As Seen On TV

Happy New Year!

The holidays have their good points: half-priced cashmere at Bloomingdales, no-explanation-necessary baked goods, and the freedom to wear Uggs without (as much) judgement. This joyous time of year also brings with it plenty of vacation time from the office, and while I'm unspeakably grateful for the extra hours of sleep and mindless channel surfing, the time off has afforded some frightening discoveries. Because so many of my free minutes are spent slowly creating a me-shaped indentation on the left side of the couch, my daily intake of TV commercials has risen far beyond a safe level.

One of several disturbing trends I've noticed, now that I start my day with Regis and Kelly and end it somewhere between reruns of The Hills and Top Chef marathons, is the inordinate amount of weight-loss ads. This is obviously nothing new, considering some of my earliest memories involve watching my mother correctly position her shoulder pads while Slim Fast promos play incessantly in the background. But today's diet gimmicks aren't all fun and jazzersize. Take, for instance, Alli, or as like to call it, Self-Degradation in a Bottle. The ads' positive vibes and soft-lit color palette almost make you think you're watching a Scientology promo, but alas, Tom "Crazy Eyes" Cruise is nowhere to be found. Instead, a group of dignified, seemingly reliable individuals reveal that the solution to yo-yo dieting has arrived, at long last! But word on the street, and a quick trip to myalli.com reveal all is not well behind the promising, pastel world on the TV screen. The miracle to Alli-aided weight loss is that the pills prevent fat absorption, and if you insist on having that cheeseburger, you can expect what the website matter-of-factly refers to as "treatment effects." In a nutshell, you can expect these "treatment effects" to debunk any romantic notions you have of wearing a size 2. It's hard to maintain any glamorous fantasies of a svelte shape when Alli has just sent you running to the bathroom as punishment for your gluttony. But, hey - what's a little self-respect compared to a smaller butt?

It's not all diet pills and gastrointestinal issues on the airwaves. No, penile enlargement is an important issue too. I used to think these commercials were solely reserved for late-night basic cable, but I've caught a few mid-day as well. My all-time favorites feature the uber-creepy "Bob," who gives the impression that Enzyte's "natural male enhancement" tablets turn users into perma-smiling Bell's Palsy sufferers. I wondered why Bob had only sporadically been appearing during commercial breaks through the years, and good old Google informed me that Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals, the company behind Bob's enhanced masculinity, was indicted on charges of conspiracy, money laundering, and mail, wire and bank fraud in 2006! Not only was Steven Warshak, the company's president sentenced to 25 years in prison, but his own mother was sentenced to 2!! Of course, these little tidbits of trivia don't mean much because you can still sometimes spot Bob's unsettling smile during your favorite shows, and the Enzyte website is still up and open for business. Just goes to show you, a little hard time (pun TOTALLY intended) can't get in the way of a ceaselessly advertised herbal erectile supplement.

Okay, the last variety of bizarre commercials I have the energy to comment on are the useless household product ads. I've always been an infomercial enthusiast, and have spent years coveting a plethora of Ronco inventions (I'll never get that Food Dehydrator...), but a new breed of random domestic crap seems to invading my regularly scheduled programming. Maybe it's because our attention spans are collectively getting shorter (it took me about two weeks to finish this post...), but it appears the hour-long infomercials of yore have been replaced by highly repetitive, excessively loud, minute-long ads for insanely pointless stuff. Take for example, Snuggie. This is the brand of crazy I'd normally find in a Harriet Carter "Distinctive Gifts" catalogue, but the Snuggie commercial aired smack dab in the middle of my innocent MTV viewing this morning. The website says it all: Snuggie is "the blanket...WITH SLEEVES!" (the ellipses and capitalization were mine, added solely for dramatic effect). I'm not gonna lie, as someone who suffers from perpetual low body temperature, the idea makes (some) sense. But one look at the commercial was enough to turn me off from the sleeved blanket, which unintentionally makes every wearer resemble a Roman Catholic monk. Somehow those geniuses at the Snuggie factory knew all my favorite activities (reading, knitting, drinking tea, using the remote control...) because they feature all these pastimes occurring within the confines of their snugly product. But I won't be fooled! There's no way I'm paying $19.95 (+ $7.95 shipping and handling) only to feel like more of a loser while I partake in the aforementioned Grandma hobbies. But then again, it does come with a complimentary book light...

The Sanctity of Speidi

So I began this post yesterday as a diatribe on the female cast members of the CW's 90210, and their distractingly protruding clavicles, but I couldn't even get through it. Don't take that to mean I won't return to the subject in a subsequent rant. But I simply didn't have the energy last night to count and chronicle the multitude of visible ribs on display when Naomi and Annie spontaneously switched shirts (which makes me question whether it was 90210 I was watching or a soft-core Cinemax feature).

To be slightly more timely, I'll instead focus my energy on America's favorite "newlyweds," Spencer and Heidi. A short history lesson for those less emotionally invested in lowbrow entertainment: Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montague (who, in this document, will henceforth be referred to by their proper name of "Speidi") is the couple everyone loves to hate on the show everyone hates to love, The Hills. While the reality element of this reality series is at best questionable (at worst, nonexistent), it's essentially crack to MTV addicts worldwide, and exhibits many of the same addictive properties as nicotine, methamphetamine, heroin, ketamine, and household inhalants. The details of their onscreen drama and offscreen fame-whoring aren't really important, but it's good to keep in mind that this is a pair so universally loathed and ridiculed, nations could cease fire and unite over their collective Speidi revulsion.

This Monday's episode found the nauseating duo in Mexico for no reason other than the producers handing them plane tickets charged to MTV's corporate account. Once cozy and settled on the beach, Speidi proceeded to...get plastered. Or at least they got TV-plastered, which entailed pounding shot after shot after shot of Patron, rattling off basic Spanish phrases in various, indeterminate accents, and repeatedly enacting the drunken Caucasian dance move of eyes closed, hands waving, swaying side to side. In any case, the seemingly sloshed twosome decided it would be a genius idea to go get hitched. Granted, this was made-for-TV hitched, which meant a ceremony with no legal implications, south of the border, or otherwise.

Here's the kicker (and I won't mention how upset it makes me that Perez Hilton was the one to point it out to me: http://perezhilton.com/2008-12-17-heidi-and-spencer-still-fake-no-surprise-there). Remember that little ol' proposition we Californians voted on back in November? Prop 8? The one that completely redefined the state constitution and eliminated the right of same-sex couples to marry? The one that many argued somehow protected the "sanctity" of marriage, even though the sanctity of marriage seemed to be doing just fine under the original constitution, and no heterosexuals to date were ever harmed by the legal union of two homosexuals? The one that passed with an alarming number of votes, and wiped out an entire chunk of the population's basic human right to marry? Yeah, that one? Well, in light of the Speidi nuptials, I'd like to just thank all inebriated idiots from The Hills and beyond for reminding us how sacred and holy marriage truly is. While two loving, committed individuals of the same sex cannot be allowed to enter into such a time-honored tradition, two drunken idiots on vacation should absolutely be encouraged to take full advantage of their hetero privileges. Thanks, Speidi, for really driving the point home. May you go on to reproduce your stellar genes and raise your brood in the conventional, all-American, (HETERO!) institution of married bliss.

If only I had that bottle of Patron nearby.

Post-Modern Sleaze

Get ready for the most mind-blowing, psychedelic, philosophical exploration you've experienced since that undergrad Theory class you scored a D+ in (or your most recent acid trip, whichever more authentically applies to your situation). I'm about to get all postmodern on you (I'm sure that's totally not the correct Lit term - damn those Theory classes!) and blog about...a blog. Not just any blog, mind you. If you're as unhealthily engrossed in pop culture like I am, then it's THE blog. The one, the only...PerezHilton.com.



A little background for those of you who choose not to obsess over celebrities, in favor of enjoying full, productive lives based in reality (losers): Born Mario Armando Lavandeira, Jr., Perez Hilton is the ultimate authority on Hollywood trash talk, and makes sure everyone knows it by constantly referring to himself as either the Gossip Gangstar (obnoxious misspelling presumably intentional) or The Queen of All Media (or just simply in the third person, which is really equally as irritating). In addition to continually reporting the most salacious celeb scandals and doodling cartoonish bodily fluids and cocaine over the Botoxed faces of Hollywood's elite, Perez has also found time in his busy schedule to befriend some of the mythical creatures of La La Land. It's no accident the blogger opted for a pseudonym soaked in connotations of fame, money, and glamour (not to mention homemade pornography, imprisonment, mild to moderate intellectual impairment, probable Herpes infection...). Perez and Paris H. are like totally BFF, which is why the painfully vapid heiress hardly ever gets the brutal blog treatment other stars get.

But I digress...I could list a million reasons to bite the hand that feeds me my daily dose of gratuitous and inappropriately intimate details of celebrity's lives. But before my attention is diverted by a shiny object or the True Life marathon I've managed to mute, I'll get to Mr. Hilton's most grievous offense. Let's take a trip down memory lane and reminisce over some of Perezzer's (grating self-designated nickname number three) recent observations:

11/6/08: Skinny Yet Fat [Referencing Kate Moss]
"It's one thing to be overweight, and have some cellulite or stretch marks. But when you're skinny and you have fat on you, it doesn't make sense."
http://perezhilton.com/2008-11-06-skinny-yet-fat

11/3/08: How Do We Say This Delicately? [Referencing Misha Barton]
"This might seem a little mean, but….Shouldn't Mush Mush try and find a pair of jeans that fit??? A size or two larger would do wonders for her plumper shape.Maybe some fabric with a little stretch!"
http://perezhilton.com/2008-11-03-how-do-we-say-this-delicately-103


Don't worry, children under the age of three aren't exempt from the Perez treatment:

10/2/08: How Do We Say This Delicately?
"Uhmmmm….Looking fugly not so perfect, robot, super cute! Suri Cruise went out for a walk in the NYC with her handlers, mom Katie and dad Tom on Thursday. We can't put our finger on it, but she wasn't her usual adorable self. What do y'all think?"
http://perezhilton.com/2008-10-02-how-do-we-say-this-delicately-91

Oh, and you don't have to have two X chromosomes either:

12/11/08: He Used to Be Hot
"On Wednesday, Aussie actor Russell Crowe was spotted taking a break from working out by grabbing some grub at fames California hamburger joint In-N-Out, in Los Angeles. Kiss those calories you worked off bye bye!" http://perezhilton.com/2008-12-11-he-used-to-be-hot


Unlike other Perez haters, I won't even bring up the fact that the Gossip Gangstar (cringe) could use a good dose of airbrushing himself. But even if the blogger were a Jon Hamm/James Franco/Ryan Reynolds-hybrid, he'd still be a jackass. Clearly, I'm as hungry for celebrity dirt as the next media fiend, but in what universe is it okay to analyze, dissect, and belittle a person (famous or not) on the basis of their looks? And it's not that I've suddenly become an anti-gossip Pollyanna. It's just that I would rather pass judgement on the above celebrities because of each one's vast array of character defects (I'm looking at YOU, Suri Cruise...just kidding), not the size of their thighs. Sure, it's fun to see the occasional photo of a normally Photoshopped-to-death celebrity sans makeup, but is it really compelling to write post after post attacking Tara Reid for her botched plastic surgery when she has so many more interesting personality shortcomings to examine?

My good friend, Erin, has successfully quit a years-long Perez habit by simply going cold-turkey. She gets her gossip fix from other, funnier, less psychologically damaging websites, and doesn't miss the catty Queen of all Media at all. Erin, I salute you. But unless A&E stages an Intervention in my living room, my chances of successfully abstaining from Perez are slim to none. Call it a pathetic addiction...I prefer to think of it as thorough research for postmodern blogging.

The Big O

Ladies and gentlemen, behold: The Mighty O herself, Oprah Winfrey! Yes, THE Oprah - pioneering journalist, barrier breaker, stereotype shatterer! The benevolent legend who brought the world The Angel Network, Oprah's Book Club, a South African Leadership Academy, and Dr. Phil (okay, even legends slip up every now and then). Oprah! SHE of persevering determination, nurturing strength, and entrepreneurial savvy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, such a living icon exists in our modern world, and that earthly angel is none other than Ms. O.

So explain to me, will you, why, while innocently checking the headlines this morning, I was assaulted by Winfrey's name in the following contexts: "Oprah Packs On the Pounds...And the Guilt" (E! Online), "Oprah Winfrey Says She Weighs 200 Pounds" (The Associated Press), "Oprah's Battle of the Bulge" (Knoxville News Sentinel, TN), "Oprah Winfrey 'Embarrassed' to Weigh 200 Pounds" (Seattle Post Intelligencer), "Oprah Essay on 'Dissapointing' Weight Gain to Appear in O Magazine" (ABC News). Oh no wait, one more: "Oprah Calls Herself 'A Fat Cow'" (KOLD-TV, AZ). No, hold on, this one's pretty good too: "How Tall is Oprah? And Why Oprah Weighing 200 Pounds Matters" (Associated Content, CO).

So we're serious then? Really? This is headline news now? This is the same woman that Time Magazine has repeatedly honored as one of the 100 Most Influential People in the World? The same industrious businesswoman listed as the only black billionaire on the Forbes list? The same humanitarian who's donated millions of dollars and hours of airtime to aiding impoverished people throughout the world? Yeah, that's her. But let's be honest - what good is an endless list of unprecedented accomplishments when you can't fit into sample sizes? Clearly, our society knows how to uphold strong morals and reward hard work and fortitude - ugh, unless you can't rock skinny jeans and a strappy tank - then, yuck!

An avid fan, supporter, and defender of Lady O, it pains me to pin a good chunk (stop it, that wasn't a pun) of the blame on her. What the hell is this awesomely powerful woman doing, publicly berating herself for gaining weight?! I've worked in and obsessed over magazines long enough to understand what sells (weight, sex, drugs, weight, death, weight, and The Jonas Brothers), but parading her present self next to a slimmer, trimmer 2005 version of her body on the January cover of O, with the sickeningly blunt headling, "How Did I Let This Happen Again?" is insulting. Not just to herself, but to any man, woman, or child who's ever been the least bit inspired by her. How are any of the billions (maybe trillions? What's the world's population again?) of Oprah devotees supposed to take pride in their idol, or themselves, when this insanely successful mogul unabashedly proclaims, that standing next to fellow superstars, Tina Turner and Cher, "I felt like a fat cow. I wanted to disappear." Oh, fantastic. The next time I get promoted, sell a story, or receive any inkling of praise, I'll be sure to follow in my role model's footsteps and immediately seek out the first Lulu Lemon-clad, carb-denouncing waif to make me feel bad about myself. Sounds like a plan!


And trust me, I'm not one to ring the sexism alarm when this sort of media scrutiny goes down, but I'm at least going to raise the chauvinistic terror threat to a level orange. Not to unnecessarily bring up that Dr. Phil guy again, but do you really think his expanding waist line would ever make international news? I mean, the fact that he's technically not even a DOCTOR doesn't seem to concern anyone (he has a PhD in Psychology, but given a few more years and a couple of hefty government loans to expand my undergrad degree, I could have that too). Why is it perfectly acceptable to reduce one of the media's most compelling female revolutionaries to her BMI while Mr. Pseudo-Doctor is continuously lauded for his convoluted Texan idioms?

Of course, none of this is news, but it was all aggravating enough for me to turn off this week's re-run of 90210 (another stunning example of female empowerment and healthy body image...) to rant about it. And so as to protect myself from the wrath of the omnipotent Mighty O, I retract any and all disparaging remarks made about Ms. Winfrey, Harpo Productions, O Magazine, and/or Gayle King. All slanderous comments regarding Dr. Phil shall remain intact.