Thursday, November 29, 2007

Bared and Pregnant

In the era of so many (scripted) reality shows, cell phone camcorders and paparazzi videos, privacy is virtually a thing of the past. So I was proud of Christina Aguilera when she refused to admit that she’s pregnant. It doesn’t involve her music, so she never had to comment about it. Granted, it was a bit pointless when she was toting around a huge, round belly. (I can’t imagine the pressure she was facing trying to finish a world tour in her first trimester.) The other part of me—that’s been a fan of the Diva for years—knew that she was waiting to do a huge magazine cover spread-eagle on a leopard print rug, showing off her big ole belly, because Mrs. Bratman loves an exclusive as much as Jenny from the Block.

So I definitely wasn’t surprised when I saw the January cover of Marie Claire magazine with Aggie on the cover in all her expectant glory. I just wasn’t all that thrilled with it. I will always respect Christina’s need to challenge the male-dominated business and be as comfortable with her sexuality and nudity, which can be two seperate things. And I don’t see anything wrong with posing nude while pregnant (or nude in general), but I’m not 100% behind the picture of her with child. And I’m not sure why. I know that part of me was dreading the inevitable Britney comparisons. But it’s not 1999 anymore, and it’s quite obvious that Britney is…in a league all her own right now, keeping company with Danny Bonaduce and Amy Winehouse.

I don’t believe that pregnant women need to shuffle about in moo-moos and housecoats, nesting and knitting. However, in a time where breakdowns and sextapes can launch a career, I have to wonder what drives her to share her (pregnant) body in all its airbrushed glory with the world when there is no movie, album, clothingline or fragrance to promote. (One could argue that Xtina is promoting her tour DVD and fragrance) I guess I just can’t wrap my mind around how that would feel. Maybe it's a good thing to want to share the birth of your child with the entire world. Congrats, Christina.

I haven’t read the article yet, and I look forward to doing so and seeing the rest of the pictures. I actually do love the cover, and I love the Divine Mrs. B, so I’m glad to get another shot of my favorite celebrity before she vanishes into the black hole of 3 A.M feedings and dirty diapers.


Here is a link to the picture in question.

Update: I read it, and it was a wonderful insight on a very happy woman who is about to become a mother. All is good.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Not *NSYNC with the literary thang...

If anyone actually frequents this blog, they know that I was and am an *NSYNC fan. No matter how much I try to deny it to friends and family members, I can’t stay closeted for long. When I heard that Lance Bass, the now openly gay star of the group, was writing a memoir about his life in and out of *NSYNC, I was thrilled. As a fan, I patiently awaited the gossip about the pop scene I loved so much. (JC Chasez, Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera are still some of my favorite musicians). As a writer fighting to see my manuscript in hardback, I’m bitter that Lance could pretty much get a deal without trying or ever typing a word. In promotion for his book, he mentioned using a ghostwriter, and then complained that “writing” a book is “time-consuming.” Comments such as these smothered my excitement for juicy behind-the-curtains dirt. Comments such as 20/20’s “Justin Timberlake strung us along” made my eye twitch, but the man has quite a story to tell.

After watching Lance on The View, Good Morning America, and Tyra, (where she had the balls to ask if he ever had sex with women and if he enjoyed it.) I was both curious about the book, but irritated by Lance’s need to toss out tidbits, like tabloid chum about Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears, in order to create and sustain a media frenzy. But that is all part of the game.

Yesterday, I popped into the nearest Barnes and Noble and devoured Out of Sync. The book is a quick read with an interesting and amazing story which gave me more admiration and respect for Bass, more abhorrence for Lou Pearlman, and dredged up the sadness about the extremely mishandled disbandment of the band that provided a soundtrack and solace during my adolescence and early adulthood.

Unfortunately, the salacious tidbits of gossip were rare, usually hidden between a plethora of “um, duh…” confessions such as Joey Fatone's love of porn or that his release from the Russian Space Program hurt him deeply, but Lance let his smile be his umbrella, which cushioned his fall back to earth. (Although I did learn fun facts like *NSYNC recorded their demo in Shaq’s house and Chris Kirkpatrick was almost a Backstreet Boy!) Also, the overall voice of the novel was little more than a 7th grade narrative assignment filled with fortune-cookie logic than the coming-of-age retelling of Lance’s most personal and complex sentiments during his famed life. Either Lance hired an inexperienced ghostwriter or encouraged him to write a watered-down, squeaky-clean, parent-friendly version of his story for the typical 14-year-old *NSYNC fan. Uh, Bass, it’s been five years and most of your fans are well over drinking age, bring the heat!

The realizations about fame, being a closeted, gay man from the Bible Belt and his botched attempt at reaching the final frontier as a Cosmonaut ring hollow and incomplete, because Bass only skimmed the surface of what it probably felt like when the planets aligned and your dreams came true…and how much it hurt when they didn't. (It also doesn’t help that a some factual information was incorrect.) I spent most of the time tightening the prose in my head and wishing he’d explained his emotions on a deeper level than being riveted by the power of his story. I wish Marc Eliot, who wrote the introduction, had written the entire book.

It is, however, surprising and refreshing that Lance still seems to have that genuine, laid-back happiness as a teenager from rural Mississippi, the first *NSYNCer I’d ever laid eyes on in 2003, and now a 28 year-old gay man finally free to be himself. He stubbornly treats challenges and criticisms as unimportant distractions, always keeping those pale green eyes on the prize. He left home at sixteen, became apart of the biggest (boy)band in the world, became a certified Cosmonaut (a process which included a sedation-less colonoscopy and a risky, elective cardiac procedure) and settled into his life after *NSYNC with a positive, 7th Heaven-ish attitude which I simultaneously envy and admire. While Lance might not add bestseller to his list of careers, the memoir of his time in *NSYNC is a pleasant Saturday read and only solidifies my admiration for the southern boy turned accomplished businessman and musician. It was a true pleasure for this fangirl to revisit those memories. With that said, I do think that a memoir written by the fearless and hilarious Chris Kirkpatrick or the eccentric songwriting genius of JC Chasez would be a more entertaining read.

Friday, October 19, 2007

I'm Over Patrick Dempsey aka McDreamy

I made out myself as a total TV nerd when I confess that I’ve seen just about every episode of Grey’s Anatomy on the day it originally aired. I’ve been a fan since the beginning—when it was marketed as a mid-season space-filler on Sunday nights.

Like a good little Greymate, I fell into the romantic and angst-infested relationship of Mer and Der. Der was sweet and sensitive, but still a rockstar in the OR and in the budoire. Then his wife showed up, and he, for the sake of television and sexual tension, decided to stay with his cheating shrew of a wife. And that seemed honorable in a fall-on-your-scalpel sort of way. McDreamy lived up to his name even outside of the fictional Seattle Grace. He fathered not one, but two baby boys and drives racecars.

Fastforward to his 2006 Golden Globe nomination, and cue my *tires screeching to a halt* WHAT? reaction. The nomination came during the whole tragic and beautiful Izzie-Denny-LVAD arc, and the lukewarm Mer and Der plotlines were washed away from viewer’s tears from Denny’s Shiva. That’s when I realized that out of all the outlandish, “dark and twisty” Grey’s characters, Der was probably the weakest actor and/or was the flattest character. He spineless warbles between the “I’m a NEUROSURGEON” sternness and the sappy-sensitive whisper he does when Meredith is being mean to him.

Four episodes into this season, I’m tired of the sappy-whisper, which is all Der has done thus far. Alex, who has testosterone to spare, needs to pull Der aside. and show him the finer things about being a man: the screaming, the unprompted asshole-ness, the sleeping with other women to make Mer jealous, the sleeping with George’s skanky Syph-Nurse. It makes those rare moments of sensitivity all the more special. Mer is not the type to melt in a fit of giggles at Der boasting he wants to marry her and “die in her arms at 110”. She’s a tough almost-surgeon who needs to get over her daddy issues, one of which is a living breathing younger sister.

Patrick Dempsey was on the cover of my Entertainment Weekly, the Photo Issue. And the Greymate in me was excited, hoping he’d drop Grey’s tidbits, but the rest of me yawned, because McDreamy just makes me McSleepy. They could have picked Milo Ventimiglia and his Heroic new torso or Denzel Washington or even the real-life tranny on Dirty Sexy Money, because even she seems to be more of a man right now.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Addicted to Intervention?

It's 2:40 a.m. And I'm watching intervention. I planned to bed hours ago, but I got sucked in by the tragedy, drama and intense love captured on the show.

I'm tired. But I need one more hit!

Randomness Alert:

I feel like CSI: Miami (aka the only CSI I watch) is like a cartoon for adult. It's a live action G.I. Joe. It's all bright colors, cheesy dialogue and gooey corpses. Good stuff. Horatio Cane will fuck your life up!

And I totally just told you that soI could see the beginning of Brian's intervention! Addicted, I tell you.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Award Show Conspiracy

Since I’m no longer Queen Excel, I’ve been feeling quite naked without my crown of…spreadsheet cells and needless data. I’ve decided that I am the new Queen of Bitter, Queen B if you will. Like my new crown of broken dreams and crushed hope? As newly reigned Queen, I’ve decided that I hate awards shows. After the debacle that was the VMAs (and the subsequent controversy afterwards) and now the Tony Bennett-and-Sopranos Lovefest-slash-Randomest Winners Ever Awards Show aka The Emmys.

I’ve decided that awards shows are televised purely to make the viewing public feel like absolute shit about their own lives. I mean what exactly IS a show designed to honor already beautiful and rich people who get to do what they love everyday and live fabulous lives exactly supposed to do? Make us feel all warm and fuzzy? Inspire us to follow our dreams? No! They want you to feel depressed that you are Queen Excel or that you got your first rejection letter from a literary agency on the same day you blew the opportunity for a fantastic writing job. They want you to feel low and useless so you’ll all the more willing to retreat into a world of imagination and creativity, passion and drama, i.e, television? See how that works? It’s a strategy conjured up by advertisers and network executives!

The Emmys itself was boring, save for a few moments: I enjoyed Katherine HIGH-GUL’s win and her speech. She looked fabulous. America Ferrera always makes me cry when she wins awards. And I was thrilled for her! Mom-to-be Christina Aguilera’s performance was the only treat of the show. She looked adorable and sounded like an angel…as usual.

On the dark side, T.R. Knight was robbed. I feel like he’s the Djimon Honsou of the Emmys. He’s a fantastic comedic actor with dramatic chops you never saw coming. I’d assumed he’d be yet another victim of the “Sopranos” Mob, but he was bested by some random guy from “Lost” with a sparkly tie and pink shirt. OUCH! Vanessa Williams was also robbed by trailer trash! Jaime Pressley is funny and all, but she’s already southern, so technically, it’s not that much of a stretch now is it?

Finally, can the Emmys or any other important awards show refrain for being on FOX? They censored SALLY FIELD (totally rooting for Kyra Sedgwick, but whatcha gonna do?). I mean, seriously, what type of network censors people’s acceptance speeches? (According to, Field said “And let’s face it, if the mothers ruled the world, there would be no goddamn wars in the first place…” That’s it!) A cowardly one. I thought FOX was supposed to be edgy and racy. First, they want to make “Dick in the Box” family-friendly (read UNFUNNY) and now any anti-war sentiments aren’t allowed. Fuck edgy and racy, try oppressive and old. Fuck FOX. That’s right FCC, I said FUCK!

In summation, award shows are just a conspiracy to make us feel like shit. And I fall for it every year.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Don't "Gimme More"

You know your awards show is having major problems when you have coax major acts there by nominating them AND letting them party and drink during the show. That’s right folks. If the very celebrities nominated for the MTV's Video Music Awards don’t want to be there, why should I watch? Because the new “edgy” remake-slash-infomerical for Palms Hotel and Casino was destined from its conception to be THE trainwreck in of the year. And it opened with the blinged out caboose of Britney Spears performing in what looked like leftover of the Pussycat Dolls costumes. Mama Spears half-assed her way through a generic routine and a generic song sans the rumored theatrics of magician Criss Angel. The performance was boring. And love her or love to hate her, B-Fed has NEVER been boring. A disoriented Spears forgot to pretend to sing. She lazed and loafed through a performance as even other celebrities (her peers, no less) watched in underwhelmed horror. She looked more like Courtney Love Barbie than a girl trying to prove she still had it. It’s over, Britney. “Give Us More?” Don’t you fucking dare.

The show was not a night of unique musical collaborations and zany moments. It was a mishmash of technical difficulties, drunken riots, Kid Rock cold-cockin’ Tommy Lee, more drunken riots…but only a handful of awards were given out and only three acts actually sang on the main stage. It was probably the best thing for the actual celebrities, cutting out all that boring waiting and being sober and it got right to the parties and alcohol. For the viewer, it was nothing less than eye-garbage, lots o hype with no follow-through.MTV Producers had the genius idea to move the show from NYC to the Palms in Vegas and have celebrities (Justin Timberlake, Kayne West, Foo Fighters, etc) host their parties in the hotel’s many suites during the show. On the main stage, only several acts performed: Alicia Keys tore it up with a new single “No One” which morphed in George Michael’s “Freedom; Chris Brown once again tried to BE Michael Jackson with a very enthusiastic performance, parts of which were janked from the King of Pop himself; Justin Timberlake, BFF Timbaland and crew closed the show.

My personal highlight was a drunk Timberlake stumbling into the wall as he made his way to the main stage (he actually can mess up, even if he made it look cool), still put on one of the best performances of the night, and invite the audience up to his suite party on the 32nd floor! Apparently through the tequila-soaked blur of the night, awards were handed out, but I can’t remember for what or to whom. Justin Timberlake challenged MTV to play more videos and make less reality shows (in front of “The Hills” girls no less). I agree. I’ve even blogged about MTV’s lack of music-based programming. I think the show proved that music isn’t as bad a place as it may seem, but it’s the actual music channel that’s lost its way.

Random Note:*Sarah Silverman is not funny. MTV seems to think she’s zany and controversial, but calling anyone’s babies “mistakes” is a good way to get your ass kicked by a bodyguard. Shut up and sit down.

Friday, September 7, 2007

Free At Last

I must preface this blog with a personal statement: I am no longer Queen Excel. In a string of surprisingly upsetting and eventually liberating events, I have retired my crown made of cells and formulas, and I’m now enjoying complete unemployment for the first time in nearly nine years. I’m free, and it’s terrifying and kind of exciting and somewhat boring. There are so many things that I promised myself I would do if I ever had free time when I was trapped in my three-walled slat blue cubicle—travel, finish my series of children’s books, start running again, go to movies in the afternoon, learn to paint. The only thing I’ve really been able to afford to do is gain weight.

Someone who can afford do be unemployed AND do whatever the fuck they want in the down time is JC Chasez, a very attractive 1/5th of *NSYNC. (And he is. He’s been in New York all week for Fashion Week…for the models AND the fashion). While he’s sitting on millions of *NSYNC dollars (about a grand of that is from my own pocket), he’s also nurturing a ridiculous amount of unappreciated, underrated musical talent.

I have gushed about his poorly promoted, thus poorly selling debut-album, “Schizophrenic”, in previous posts. (Backstory: He sang about masturbation to a beat…*snorts*…and tackled pretty much every genre on the album, making it hard to market to the masses dumbed down by mindless club tracks and rappers trying to sing, especially after the Superbowl debacle of his bandmate, which radio program directors turned into prudes. Chasez also hates the game of the music biz and refused to mention his relationship with Eva Longoria or talk shit about JT. Audiences love scandal!)

JC was supposed to release his second album earlier this year. Yes, nine months ago folks, but yet babies have conceived, carried and born and yet no album. No promotion. No videos. No explanations. His first single “You Ruined Me”—an emotionally wistful love song that demonstrated the Chasez’s range and songwriting chops—was released in May 2006, and even got some decent reviews, yet no further movies were made to gain even more exposure. JIVE shelved “Ruined”, and hemmed and hawed before dropping “Until Yesterday”—an addictive, operatic song with a Freddie Mercury vibe with Justin Timberlake as co-writer and producer—via AOL First Listen last September. The same thing happened again: the song built a good head of steam that fizzled out into the musical atmosphere due to inactivity.

A year later, reports that JC is FINALLY free from the record label who’s been holding him hostage for nearly four years, and he reportedly gets to take his songs with him. “Kate” will be released on a new label, and hopefully it will give him a fair shake to let the world hear that beautiful voice and genius songwriting.

If you’re curious and adventurous, download “Schizophrenic” or got to AOL and listen to those singles off “Kate”. He’s brilliant!


Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Marsha Brady is a ho!

I used to pride myself on my patience, but I’ve noticed that the older I get, the more my patience wanes. I was agonizing how hearing back from my first agent; I was positive that I’d mailed the letter months ago. When I looked at the calendar, I realized that it had only been a few DAYS.

I feel the same nagging impatience when dealing with waiting for movies to hit the theater, albums to hit the stores (or the internet depending on how impatient I am), the new fall season of shows to start. I need my entertainment, damnit! And I’m sorry, "Entertainment Weekly", but “The Hills” doesn’t count. How disappointed I am in you for writing about that shit.

I am, however, oddly excited about the “Sex and the City” movie that will not even arrive in theater until next summer. Until then, I decided to dust off my old “Sex and the City” DVDs, and revisit the fabulous world of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. We’re going to ignore how self-centered Carrie is, and focus on Samantha. I’ve always had this sort of embarrassing theory I’ve always had about Samantha.

It hit me one day like a bolt of lightning. Samantha was none other than Marsha Brady grown up. It’s all there, ladies, the wide-eyes, the uncanny diction, the blonde hair, the selfless sharing…of orgasms! It’s all there. In some paralleled reality where television characters are real, Marsha Brady ventured off to college with her G-rated, Disney-approved views of the world and life, and was overwhelmed by a Brady-less reality. In the real world, people do drugs, parents die, people get sick and housekeepers don’t serve cutesy wisecracks with the morning coffee and eggs. After getting her heart broken, Marsha discovers the beauty of no-strings sex. No messy heartbreak, no divorce, and more importantly, no step-children. (Six kids and one bathroom? It had to be terrible). She even changes her name to Samantha Jones to save her family from the shame of her whorish ways.

Yes, folks, THIS is what I do at work.

Monday, August 6, 2007

Fucking Midwest...

Justin Timberlake—the unofficial male Oprah—got his brass note on Beale Street today just hours before kicking off yet another tour in his hometown of Memphis, Tenn. A huge honor of a Memphis-boy. It is also a lovely reason to talk about JT (I’m purposely ignoring the Nicole/Britney/Lindsay drama and I’m not seeing “Bourne” until Wednesday), since he’s newsworthy and all.

When Justin was one of five guys, and I was considerably younger, I survived my adolesence by waiting for them to roll into town. At night, I’d lie in bed, listen to the moonlight mooing of the cows in the nearby pasture and dream of white-hot pyro, storms of confetti and my five favorite guys flying over the crowd. As a *NSYNC/Timberlake fan, I can tell you that the diehard fans come from the middle of the country for no other reason than there is nothing better to do. Sure we could stare at cows, tip cows, watch cows graze, but generally, it’s pour over celebrity gossip and dream of escaping out corn-rowed prison or partake in the smoking of those wacky weeds that grow in secret in those cornfields.

Fast forward, eight years, one indefinite hiatus, and one member stepping out of the closer, and it’s a rarity if any big acts step foot in my town. Let’s focus on JT, shall we?
Since Timberlake has re-emerged from nearly two years of silence with the Grammy-winning “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” he has embarked on four separate tours: a club-tour, an arena U.S tour, a European/UK arena tour, and finally, a second U.S tour. Three out of the four tours have been in the continental United States, and there have been no shows in my city. None at one. It is as if all the maps provided to the tour manager, have a gaping whole where the Midwest should be.

Granted, my city is not a giant market, but we have a professional basketball team, soccer team, baseball team and some form of hockey team. We even have arena football! AND THE ONLY FANDOME IN NORTH AMERICA! That has to mean something!

Unfortunately, that’s what happens to musical acts grow too big for their britches, and it’s all about performing eight shows in New York and L.A.

While I am considerably grown up, a part of me still that under-stimulated, bored sixteen wishing she had another concert to look forward to and wishing she could escape the fucking Midwest and the other part is the adult woman who can’t afford the flight to L.A.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Good Riddance, Harry!

“Goodbye Harry”

That is the cover of my Entertainment Weekly. This is the second time in a month that some form of Harry Potter—whether it be Daniel Radcliffe or creepy adult with lightning bolt scar on his forehead—have commandeered the attention (36 pages worth!) of my favorite magazine and filled it with gobble-dee-gook about Snape and spells and wizards.

I have nothing against the man-wizard or the prolific J.K Rowling. She is the personification of what I would aspire to be (as I write this, my finished novel is printing and being readied for the terrifying search for an agent). But after more than month the book dominating the news and water-cooling talk at work, and more recently, my sister reading the last two books and leaving her daughter to call her favorite auntie four times a day, and the coverage of Daniel Radcliffe finally gaining access to his fortune, I’m sick of hearing about all forms of Harry.

Although, as Lindsay sitting in rehab again (that’s a whole other entry folks), Britney wades through the freeing waters of insanity, and an annoying squeaky-voice British soccer player invades America and pimps his marriage on the cover of W magazine, I’m not sure I’m all that keen on hearing about them either. (I mean, seriously, what is the big damn deal about Posh and Becks? I don’t get it. The only admirable quality about them is how they are shameless about being fame-whores.)

K loves her pop culture, but less is more!

Thursday, July 5, 2007

Become Transformed!

My car, a 2005 Toyota Corolla named Valentino, is a loser. I recently came out of the theater and whispered into the right rear view mirror, “It’s okay. I know all about the autobots. You can transform whenever you want.” And nothing happened. Sadly. So, my car is a giant non-transforming loser and reality blows.

I wasn’t sure how to review such a large-sweeping movie, such as Michael Bay’s “Transformers,” because I am easily seduced by an imaginative idea and phenomenal visual effects. I had to read a few other reviews to get my footing and wait for the chill of adrenaline to pass so I could sort out my thoughts.

“Transformers” is this generation’s “Honey, I Shrunk The Kids”—a film that is the first of its kind and an explosion-laden standard for others to follow. The CGI’d autobot action is such a thing to behold, and it allows other aspects of the film, like plot, to fall by the wayside. But it still sucks you into the story’s action and into a reality where you truly believe that there may be a homicidal alien robot in your cell phone.

While I am very much a fan of well-told, emotionally powerful stories, I don’t think I minded this one time. Because, um…visual effects! And Shia LaBeouf! And Josh Duhamel! And Tyrese! And Optimus Prime, who’s voice sounds exactly the same as it did in the 80s! (It is the same dude. Really!)

The movie is about Sam Witwicky, played by the amazing Shia LaBeouf. He is the great great grandson of an explorer that discovered Megatron and the All Spark. Sam has the glasses that have the location of both imbedded in the lenses. A rusted out yellow Camaro is immediately drawn to him. The car later turns out to be Bumblebee, a mute Transformer with very bad luck. The movie has three different but brittle plots that all orbit around the same sun until they are eclipsed into the final Climax of Action.

“Transformers” is a summer movie that knows it’s a blockbuster, and tries to entertain with silly jokes that are funny the first time, but will turn irksome after multiple viewings (there’s a whole scene with Bernie Mac and his “Mammy” that is just a waste of time and very unfunny). LaBeouf is over-the-top as a teenager outcast just wanting a ride to impress Mikaela (played by the rather stoic Megan Fox), a porn star-in-training, in his history class. The director should have reigned in the young actor, but he peddles his passion for the Autobots better that Bobby Boliva can sell cars. He was the life of the movie, and I loved see him adlibbing and back-talking to Optimus Prime. (Sidenote: I’ve had my eye on him since I stumbled across a very nutty, quirky Disney show called ‘Even Stevens.’ I remember being amazing at how talented this strange little kid was. That little kid has gone up to be the Transformers dude, and Indiana Jones’ son). He and Justin Long from “Live Free or Die Hard” should start a new cool club, because they are re-defining cool.

The action is probably the best action sequences I’ve seen in my entire life (Sorry, all the winners of the Excellence in Ass Kickin’ Awards. They’ve all been given to the Trans Crew. Megatron made me do it!). I knew it is CGI mixed with live action and even motion capture, but I didn’t know how it was even attempted. At some points in the final battle scene, it seemed like too much to absorb all at once, which could be how battle is. It was chaotic and confusing and messy and scary! It feels like a roller coaster ride that loops around skyscrapers and hoops of fire, but I loved every minute of it.

All in all, everyone should see ‘Transformers’ on the big screen. I’m a girl and I loved it. I went with my mom and she loved it. You can’t not love the action.
For now, I’m going to go back to hating my Corolla and wishing it was a kick ass Autobot so it would at least drive me to work in the morning.

Monday, July 2, 2007

Excellence In Ass Kickin'

Why are there Academy Awards honoring every strange, eccentric and over-hyped type of dramatic film (Little Miss Sunshine wasn’t all that!), but there is not category to recognize the courage and cojones of stuntmen and women as well as the hyper-kinetic visionaries of the directors, screenwriters and stunt coordinators.

My recent viewing of “Live Free or Die Hard” inspired such a questioning. The third sequel to the “Die Hard” franchise is a visually insane action-thriller, starring Bruce Willis, a man in his early fifties. My stating this is no dig at his age, but a testament to his youth (I played kickball last week, and I think I pulled every muscle in my body, and I’m 25).

The beauty of action movies is, like superhero franchises, they exist in a different plane of reality, enabling John McClane to drive SUVs through buildings, shoot cars into helicopters, and save the nation by well…shooting himself. If you happened to catch the FOX movie channel any time this month, you would have seen all 3 “Die Hards,” wonderfully undubbed (“shit” and “suck” sound so much better on cable TV. It’s naughty!), but also a juicy little making of “Live Free” and a step-by-step, don’t-try-this-anywhere segment on how they filmed the sequence where McClane is trapped in a tunnel with cars speeding at him in both directions. Amazingly, it was mostly live action, meaning, yes, cars were flipping like a college cheerleader on crack and landing on other cars…and helicopters.

While the movie itself is ridiculously over-the-top and the villains FRENCH?! (How imtimidating can they be?!), the action itself is award-winning…and I’m not talking about an MTV Movie Award or a People’s Choice Award either. Unfortunately, what pleases the lowly masses, does not please the stuffy Academy. With that in mind, should I really value their opinion? They robbed Djimon Hounsou of the Best Supporting Actor gem for…Alan Arkin’s five-minute turn as a druggy granddaddy.

So I will hand out my own awards for Excellence in Ass Kickin’.

Best Unnamed Bad Guy— “Hamster”. He looked like an angry reject from Cirque Du Soleil (and Toad from the first “X-Men” movie), but provided one of the best fights and deaths in the movie.

Best “Live Free” Fight Sequence— John McClane kicking the shit out of the stoic kung-fu lady (and hopefully that played out stereotype).

Best “Die Hard” Sidekick— Sorry Samuel L. You were horribly miscast in “Shaft” and you don’t win this one either. It totally goes Matt Farrell, (played by the adorable Justin Long) the techy geek-turned-“That Guy.” Could they pass the franchise onto him? If they can think of anything left to do, I hope they do! Long was fabulously entertaining and stole a lot of the scenes. “This is like shoving a pine cone up my ass, dude.” Me likey!

Best “Die Hard” Villian—Timothy Olyphant. I know Alan Rickman is, like, it for most “DH” fans, but bear with me. He’s got great skin and wears chic black, but he also pulls off that eerily controlled crazy-rage so well; it was reminiscent of my mother when she found out I took her car without asking. Bravo, dude, bravo! The only downer was that he never really got to explode.

Best McClane Moment—His blood-choked laugh after sending the car careening into the chopper.

Congrats to all the winners! I appreciate all that you do! Now go blow shit up! Up next "TRANSFORMERS." SO EXCITED!

Sunday, July 1, 2007

"He really needs not to talk in public" Katherine Heigl

In the beginning, Isaiah Washington seemed to handle his dismal from the break-out hit, “Grey’s Anatomy” with a surprising amount of class and dignity. When Washington was released from his contract earlier this month, he took the high road and did a very dignified interview with Entertainment Weekly. He actually took responsibility for his actions for the first time in a year. And I forgave him a little bit. I hoped he’d get another job and learn from this whole ugly experience. How stupid I was.

He’d made two tremendously bad and highly publicized mistakes using the word “faggot” in reference to T.R. Knight. There was one on-set kerfuffle, but it boiled down to “he said, he said” which left room for doubts on both sides. The second infraction was completely televised and took place at the Golden Globes and hundreds of members of the press. It also ignited the latest nearly seven months of scathing coverage that overshadowed the show’s win for Best Television Drama.

Recently, Washington is blaming everyone but himself. It was T.R. campaigning for his release and turning his castmates on him (If he called him that horrible word, he reserves the right to campaign harder than Barack Obama for his firing). It was ABC making him jump through proverbial hoops for their on sinister pleasure, and then dumping him (Disney owns ABC and having a purportedly homophobic man on their payroll doesn’t exactly fall into their squeaky clean image). Now, it is because he is black.

As a black woman, I understand that the thought always lingers somewhere in the back of your mind when you’re denied a job or ignored by a salesclerk. In this situation, however, Washington needs to put his race-card away. He deserved to be fired after his unprofessional and disturbing behavior at the Golden Globes.

Also, I’d hope that if T.R. Knight or the angelic Patrick Dempsey referred to Washington a nigger in the exact same situations, they’d be fired as well. For now, I really just want Washington to own legendry problems with anger and move on from this. He has a fabulous actor and I’d hate to see his shortcomings keep a black man down.


Tuesday, June 19, 2007

CGI High

Justin Timberlake has made a shit-ton of money. That’s a technical term, folks. Write it down.

Computers have revolutionized everything, especially music videos and movies. I mean, have you SEEN the “Transformers” trailer? HOT DAMN.

I have made these two whooping understatements because these two have gone hand in hand to create the most disappointing video for “LoveStoned”, the one of the best songs the multi-platinum artist has ever made. I was nervous when I saw pirated video of Timberlake groovin’ in front of a green screen. The song is a club song with a heart, K, the writer, expected a plot. K didn’t get it.

Timberlake has described the video as visual representation of music. The product of such a lofty goal is a glorified screensaver and looks a bit like my Windows Media Player Bars and Waves visualization. I’m a huge Justin fan. I’ve seen him perform in four states, but I can admit when he takes a risk that doesn’t quite pay off. And this video is a hot blue mess. I had to force myself to watch the entire thing.

Sadly the technology is his downfall. Without the garbled images of blue bars wafting into bluish faces, the video could have been an amazing study of Timberlake’s trademark moves—a type of video he has yet to make, a video I desperately want.

I can’t completely blame it all on Mr. JT. He managed to shoot it in between well, world domination, peddling “Shrek 3” with ex-Cameron Diaz, dating Jessica Biel and his European tour, so I give him a bit of slack. But only if he leaves the CGI to Spielberg.

(K finished her novel! The rejection letters should be coming any day now!)

Thursday, June 7, 2007

My generation sucks...

*cues bloodcurling scream*

I wish I could upload it. I have a bone-chilling one.

I’m livid. And yes, you know why. Fucking Paris Hilton was released early from jail. I saw in my cube today, continuing my reign as Queen Excel (I had an extra hard project and had to run lots of queries), and I tried to think of why I was so angry. Celebutauntes have been in and out of rehab, flashing their naughty bits, crashing into curbs, then running into rehab to escape the media blitz…I usually ignore it all (unless it’s the wise Ms. Lohan).

I realized that Paris enrages me because she is the ringleader of young women who are completely misrepresenting my generation. I’m 25. I’m a college graduate. I have a job. I have a car and a clean driving record *knocks on wood*. I have dreams of getting my novel published and even opening my own hotel and restaurant. I work hard for what I have. Most of us do.

Paris Hilton is 26, barely literate (yet she “wrote” a book) and her claim to fame is well being sniffing coke, crashes expensive cars and disrespecting her fans. I’m so fucking tired of the girls achieving such white-hot fame and just handed opportunities they don’t even appreciate because they are too-skinny, white, fame-hungry and promiscuous with mothers who are probably the same way. The celebrity scene has gone from being entertaining with Mariah and Whitney catfights and Vegas Weddings to DUIs for exposure and posing with knives and guns. I’m sick of actually working for something when some girls are given it everything.

Paris getting out of jail is no different. I was so happy when she was sentenced to 45 days in jail, not because I hate her and want her to suffer, but because I wanted her to actually be punished for her reckless, thoughtless and dangerous behavior. She released dozens of statements waxing righteously about how she wanted to be a lesson to others and how she wanted to be treated fairly because she broke the law numerous times. Her diluted mother mocked Paris’ sentence and whined that she was being treated harshly because she was a celebrity. But she served a measly 72 hours in prison and was released early because of some mysterious medical condition? It was nothing more than an overdue reality-check and maybe withdrawal. Her celebrity status got her unfairly released from prison 20 days early, huh Mama Hilton.

I’m sick of the Britneys (Britney, regardless of her subjective “talent” did spend years working at an insane pace) and Parises and Nicoles making our generation look we don’t care about anything but drinking and being too skinny and wearing thousand-dollar dresses. It’s an embarrassment to the American justice system when a girl with money can buy her way out of jail. Maybe when she kills someone, she’ll actually serve ALL of her sentence, but even that is doubtful.

(This will be my last post about Paris until she gets arrested again, so I'll be making a new one soon!)

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

10 Reasons to Watch “The 4400”

“The 4400” is a summer show with a cult following about 4,400 people who mysteriously vanish over a period of sixty years only to inexplicably return in a ball of light without aging a day and with special abilities in order to save mankind from a mysterious catastrophe. It’s like “X-Men” meets “Heroes” with a twist of “Law & Order” (without the ever-changing A.D.As). It’s fourth season starts on June 17th on USA Sundays 9/8c.

Here are ten reasons to tune in this summer:

1. It’s not on NBC, so it doesn’t suck!
2. The writing and storylines are so refreshingly original that it’s worth waiting a year between seasons.
3. The actors are ridiculously talented.
4. An actor on the show is named Mahershalalhashabaz Ali. Say that three times fast, if you can say it at all! (He plays 1950s pilot, Richard Tyler).
5. Patrick Flueger! He’s only 23, but he’s a painfully gifted actor, who can make “healing” people look so real. You feel everything his character, Sean Ferrell, feels times two. Flueger is gorgeous, too. He reminds me of a young Brad Pitt. And he’s smart enough not to attempt accents!
6. It’s content on government conspiracies and discrimination against the 4400 parallels on the current state of the nation…but the government usually loses. ZING!
7. It’s a new shiny hybrid—Sci-fi, drama, romance, suspense, psychological thriller.
8. No David Hasselhoff insight!
9. The season is only 12 episodes, thus keeping the audience intensely entertained. There is no dwelling!
10. Conchita Campbell plays a creepy child precog, who pulls off that eerie “Children of the Corn” vibe. shudders
11. A bonus: Mahershalalhashabaz Ali is so handsome and muscley. I call him “Hershey.”

Don't forget June 17th on USA Sundays 9/8c. Watch it!

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaack...

*glides elegantly into The Closet*

Pardon my brief absence. I know all…erm, six of you, missed me terribly. K had to attend to some very pressing matters at Cannes. It involves beaucoup des champagnes, beaucoup des robes couture et beaucoup des diamants! Leo, Brad and Angelina say “bonjour!”

Obviously, y’all know that I am full of crap. I took a bit of time away from my blog to seriously apply for jobs and to finish my novel. Queen Excel is hankerin’ to hang up her crown.

I apologize for leaving you without my scintillating opinions, but I’m back!
I’m also thinking of changing the name of my blog. My sister pointed out how is a metaphor for outing oneself. *smacks forehead*

Friday, May 11, 2007

Happy Mother’s Day to the Brangelina brood!

As the celebration of all things maternal approaches, it’s nice that one family in Hollywood manages to exude warm family fuzzies. It’s a shining beckon of hope for all the mothers with daughters facing jail time and post-rehab cocaine scandals. In an article in the June issue of Reader’s Digest, Mama Jolie shares coveted secrets of her life with an always-expanding brood. There are lots of adorable tidbits in the article, but this one got my ovaries hummin’:

On how she went from single mom of one to part of a family of six in just three years: "I met this amazing person, and we realized we had very similar views on how we wanted to live our lives. It's happened quickly, with so many children. Yesterday, picking up the kids from school, Brad turned around in the car, and there were three of them. He couldn't stop laughing."

There’s something sickeningly beautiful about these two gorgeous people, all lips and biceps and perfect hair, being tickled at there being three children in the backseat instead of two. Brad seems to have slathered on a hot mess of ‘laid back sexy’ since he became a father. He’s definitely a DILF!

People may joke about Angelina’s hobbies of adopting babies and trying to save the world, but it’s a far nobler undertaking than crashing million-dollar sports cars and spending a grad a tee shirts (not to say that they don’t do that). They are literally saving these children’s lives. And they’ve completely opened my eyes to adoption.

Happy Mommy’s Day to Angelina!


EDIT: Looks like Sheryl Crow will have the perfect accessory for Mom's Day--a little boy! According to her blog, she just adopted a little baby named Wyatt Steven...Congrats to the new mommy...and to us! Hopefully, that means a break from her craptastic music and hair commericals! YES FADE AWAY! (I'm itching to make a clever 'crow' pun, but that would be so obtuse.)


Sunday, May 6, 2007

Prison's hot!

In the second entry of this blog, I made a promise to my readers. I will quote myself:

“I hate Paris Hilton, and unless she goes to jail, this is the one and only mention of her in my domain, my closet.”

It has actually come to that. On Friday, Hilton was sentenced to 45 days for driving on a suspended license in Feb. 2007, which violated her parole for a DUI in Sept. 2006 (see an Open Letter to Hollywood about my stance on DUIs).

I thought she’d be sent to prison after a horrible accident involving enough cocaine to drop Courtney Love, a totaled million-dollar sports car, and a poor dead paparazzo. Hilton, who’s big on everything shameless and shameful, has a horrible driving record, no regard for the people around her, and as leaked photos have proven, she LOVES her cocaine (as does LiLo, but that's another entry). I’m glad the judge made a pre-emptive strike and actually made held her accountable for her actions. Granted, I don’t think she will serve her entire sentence, and I won’t be shocked if she doesn’t serve a day. And I know this will actually give her something to talk about once she gets out. Hilton’s going to pimp the fuck out of her prison stay…she’ll sob to everyone with a boom and a camera; she’ll be on the ‘View’ (Sadly, Rosie won’t be there to verbally assault her) and throwing parties in every city. I can even see “Prison’s Hot” tee-shirts. It’ll be awful, and Hilton won’t learn a damn thing, but she’ll be shackin’ up with Big Gertrude for 45 days with no extensions, Sidekicks, personal assistants, piles of cash and LV handbags!

Spider-Man's World ROCKS!

I have a bit of a confession to make. I, K, am a bit of a nerd. Yes, I know, it’s completely shocking. While I might be all cool prose and witty barbs on the surface, underneath is a dork that loves superhero movie franchises: Spiderman, X-Men, and Batman…in that order!

What? Forgot Superman? Nope, I didn’t. I loathe Superman. To be a true superhero, you have to be an underdog, a martyr and a well, human. Superman is just an alien that can’t even learn human customs…underwear OVER the costume, dude, you save children for Christ’s sakes.

But I digress. I entered the theater with expectations of mediocrity, because I’d read a couple reviews, and heard that there wasn’t much of a story left, so they stuffed the movie with villains, strange alien goo, and LOTS of action. Ten minutes into the movie, I realized, HELLO, it’s Spiderman, there’s supposed to be villains/action/goo. It’s a movie intended for kids and nerds like me.

I loved the movie. Tobey Maguire is and always will be the best Peter Parker. He’s adorable, a fabulous actor, and also kinda cute. He gives the perfect amount of humanity and humor to our friendly neighborhood Spiderman. This movie, while admittedly not as strong in story as the previous two, it is a stellar end to the franchise. (While I loved it, making another one would tarnish the other two). Without spoiling the plot, I will say that Peter Parker’s life finally seems to be in order. That pesky tragic luck of his is finally on the upswing. The city loves Spiderman and has embraced him as their official hero. Crime is down. And Parker wants to marry Mary Jane, played by the replaceable Kirsten Dunst. (Regardless of her predicting that the movie would “flop” without her, I’d see it twice if she was replaced. She’s not a bad actress, just an annoying one.) Of course, problems arise, a criminal’s molecules are scrambled and bonded with sand or gassed with green ‘roids, a meteor filled with space goo crashes to earth, and leeches onto the nearest host, and New York is caught in a sandstorm of mayhem.

Suddenly, Spider/Parker is a disco-dancing badass who’s going blow-for-blow with his best bud Harry aka Goblin Jr. in ‘roid rage mode (I’m glad that they finally cashed in on the fortune of James Franco and made him bulk up…ditto to Topher Grace), Sandman—an amazing feat of both CGI and imagination—and his own amped up aggression. There’s some closure to the entire story, and while some questions were left purposely unanswered in hopes to setting up a fourth edition to the franchise, it felt like an ending. If it is, Spiderman is the best superhero movie franchise in the history of the genre (apparently fans think so to. According to CNN, it made an estimated $148 million domestic, and $375 million worldwide. It's already paid for itself plus $117 million. This box office record.). It is the only film that puts the audience into a live-action comic book. There’s a certain imaginative simplicity to “Spiderman’s” characters, setting and villains. It is colorful and special, and the movies are a testament to what I believe Stan Lee created. In Spidey’s world, the rules are simple:

1. Villains dance and dance well! Dr. Doc was probably groovin’ in his secret lair. And it’s rumored that Hob Goblin loved to do the cabbage patch to get himself psyched to attack Spidey.
2. Despite his superpowers and muscles in the first film, Parker is a true nerd and will never be anything less.
3. It’s not that hard to get bitten by a genetically altered spider or fall into a molecule-changing machine or huff toxic super-strength gas, BE CAREFUL!

All in all, I enjoyed the movie. It was a bit too over-the-top and under-developed characaters/storylines, but it was more than decent end to a heroic epic.

Friday, May 4, 2007



Lindsay Lohan admits that part of her loves being a paparazzi target — but she wishes the photographers would stop bothering her for a while so that she can win an Oscar.

“I wouldn’t ever want them to not take my picture,” the “Mean Girls” star told Nylon magazine. “I’d be worried. I’d be like ‘Do people not care about me?’ ”

In fact, she takes it as a sign she’s almost Madonna-like: “I said the other day, ‘I feel like they hound me more than they hound Madonna and she’s someone I’ve always aspired to be like.”

The media attention, is, however, a distraction from an Academy Award.

“The thing about the press and why they need to leave me the [bleep] alone for a little bit is because I don’t want that distraction from my work,” she told the mag. “I want to get a nomination. I want to win an Oscar. I want to be known for more than, like, going out. For being ‘the party girl.’ I hate that. I bust my [bleep] when I’m filming, and when I gave time off, yeah, I like to go out and dance.”

I absolutely LOVE these little pearls of wisdom from LiLo. She’s so young, but she’s already been through so much and she understands how the world works. She worries about being more famous than Madonna. She understands that by having crazy paparazzi engaging her in highspeed car chases, and stalking ever every day it is a direct representation of how much WE, the little people, care.

She’s also quite complex. She likes that she likes having her picture taken but she still wants to be left alone, and doesn’t want to be sidetracked on her quest for Oscar! From my end, I saw that her very underage partying, public feud with poptart Hilary Duff, panty-less friendship with Britney, and the escapades of her crazy family have drawn the press to her…and not her work.

After “Mean Girls,” and subsequent films, LiLo was known at a good actress. Then after bouts of drama and overblown rebellion (with no parents insight), she became this magnet for scandal and drama, things us 9-to-5 clock-punchers gobble up.

As far as the ass-busting goes, Lohan may want to ask Jane Fonda how hard she think she worked on their new film, “Georgia Rule.” It’s been reported that she doesn’t want LiLo at the premiere for their movie after all the on-set kerfuffles (remember during filming, LiLo was late showing up and reported un-prepared, it got so bad the an executive publicly scolded her in an open letter.) Maybe the benevolent Ms. Fonda is helping her in her quest to avoid the press and get that Oscar. FONDA RULE!

An Open Letter To Hollywood...(And Everyone Else)

Dear Hollywood,

I am having a very difficult time processing the recent rash of glitterati-related DUIs. I’m not going to stand on my soapbox and waxing righteously about serious diseases like alcoholism and addiction, because besides of a family history of alcoholism, I have no personal experience (due to that family history, I barely drink and when I do, I’m very careful). I will say, however, that it is the stupidest thing and most preventable of crimes and/or death to drink and then get behind the wheel of a one- ton machine, and in Hollywood supersized four-ton Range Rovers.

I’m not comfortable driving 15 miles two hours and two glasses of water after drinking a happy hour cocktail, so I’m not one to understand getting blitzed and getting behind the wheel. And when you add a couple million dollars, a couple mill in albums sold, it makes absolutely no damn sense for any of the Hollywood crowd to get behind the wheel after a night of celebrity-level partying when you can afford to BUY a cab company, let alone pay the ride. It is easy to make a mistake or lose your head, but a mistake like that can cost your and other people your life.

So while celeb-related DUIs are ever-so trendy right now, next time you find yourself stumbling from a party and ask yourself if you should drive home. And the answer should come from the classy and elegant Whitney Houston, “hell-to-the-naw!”


Wednesday, May 2, 2007

Un-"Lucky" Me...Early Movie Review....

Whenever anyone goes to a movie, it’s a gamble. These days, you’re spending upwards of a sizeable chunk of change to be trapped in a dark theater with strangers and people on a 16-foot screen, trying to keep you in your seat. Sometimes you don’t want to leave, sometimes you don’t want to stay.

I categorize movies based on the trailers: can’t miss in the theater, see it…eventually, and wait for DVD. “Lucky You” starring PEOPLE’S Most Beautiful (aka 'almost everyone in Hollywood list!) Drew Barrymore and Eric Bana was definitely a “wait for DVD.” The trailer made it look like a predictable romantic comedy, and while I love Drew Barrymore, her movie choices are iffy.

I, however, managed to get passes from to a free advanced screening of the movie today. (Note to reader: I LOVE going to the movies…it actually makes me want to write.) Lucky Me, right? Not so much.

I don’t know what the hell that movie was supposed to be. There was no humor, barely any drama, and the only thing the audience could invest in was the amounts of money the players were betting and losing. It read as an extensive Texas Hold ‘Em Tutorial with Professor Robert Duvall.

Barrymore played her usual uber-bubbly, nauseatingly good girl to clash against Bana’s compulsive gambling and near expressionless face. Their supposed relationship was lacking everything: chemistry, flirtation, reason. Their push-pull made no sense, and was buried in the litany of poker terminology, the tedious details, and the unforgiving relationship between Bana’s character and his father, a cold player who left his mother for the game. I spent the entire two hours waiting for something to happen. I was thrilled to see muscle-bound loan sharks coming to kick some lines of pain into Bana’s face. Sadly, the most exciting character in this movie was Chico Banh, the Spanish-speaking Vietnamese gambler.

Lucky You: Not worth the gamble.

(Although I'd rather watch this than pay $125 to watch B-Fed mime her way through eight year old songs for 15 minutes...the drama's not even as great as Heather Mills on "Dancing with the Stars"...will the leg fly off...will the wig fall off, will it stay on? Sadly, it stayed on for all parties involved.)

Friday, April 27, 2007

Last Mishmash- Song in ABC Promos

In case you were wondering who sings the song used in the ABC promos for May Sweeps, I’d like to enlighten you. It is the severely under-celebrated JC Chasez. Not Justin, the other guy. “Something Special” was a track off his first and sadly under-promoted solo debut “Schizophrenic.” The CD is nothing short of a multi-genred genius. He’s a fantastic singer/songwriter and has a voice that’s big, booming, emotive and unforgettable. He’s all those things too!

Check out his old album “Schizophrenic”. I recommend “100 Ways” (if you listen to just one song, LISTEN TO THIS ONE!) “Right Here By Your Side” (my FAVORITE), “Dear Goodbye” (Best Break Up Song Ever), “She Got Me” (Very MJ-ish, but not in a perverted, baby-dangling way), “One Night Stand” (Hilarious!), and “Come To Me” (it’s a techno song about phone sex!).

Also, check out his new singles, “Until Yesterday” and “You Ruined Me” on AOL’s music page.

Everyone Needs a George!

Did it feel like for the first time in months, “Grey’s” was seriously back in its old form last night?

Callie was whining about Izzie! Izzie was eating! And it was metaphorical! Funny things were lodged in a man’s penis! Alex was all…protective and macho. Bailey had a bit of a storyline! George was all stumbly and adorable! McSteamy was sexually harassing everyone! And Mer/Der were annoying the crap out of me! (All Patrick Dempsey does is whisper and contemplate stuff. Seriously. All Mer does is push people away then have sex with them! Usually in reverse order though. “Happily Ever…whatever” is so not good for ratings.)

I was very happy with the episode, and as they build up to Addison’s spinoff, I’m excited that some of the characters will get the heave-ho. Hopefully the writers can find the real “Grey’s” under the clutter of too-many awesome characters. Awesome ratings and I’m sure a ton of a pressure has made this season a bit cluttered and not as tight as the previous two. But “Grey’s” was back! (“I mean it’s not fish in my hoo-hoo, but it’s not easy ride.”)

George/T.R. Knight better not leave the show. I’ve been hearing murmurings that he’s unhappy on the set. Kick off Dr. McHomophobe! Let George stay. Everyone needs their own George to be there no matter what and remind you that “you don’t even have a penis!” because even doctors forget gross anatomy. Lindsay Lohan wouldn’t be so lonely if she had a George (See The Media Mishmash Part Deux below). Hell, neither would I!

The Media Mishmash Part Deux

Lindsay Lohan is a on a quest. No, not to show up to film sets on time or to go a week without denouncing the unholy evil of Hilary Duff, but to spread her eloquent wisdom about all things Hollywood! Everyone stop what you’re doing! Stop studying for finals or applying to grad school or working (or pretending to work, E!) Listen to what she has to say! It could change your life!

Lindsay Lohan, who has been criticized for hitting the clubs after a stint in rehab, says she goes out because she feels isolated.

"Though it's hard in L.A. not to go out, it gets lonely," she tells Nylon magazine. "Being an actress is lonely, and I never want to be alone. I hate sleeping alone."

Lohan, 20, lives in Los Angeles, but she was interviewed in her native New York City, where she says she was staying at the request of her younger brother Michael, 19, and sisters Ali, 13, and Dakota, 10.

And while she defends her social life - "I work hard enough and I know how to take care of myself. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow," she says - she admits: "It's so much harder to stay sober in New York."

Lohan, whose film Georgia Rule opens next month, recently said she "felt safe" during her month-long stint at the Wonderland rehab center in West Hollywood.

At the suggestion of her therapist, she checked the place out and found "a quiet room, all white, with parquet, and it was different!" she told Allure. "I just felt safe. I thought, 'I'm going to stay here tonight.' And I stayed there. For a month. It was great."

Seee! I told you. Wisdom! Acting is lonely and New York makes you want to drink.

I think she’s a talented actress (although I’ll turn in my fan card if she ever tries to sing again, or starts hanging out with The Spears and the who shall not be named again), I just think that her crazy ass parents are more concerned with breaking the law and mooching off their successful children to take care of them. I also think LiLo needs to go to a real high school and learn some real things about the world. I’d love to show her for a small fee. How healthy is it to party a while you’re still technically in rehab? If it’s hard in LA, why don’t you leave? You could move in with Julia Roberts at her ranch in New Mex. You’re both fiery redheads with a streak of badass. She could teach you how to manage badass without the rehab stint!

I guess I couldn’t pretend to understand her life or the loneliness of Hollywood (sarcasm alert!). So listen to the creepily freckled LiLo, y’all!


The Media Mishmash

I apologize to all…five people that ready this blog (Hey, M, B, E, J and Mom) for not updating for two days. I know the world was severely lacking without my crazy, rambling opinions. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of opinions to go around!

The Hoax—Movie Review

I went to see “The Hoax” starring Richard Gere aka the legenday lover of women who angered an entire country with a sloppy dip and a few smooches and Alfred Molina as his brainy sidekick. The movie—about one unremarkable author’s escalating lies to write the “most important book of the 20th century” (the autobiography of Howard Hughes)—is an entertaining hybrid, both lighthearted buddy comedy and a dramatic exploration one man’s desire to be successful, important and powerful. It’s a buddy flick for the babyboomer’s generation that’s lousy with the serious side of infidelity, the common man’s lack of power, and how easy pulling scams were before the internet, but pokes fun at stealing files from The Pentagon. And Stanley Tucci’s in it! He uses the word “BALL FUCK.” It’s awesome.

I’m proud of myself for making it through the first twenty minutes of the movie without hyperventilating, because the protagonist’s first book didn’t sell and a powerful executive killed his second book that was an assured bestseller by his editor. (I’m in the process of writing my book, and have waking nightmares about my book—two years of tireless work—not even being published). Clifford Irving is no spring chicken, and wants something to show for his career. After he’s ousted from his hotel room in the Bahamas by the billionaire/genius/recluse, he spontaneously comes up with a plan a…well, hoax, and pulls the wool over an entire nation’s eyes with anxious Doc Oc backing him up.

The film prods the audience progresses an amusing, unpredictable rabbit hole, and when we emerge Irving believes he’s Howard Hughes, seduced by his character and accomplishments. At some point, you want him to get away with it. He’s fought so hard and crafted beautiful stories by bending the true emotions. At other points, he’s so painfully convincing, you believe he actually is in cahoots with Hughes and has been given the task of taking down a PRESIDENT. Gere is furiously talented and with an awful dye-job and a partial-prosthetic nose, he’s not the suave AIDS activist, but a lackluster Every-Man.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

What happened to MTV?

I’m usually a late bloomer when it comes to most things. It’s true for puberty (I was wearing a t-shirt in sixth grade, people!) and it’s true for all things music. I listened to old Bill Cosby comedy tapes and the radio until my mom bought me a CD player for my seventeenth birthday. I’m not telling you the first CD I bought (*coughsnsynccoughs*)

As soon as I bought the unnamed CD, I was a music freak. Within a week, I was glued to MTV. I would run home after school and watch “TRL.” I loved the other shows like “Making the Video,” “Diary,” and a lot of their other music-based shows. How MTV—Music Television—transitioned from a channel that played a tons of music videos, and had shows about making music and behind the scenes of the ‘biz to a nauseating mishmash of reality shows about spoiled, rich teenagers and crazy guys hitting each other in the junk with bats with virtually NO music content is beyond me. (I flipped to the channel over the weekend and saw a guy flying off his skateboard and landing head first into the concrete. Because THAT’s entertainment, folks!)

According to the article in the L.A. Times, MTV is planning to diverge further away from the music:

In an attempt to reconnect with young audiences that have drifted from the channel recently, MTV will begin to roll out series that showcase the best of the Web, require heavy viewer participation and feature the lives of real teens. While YouTube and MySpace made noise first by trafficking in do-it-yourself media, MTV will now put viewers in the driver's seat by serving teens the entertainment they crave most: the kind they create. Internet pages about themselves. Video shorts they direct. Sliced and diced bits of movies and TV shows, re-cut into something new.

It sounds like it’s going to be a hot, seizure-inducing mess. I don’t know why I’m picturing visual vomit of drunk teenagers pantsing each and poorly filmed parodies of videos of that the channel doesn’t actually air.

It’s funny that with all those high-powered executives with decades of experience can’t realize that by pigeon-holing the entire network to the high school demographic, barely showing music videos and churning out shows with absolutely NO celeb-factor is why people aren’t watching it.

I could fix it! And I come cheap!

Source: "MTV gets a new program",

Monday, April 23, 2007


This is kind of random things I think about while working on spreadsheets at work. It was a very frustrating day, so I decided to let my mind wander, instead of throttling my co-worker.

The casting directors of Disney Channel’s The New Mickey Mouse Club must basking in the glow of their overall awesomeness in castin’ abilities. The show ran roughly from 1989-1995 and boasted the pint-sized talents of Justin Timberlake, JC Chasez, Keri Russell (“Felicity”, “Mission Impossible II”, “The Upside of Anger”), Ryan Gosling (see: Fracture Movie Review Below), Christina Aguilera, and Britney Spears. Here are some little tidbits in case you don’t know who they are:

  • Ryan Gosling was nominated for Best Actor Academy Award for the creepy, but surprisingly sedate, “Half Nelson.”
  • Christina Aguilera has four Grammy awards and one Latin Grammy. She’s been dubbed “The Best Voice of Our Generation.”
  • Justin Timberlake he brought sexy back, has four Grammys of his own, and um…he’s probably one of the best performers of our time.
  • Britney Spears proved that you can sell a crapload of well, crap, with very little discernable talent and education. But I’ll give her props. She’s worked very hard to get where she is.
  • JC Chasez is in my humble opinion one of the most underrated singer/singwriters that I can think of. He’s eccentric, sexual, has an amazing voice, and he’s gorgeous.
  • Keri Russell is a fantastic actress. “Felicity” showed me how beautiful new York is.

I used to watch “MMC” when I was a quiet little girl living in Indiana. I was bored at school, wanting to be an actress, but not knowing how to start or how to even voice such desires at 10 years old. I would run home from school and watch the show, wishing I could be one of those kids. History tells me my life would be all the more awesome if I would have been on the show.

  • I’d be rich: 99% of my problems and/or regrets stem from lack of money. If I had money, I would have gone to a better college, met awesome people, and not been stuck in Bumblefuck, Midwest. Oh, and I could start my awesome shoe collection!
  • I’d be HOT: HAVE YOU SEEN RYAN, CHRISTINA AND KERI AND JUSTIN? SMOKIN’. Christina especially. I love her style. She’s tiny, curvy, my height, but has long legs. *guzzles haterade*
  • I’d be a better writer: experiencing more would ultimately improve my writing. I’d do more crazy stuff and be able to write it as well as I want to!
  • I’d be able to sing: Music was so freakin’ confusing me to as a child, but I love it now and love to be able to sing.
  • I’d be friends with some hot, hot guys: Ryan, JC and Justin…Oh my. I’d make one of them my husband! I’d be Ms. Hot Guy!

Friday, April 20, 2007

"Fracture"--Movie Review

Christina Aguilera’s Back to Basics tour in town tonight, and I’m not going to the show. My friends have turned me into a honest-to-goodness ticketsnob. When I couldn’t pull up anything in the first ten rows, I decided to save my c-note, and spend the evening with the deliciously talented and handsome Ryan Gosling, and the increasingly creepy Sir Anthony Hopkins.

There’s nothing more attractive to me than talented men…and this movie has two of them. Double the fun! I love seeing people in their elements, and Hopkins and Gosling were born to be actors.

“Fracture” is a methodical, beautiful, yet honest legal thriller centered around Ted Crawford, an engineer, tortured by his very brilliance and knowledge that his wife his cheating on him. He kills her. And he then takes a liking to Willie Beachum, a young, arrogant prosecutor one case away from starting a job in corporate litigation that comes with a corner office, a fat paycheck, and a hot blonde boss (There’s a crossroads here: a fancy life, challenging job, and fringe benefits out the wazoo on one side and then there’s a life of a public defender sending people to jail and making no money on the other. TAKE THE PERFECT LIFE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!).

There’s a mystery of course and a twist at the end, but the treat of this movie is the relationship between Crawford and Beachum. It’s a dark, sometimes paternal battle of wits (“Don’t make me come across that table…”) and it’s rooted in all things confusingly masculine.

The movie itself is realistic, but not boring. It is also filmed in such a way where sunlight silks through the shot, catching the actors’ faces in odd angles. It washes Hopkins out and exaggerates the cataract-silver of his eyes. It highlights Gosling’s flawless skin and Leno-esque jaw. "Fracture" is an aesthetically pleasing movie, easy on the eyes without the flash-factor of stylized shots or overly-staged blocking and dialogue.

The one and only downside of this film is that there is this mounting conflict between Crawford and Beachum, but the climax and resolution doesn’t hit as hard as the trailers and even the title makes it seem it would. After seeing the trailer, I expected to see them lobbing grenades at each other in the courtroom, instead they’re tossing nerfballs and water balloons. (The other downside could be that Gosling is never shirtless…WHY? Just WHY?)

“Fracture,” with its deeply portrayed characters and comical dialogue, is more than worth the overprice of admission. Hopkins with his facial ticks and lazy British lilt is both eerie yet fascinating. Gosling is just amazing to watch.


Spear Me: Britney Spears Latest Drama


BRITNEY Spears has no one to blame but herself if she loses custody of her two sons and ruins her career, according to her father, Jamie Spears. In a statement to Page Six yesterday, Jamie sticks up for Britney's manager Larry Rudolph - who was fired by Britney last Friday, as we first reported.

Britney was furious with Rudolph for forcing her into the Promises rehab clinic in February after she went out almost every night for a month, posed for photos in her underwear with New York dancers and shaved her head.

Jamie Spears told us in an e-mail: "When Larry Rudolph talked Britney into going into rehab, he was doing what her mother, father and team of professionals with over 100 years of experience knew needed to be done. She was out of control. Larry was the one chosen by the team to roll up his sleeves and deliver the message, to help save her life.

"The Spears family would like to publicly apologize to Larry for our daughter's statements about him over the past few weeks. Unfortunately, she blames him and her family for where she is at today with her kids and career. Larry has always been there for Britney. For this, we will forever be grateful to him."

Britney told us via her rep, "I am praying for my father. We have never had a good relationship. It's sad that all the men that have been in my life do not know how to accept a real woman's love. I am concentrating on my work and my life right now."

A pal of Britney said the pop tart "had no drugs in her system when she was admitted to Promises - they [tested her] and there was nothing. She was embarrassed she had to go in there when she knew she was suffering from postpartum depression, not a drug or alcohol problem."

As for the bizarre head-shaving incident, the pal continued, "Britney's aunt had just died of cancer. She was feeling very guilty because she hadn't been there with her, she was overwhelmingly depressed and she shaved her head in solidarity."

A friend of Rudolph, who's hired high-powered p.r. man Allan Mayer, said, "Britney obviously has a lot of issues . . . Larry's trying to lay low and letting her act out, but . . . he doesn't want to see her wind up like Anna Nicole Smith. He won't get into a public fight with her - yet. This is about saving her from herself." Mayer had no comment.

Britney freakin’ Spears. When I was 16, she was the coolest thing in the world. I was young, barely into music and didn’t know girls my age could sing and dance and get record deals all on their very own. By the time I was 17, she had nothing on Christina Aguilera and never would. At 19, she broke Justin Timberlake’s heart and began to lose her damn mind. Finally, at 25, the woman just needs Jesus.

I’m not one of those evil critics that want to pounce on and broadcast every mistake a celebrity makes, especially the paparazzi-magnet that is B-Fed, but the things she does are things most of us learned were yucky at the age of five: never go barefoot in gas station bathrooms; never let boys see up your skirt; never share underwear with goo-goo dancers. Spears’ life is more entertaining than her poor attempts at singing ever could be. It has all the elements of a soap opera; there’s heartbreak, affairs, public puking and nudity, bad hygiene, head shaving and Vegas marriage and a driving with a baby on her lap! The writers of “Passions” need to hire her STAT!

America seemed to watch, captivated, as she went to rehab, then left, then went to another one and left, and then was forced to go back. I grew up in the *vomits* Age of Britney and sometimes it feels like she’s the badgirl in your graduating class that dated your crush and didn’t go to college. You want to see how bad she’ll end up, because you’re wired to follow the rules and she thrived on breaking them.

Daddy Spears has highlighted some very troubling issues: 1) Her manager was chosen to push her into rehab. Not her mother, father, siblings or friends. Her MANAGER. (Mama Spears and Mama Lohan need to start a support group! They teach each other the art of mooching off of their kids!) 2) She’s pissed off that she was made to go to rehab when she didn’t think she needed to go, and wants to concentrate on her work….um, what about the babies? Remember them? You ran to PEOPLE magazine every other month to tell them you were soooooooooooo happy when you first had them? 3) YOU CAN’T HANDLE A REAL WOMAN’S LOVE, Y’ALL!

She needs to be sent back to rehab for that comment alone.

Ultimately, Britney’s got issues and she seems HAPPY with her issues and that is scary and not at all funny. Love her or hate her, no one wants her to end up like Anna Nicole Smith.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Hi, My Name Is...Not Slim Shady.

*opens closet door; turns on light*

I was so excited to start this blog that I never took the time to introduce myself.

I’m K. Not the dude from “Men in Black,” but just K for now. I’d like to pretend I’m all exclusive and mysterious, because I assure you the mystery is more exciting than the answer. I promise. I, K, have wanted to start this blog for a long time and thought I’d take a minute to make a proper introduction. I’m an opinionated, stubborn female and I don’t really like it when people disagree with me. (I mean, really, I don’t…try it and see what happens.)

K could stand for kontradiction, because I’m a walking contradiction. I love pop culture, and I even have a shiny journalism degree of my very own currently collecting dust in my bedroom to prove it, but I sometimes hate the industry. I think I’m the only journalist that wants to crawl under the covers when tragedies like the Virginia Tech Massacre happen. My heart aches for everyone involved, but shoving cameras in people’s faces and asking them how they feel after witnessing a massacre seems exploitive and invasive to me. Consequently, my restless, hyper ass has been relegated to a *gulp* 9-to-5 job where I’m chained to a cubicle eight hours a day building at 3,000-cell spreadsheets. (Excuse me, I just vomited in my mouth.) I’m currently working on the Great American Chick Lit Novel, but until that sells and makes me a fat fortune, I’m Queen Excel.

I hate Britney Spears, yet I’m fascinated by the media hurricane she stirs up. There might be a few Britney-related rants, so I’m warning y’all now!

I hate Paris Hilton, and unless she goes to jail, this is the one and only mention of her in my domain, my closet.

To make a long list short, I’m not big on any celebrity that’s famous for being rich or because they have famous parents and/or no discernable talent.

I pretty much gobble up everything related to pop culture. I always have. And now, it is my savior during the workday.

So that’s me! More dish coming soon! Weee!

**turns off light*

Friday, April 13, 2007

Freedom of Speech Rocks: The Downfall of Don Imus

Over the past week, the media has been falling all over itself to cover the melee stemming from Don Imus’ deplorable comments on his radio show. It was a much-needed break from the beyond-the-grave soap opera of Anna Nicole Smith. I, being trapped in a drab cubicle at a job that I loathe, followed it, stealthily scrolling through articles detailing the media blitzkrieg.

Three little words launched a national debate about hip-hop culture’s treatment of women, the history of the word “nappy,” and begged the question: What happened to free speech?

I stewed angrily. I was LIVID. In my 25 years as both a woman and a minority, I have been called a nigger, a slave (in front of my class of all white students in the fifth grade), an Oreo (black in the outside; white on the inside) to name a few. I know how it feels to seeth and boil and hate that history has mounted against you to create this entire canon of bigotry. It is the ultimate in double standards that one doesn’t exist for whites. I cannot, however, ever imagine how they handled that national kick in the gut after placing second in the nation in collegiate basketball. This is mortification on a global scale. And I applaud them for handling it like strong, intelligent women, even though they are teenagers.

I will be honest to say that before this debacle, I have never heard of Imus, probably because I'm not white or 112, I don't fall into his target audience. Plus I all but stopped listening to radio with the advent of the iPod and when it sold its soul to the caterwauling of Britney Spears.

After he was fired by both MSNBC and CBS, I have come to two conclusions: Imus was a scapegoat and freedom of speech is very much alive and kickin’.

I don’t to wax racist about the rantings of Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and even Isaiah Washington, because we all know hatred, outrage, yada, yada, yada. Imus is the first person to be in the position to punish. I boycotted Gibson’s “Apocalypto” (even though I probably wouldn’t have seen it in the theater). I boycotted “Seinfeld” (even though I didn’t watch it in the first place) and loved the nickname “KuKluxKramer.” I did watch “Grey’s” (BEST. SHOW. EVER. SERIOUSLY!) but I swear I glared at Dr. Burke every time and pretended not to listen to him. But Imus had a job. He was a repeat offender, and Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson and company were angry that this kept happening with no consequences. I’m not going to pretend that money wasn’t a factor in his firing. Once Procter and Gamble pulled its ads, it was inevitable. In the end, I’m glad he was fired.

There are a lot of people shrugging and scoffing, “what’s the big deal?” There are a lot of people jumping up and down and pointing fingers hollering, “rappers say it all the time!” And then there are people on their soapboxes, pointing wildly to the First Amendment. Freedom of speech is a wonderful thing. I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t believe that we have the right to say anything. I am not going to say that someone can’t be a racist. Hate all you want. But the First Amendment doesn’t protect what happens after you say whatever you want to say. There are always consequences. Words like “nappy” and “nigger” are triggers. Just typing it caused a flare of pain in my gut and my heart. Imus said what he said using his freedom, and the people responded using that same freedom. More people wanted him gone, punished than didn’t—democracy at its finest.

There is also a huge difference in broadcasting your bigotry to friends and broadcasting it to the nation on airwaves that belong to a corporation.

I’m not worried about Imus. He’ll either retire or go to rehab…it fixes everything! I do wish, however, that people will stop talking about this incident, and congratulate the Scarlet Knights on their accomplishments and their courage under the scrutiny of a nation.