’t afford it. Humiliation, however, somehow fits into my budget.

If only we could expect others to pay for our mistakes. Wouldn’t that bring about Utopia? I could submit an invoice for that last perm I had on the 80s-90s border. Or get a refund for the Express wardrobe I treated myself to in college that seemed to make fashion sense at the time. I wonder what reimbursement I could get for a few of the men I’ve dated. I’m still paying for that T-shirt line I failed to promote. If I could get even a portion of what some of my errs have cost me, I’d be sitting rather pretty. Alas, the only benefit I get is a lesson hard learned, and the reward of owning it. Then again, if you care to make a donation...

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.

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.