Even though I didn’t understand the song (because my French is that rusty) I still love to listen to this guy’s voice.
Imagine my surprise when, after the third or fourth hearing, I realized that’s the guy who sings the free credit report jingles. Only this is actually his voice, instead of some dub-over.
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Actor Thomas Jane, who’s best known for his role in “The Punisher”, is about to get punished himself after racing his Mazerati at 124 mph on Interstate 5.
Now, you won’t hear me crying over a rich celebrity having to fork out for California high risk car insurance after pulling a stunt like that. I can only imagine the car insurance quote California drivers get plagued with after incidents like that now that newspapers are publishing DUI offender names.
Still, let’s give the man some credit: despite blowing over 0.08 percent, those are some impressive speeds to be reaching without having an auto accident. And, no doubt his lawyer will bring that out, not that his SR22 insurance will be any lower.
Perhaps his lawyer should also point out Jane’s true accomplishment: being the only person in history who didn’t get gridlocked in I-5’s notorious traffic.
For four freakin’ years I’ve been wondering just what Bill Murray’s character whispered into Scarlett Johansson’s ear in the final scene of Lost in Translation. Now, thanks to some folks and their skills at digital enhancing, I finally know!
No, it doesn’t change the movie in the least bit, but at least I no longer feel as steamed over Sofia Coppola’s decision to snub viewers by leaving them lost in the final few frames.
Just last month, I raced to buy a copy of the cookbook by Jessica Seinfeld (yes, Jerry’s wife) that’s aimed at Moms looking to sneak more fruits and veggies into their kids’ diets while eliminating the health-hazards of fats, sugars and other Harmful Foods.
Jerry himself is such a proponent of his wife’s healthier-than-thou book that he went on Letterman to defend her against claims of plagiarism and touted her efforts to ensure their kids’ dietary health.
So, imagine my surprise when the Big-Eyed Boy came racing up to me to draw my attention to a McDonald’s commercial featuring Jerry Seinfeld urging kids, via his Bee Movie character, to buy the fast-food chain’s deep-fried “chicken” nuggets and greasy burgers.
Somehow, I feel like I just got stung.
Back in the 70s when I was a kid growing up in Northern California, it wasn’t uncommon to encounter people who claimed to be vegetarians. What was unusual was meeting one who wasn’t fugly beyond belief.
In addition to espousing meat-free diets, the vegetarians I knew also seemed to believe in a soap-free, razor-free, comb-free, deodorant-free, fashion-free existence in which they sulked odoriferously around in flannel shirts, bell bottom jeans and sandals, their greasy hair swinging all over the place.
Hardly the kind who’d look good on a poster for a meat-free existence.
No doubt that’s why the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) insists on using scantily clad blondes for its advertisements, Pam Anderson being the most well-known example. The problem with using Pam to advertise vegetarianism as a cruelty-free lifestyle is the fact that the woman has so darn many animal-tested chemicals in and on (and comprising) her body. Besides, she’s getting old.
Now PETA’s going after a younger generation with stars like Alicia Silverstone and Sophie Monk, both of whom have posed nude for the cause. So tell me, are either likely to make you switch to being a vegetarian, or should we just thank PETA for the heaping help of eye candy to go along with our burgers?
Marcel Marceu, the “Maestro of Mime“, died today at the age of 84.
Although most mimes remain fair game for jokes about annoying street performers, Marceau’s creation of l’art du silence has been credited for its powerful ability to compress emotion and thought into brief vignettes. As one critic noted, “He accomplishes in less than two minutes what most novelists cannot do in volumes.”
Marcel was best known for his character, Bip, the white-faced clown sporting a flower in his top hat. Of this character, Marceu once wrote, “He is a romantic and burlesque hero of our time, and he is also my alter ego, struggling like Don Quixote against the windmills in the battlefields of life.”
RIP, Maestro. Then again, perhaps you always have.
OJ Simpson’s confrontation over in Las Vegas was allegedly caught on tape… by his own accomplice. Turns out, Simpson brought Thomas Riccio along to witness that the men trying to auction off the sports memorabilia had gained it by unlawful means.
Riccio thought OJ just intended to issue an ultimatum to Alfred Beardsley and Bruce Fromong to return the items or Simpson would call the cops. So he brought along a voice recorder and switched it on shortly before he and Simpson entered the hotel room at the Palace Station Casino.
That’s when things went awry, with Simpson shouting profanities at the auction dealers.
Riccio claims the tape includes admissions by Beardsley and Fromong that they didn’t have a right to possession of the memorabilia, along with an admission by Fromong that he’s helped Simpson hide money in offshore accounts… something the court will no doubt be interested in probing further.
If they acquit, I’ll have a fit.
Investigators have named OJ Simpson a suspect in a Las Vegas hotel room confrontation, saying that Simpson broke into the room and stole sports memorabilia.
Simpson, of course, has denied the charges and claims he was conducting his own “sting” operation.
No, that’s not a punchline.
Ten years ago, VH and I were sitting at Preservation Hall in New Orleans when the news broke that Princess Diana had died in a tragic car accident. It was sad, really: such a young, luminous life cut so unexpectedly short.
Not surprisingly, televisions were tuned in to the news coverage of her death everywhere we went that night. We nodded along sorrowfully with fellow patrons who expressed their surprise and feelings of loss. We squinted through the smoky haze — as did everyone around us — in morbid curiosity to see if the media would run the accident photos. We clucked and shook our heads upon hearing the inevitable speculation that perhaps it wasn’t really an accident after all.
Two days later, I confess, I was sick of the near non-stop coverage, the endless reports and retrospectives documenting the life of Diana Spencer, Princess of Wales.
She was dead. Got it. Yes, yes, it was quite tragic but even so: she was dead. And as lovely and ill-treated by her husband as Diana was, I found myself revolted by the media’s portrayal of her as being practically a saint.
Ten years later, I still feel the same way.
She’s dead. Still. And did I mention it’s been ten freaking years?
Why on earth are so many people fascinated with a woman who would’ve been wholly anonymous but for the man she married? A man who turned out — not at all surprisingly, considering his royal lineage — to have wed her for political reasons more than anything else? A man who — not at all uncommonly, considering his royal stature — had an affair with someone else. (Which, by the way, so did she.)
Ten years after her death, Diana is still being portrayed as a near saint despite her adultery, despite the incongruity between her public shows of concern for the poor while draped in clothing and jewelry that, if turned to cash, could have fed an entire starving Third World country for a month.
Her devotion to her sons is recited with the same hushed, reverent tones one ordinarily hears in church, and yet little is said of how often she left those children in the care of nannies and governesses while she herself globe-trotted with playboys.
Her much-praised “independence” and refusal to kowtow to the Queen’s expectations is recited as one of her virtues, but just how praiseworthy is it for a woman to have knowingly married into that role, with its high profile and public expectations, then thumb her nose at the protocol associated with her position?
To be a saint, one must have performed three miracles. Diana, Princess of Wales, performed but one: she married into a family infinitely more prestigious and powerful than her own despite having no qualifications for such a union beyond her alleged virginity at the time.
Yes, the limo wreck was tragic, but considering that the one person who survived that accident was the only one in the car wearing a seat belt — as Diana herself was not — it’s her own damn fault. She’s dead. Get over it. I guarantee she has.
Ten years after O.J. Simpson declared that he won’t work to pay the $33.5 million judgment against him for the death of his ex-wife, Nicole Brown, and Ronald Goldman, Simpson’s been proven a liar once again.
Simpson’s book, “If I Did It” was initially scheduled for a November 2006 release, but stalled when the corporation that cut the deal with Harper Collins filed for bankruptcy.
The corporation, Lorraine Brooke Associates, Inc., was initially set up to provide Simpson’s children with income from his book — a move many bankruptcy attorneys predicted would be insufficient to circumvent the civil judgment against Simpson. The move was, as one judge noted, little more than a “sham” designed to defraud Simpson’s creditors: namely, Goldman’s family.
In June, a federal bankruptcy judge said that Fred Goldman, father of Ron Goldman, could sue for the publishing rights to Simpson’s book, including the $900,000 advance Simpson received prior to the book’s withdrawal from the market. Goldman was represented by his own bankruptcy attorney in that proceeding.
As of today, Simpson’s book is now officially set for publication. Details are expected to be released later today.
Gossip site TMZ — which obtained a copy of Simpson’s manuscript in June — has posted a chilling excerpt of the allegedly “fictional” work in which O.J. explains how he would have committed the two murders for which he still claims innocence.
I remember the first time I stumbled across Anthony Bourdain’s show, “No Reservations”, on the Travel Channel. I was in bed, nursing a bad cold with a home remedy that involves chasing shots of NyQuil with a cold martini and a bowl full of green chile soup. (Don’t knock it: it works wonders for clearing the sinuses!)
I’d spent most of the day thumbing the remote in search of something — anything — that could keep my attention diverted from the phlegm rattling around in my chest, the build up of snot that made my head feel like it was going to explode, the sweaty fever that kept me half-delirious most of the time (although, it is possible that the martinis had something to do with that state).
After realizing that I couldn’t take one more “very special episode” of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on Nick at Night, I jammed the remote toward the TV and found myself listening to a man who looked very much like an unholy cross between Lou Reed and Joey Ramone. He was getting an arm tat from a Samoan man, right there at a massive dining table surrounded by jungle foliage and flying insects with stingers as large as the needle piercing his skin.
Frankly, I had no idea if he was a byproduct of my delirium or not but, what the heck, it was entertaining. So I kept watching.
As it turns out, that night was a Bourdain-a-thon: five episodes, back-to-back of a show featuring a guy who — as it became quickly apparent — had a foolhardy desire to seek out strange foods and even stranger experiences. “No Reservations,” I quickly realized, meant no compunction about eating, say, raw liver at a roadside restaurant that had never heard of sanitation inspections, much less commercial refrigeration.
I was hooked.
A few days later, when I’d returned to my senses, I ordered Bourdain’s book, “Kitchen Confidential
Before long, I was making a point to spend my Monday evenings watching Bourdain’s show. It became a ritual around the Venomous Household: get the Big-Eyed Boy bathed and in bed, grab a martini, settle down on the sofa for the culinary TV equivalent of reading Hunter S. Thompson. Fun stuff.
Unfortunately, as with every good thing on television — and with every television personality whose primary claim to fame is, indeed, their personality — Bourdain has lately become more of a product than anything else. Why, just the other evening I tuned in again to watch an episode in which he toured Shanghai, China. I’d looked forward to learning more about Chinese food than what I can find at the all-you-can-eat buffet down our street.
And, sure, there was a 10-second clip featuring Tony eating sliced heart at a hole in the wall that had never heard of commercial ice machines, much less health inspections or hair nets. But every couple of seconds one of those highly-annoying pop-ups appeared on the screen to inform me of the free wallpapers, pictures, videos and more of Anthony Bourdain.
The man, I learned, even has his own Wiki. Look, when you’ve got your own Wiki you’re about as commercial as laundry detergent, and just about as “sexy” or “dangerous”.
All of the Bad Boy appeal, the gonzo-style food porn, the vicarious thrills of watching someone else booze and dine their way through countries I can’t afford to visit is gone. Bourdain — who has been on my “list” for over a year now — is about as much of a “rebel” as the middle-aged guy next door who likes talking about his glory days of boozing and bedding countless women in between flipping his kid’s burgers on his backyard grill.
He’s not on my list, either.
Michael Vick’s in court right now pleading not guilty* to conspiracy charges over the bloody, vicious dogfighting operation at his home. I caught the coverage just now on CNN’s Headline News, and couldn’t stop myself from screaming at the TV set when the talking head announced “I think I hear some ‘Boo’s’ as Vick enters the courthouse. There’s a lot of animal right protestors here, and they’re not happy with Vick.”
Idiot.
You don’t have to be an animal rights protestor to be disgusted by this story. I’m not a pit bull fan — as I’ve previously mentioned — and yet I could never, EVER condone the stomach-churning inhumanity of the setup police found at the Atlanta Falcons quarterback’s home:
The case began April 25 when investigators conducting a drug search at the home found 66 dogs, including 55 pit bulls, and equipment typically used in dogfighting. Items such as a “rape stand” that holds aggressive dogs in place for mating and a “breakstick” used to pry open a dog’s mouth in a fight were seized. […]
According to the indictment filed July 17, dogs not killed in the fighting pit were often shot, hanged, drowned or, in one case, slammed to the ground. The document alleges that Vick was consulted before one losing dog was wet down and electrocuted.
Interesting, isn’t it, how Vick went from claiming complete ignorance of the dogfighting operation at his house — blaming it on relatives living at his home — to now pleading guilty? (See Update)
The one thing I don’t understand — not that I could ever understand such inhumane, un-human behavior — is why someone with a contract worth $130 million, who was due to earn $6 million this year — would be tempted to such despicable behavior by $20,000 “prizes” for the humans forcing these animals through such torture.
The whole thing disgusts me, including the fact that it’s being phrased as an “animal rights” issue. It’s not. It’s about how humans ought to behave — and what we should never, ever do. It’s about not committing atrocities. It’s about knowing there are certain boundaries beyond which we do not step. It’s about deserving the title of “human” in the first place: something Michael Vick should no longer be accepted as.
Michael Vick is worse than an animal: he’s a human who surrendered his humanity in exchange for a bloody prize purse.
UPDATE: MSM expected Vick would be pleading guilty, considering the evidence found at his house and suspicions of his involvement in dog fighting in Arizona. Now the question remains whether his plea has any slight smidgen of truth to it, or is it just a ploy to try holding on to his job.
So, I’m sitting here with the TV on in the background, not really paying attention to it. I can’t possibly hear what’s on since VH is power-spraying the house and the noise is enough to deafen anyone. Now and then I glance up at the closed captioning, when one little blurb catches my eye.
Dr. Phil’s on the screen. You know who I’m talking about — the guy who, despite living in California for quite some time now, has not lost a trace of his corn pone accent. (Not that I’ve got anything against Southern accents. It’s phonies I’m not fond of.) It’s an ad for his show, and he’s berating a man who believes in “toughening up” his son by being verbally abusive and tells his wife that he married her knowing that she’s “not the wife he wanted but the one he needed.”
Why, yes, I did rewind the TiVo to see if I got that part right.
This guy Dr. Phil’s talking to is an unmitigated jerk. That’s the whole point of having him on the show, right? And Dr. Phil — who’s made quite a fortune writing books about how to save a marriage — asks the wife “Why are you staying with him?” Which pretty much contradicts all of the “work on it until it works out” relationship advice doled out in his books.
I figure if Dr. Phil’s going to abandon his long-standing approach to saving a marriage, he might as well abandon some of his other principles to and kick this guy’s ass. He could take him. Sure, the guy was big but Dr. Phil is, too. Beefy, even, from all that tennis he brags about playing every day. One good left jab, a solid right hook and — blammo! — one jerk learns not to pick on other people because there’s always someone bigger who can pick on him.
Hell, I’d be willing to pay to watch that episode.
Did you catch Larry King’s post-jail interview with Paris Hilton? Here, let me give you the high points (no pun intended):
King: Have you ever been addicted to drugs?
Hilton: No.
King: Taken drugs.
Hilton: No.
King: Never taken drugs?
Hilton: No.
Please. I don’t care how “aw shucks” sweet and innocent that girl looked like as she walked out of jail in her miraculously-appearing designer clothes. If she’s not a poster child for drug rehabilitation, then I’m a virgin.
Will Ferrell and the precocious, tough-talking two year old are back… for those of you who like Will Ferrell.
I’m watching The Morning Show on my local Fox affiliate, which is currently broadcasting a wedding. The obvious way the minister is attempting to rush the ceremony so it fits between commercials.
Unfortunately, the bride’s tongue is not cooperating: live, on national television, she stumbled over that “obey” part… as well as a couple of other places. Like, for instance, when her new groom went to kiss her for the first time and she was too busy talking to pucker up. She seemed to catch on eventually, because her lips stopped flapping long enough for them to exchange a chaste kiss. Were I him, I’d consider myself duly warned about what to expect for the rest of my life.
Meanwhile, I can’t help but wonder: who are these people, and why is their wedding on my TV? Am I going to have to watch their first fight now? The birth of their first child? Their first divorce hearing and subsequent efforts to re-enter the dating market? It’s bad enough that I have to be aware the two of them will be having married sex tonight.
All before even finishing my first cup of coffee.
Britney Spears does not merely need help to stop being a skanky ho. Now she also needs help naming her next album. Because, you know, all that booze and drugs she shared with Paris Hilton have rotted whatever brain cells she originally had.
Since I have a few spare moments — and a few brain cells which have escaped destruction — I thought I’d give Britney a few suggestions of my own:
1. My Life Is A Joke
2. Skanky Is As Skanky Does
3. Who, Me? Irrelevant?
4. Buy This At Your Own Risk
5. I Promise I Won’t Breed Again
6. U Can Lipsynch 2
7. So This Is What Crazy Feels Like
8. Stop Me Before I Record Again
9. This CD Doubles As A Drink Coaster
10. I Did Paris. I Did Dance. I Now Wear My Underpants.
Can you help the Pop Tart out with suggestions of your own?
UPDATE: Michele (of the one L), now blogging at A Big Victory, has more.
[tags]Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, skank[/tags]
Laying on the sofa, still nursing my back, I had to rewind Top Chef not once but twice to be certain I heard what I thought I heard: Electric Venom soup, a broth made from the combination of cooked eel and snake, from Chef Brian.
To which Anthony Bourdain (who remains on my list) says “I would love this dish if I was drunk. I feel like I should be eating it at the bar.”
It’s so nice to be both loved and understood.
UPDATE: I’ve made sure the folks at Top Chef know that I’m quite willing to show Anthony Bourdain how perfectly Electric Venom and drinking go together. He’s welcome anytime. I’ll buy the first round or six.
[tags]Top Chef, Anthony Bourdain, Electric Venom, drunk[/tags]
First comes the revelation that Lindsay Lohan is even nastier than any of us thought:
She used boys for drugs and girls for thrills. I lost count of the women she took back to her hotel room from clubs. I even saw her try to grope Mariah Carey’s bottom and boobs one night as they danced.
Mariah Carey? Girl, puh-leze. It’s time to get help!
Then comes the not-so-surprising revelation that perhaps Lil’ Lo has a death wish.
Lindsay’s ex-security guard Lee Weaver, who claims he quit because she was too dangerous to work for, revealed to the News of the World newspaper: “I have looked after some of the wildest stars in Hollywood but have never seen anyone as out of control as Lindsay. She had a total death wish and took more drugs and drank more than anyone I’ve met.
“I lost count of the times I thought she was overdosing and had to carry her out of parties. Every morning I’d breathe a sigh of relief she was still alive.
“One night I looked at her wrists and hands and noticed they had bright red wounds all over them. She broke down and told me, ‘I don’t belong on this planet anymore’. She said she cut herself because she didn’t think life was worth living.”
So, does anyone know if it’s possible to take globe insurance out on a celebrity?
Who had bets that Paris Hilton would come up with some reason she couldn’t serve her full sentence consecutively? Yeah, me, too. It was a sucker bet, wasn’t it?
Barely three days after she began serving her 23-day sentence, the hotel heiress is already home. The reason? Oh, it’s medical, don’t you know.
Steve Whitmore of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s office said Hilton had been “reassigned” but he declined to identify her medical condition for privacy reasons.
“With extensive consultation with medical personnel it was decided this reassignment should be done,” Whitmore said at a news conference.
This, of course, means that Paris is getting exactly what she asked for in the first place: house arrest, complete with a spiffy new ankle bracelet. So, instead of being in solitary confinement for 23 hours per day, alone in an 8′x12′x8′ cell using a metal, lid-less toilet and sleeping on a cold, hard bunk, she’ll be “paying her debt to society” hanging out in her Penthouse apartment, complete with maid, cook and butler, while all of her socialite friends get to drop by and admire her new jail jewelry.
Sure the rich don’t get treated differently. And I have some beach-front property in Kansas for sale….
[tags]Paris, Paris Hilton, jail[/tags]
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