SF Girl Lives Hollywood Dream, Doesn't Vomit

Once upon a time, there was a little girl from San Francisco. This little girl was what some called "persistent," others deemed "relentless," and still others considered "ruthlessly pushy to the point of mind-blowing exasperation." Utilizing all her magical powers of persuasion and highly irritating, recurrent, "Hi! Just checking in again..." emails, this little girl got just what she wanted. A trip to the 2009 MTV Movie Awards!

Yes, ladies and gentleman, after a month of agonizing uncertainty, incessant communication efforts, and the onset of several probable ulcers, I received my press credentials to the big show. Here's the play-by-play for all those fascinated by my endeavor into the world of popcorn statues, spray tans, and ridiculously good-looking British vampires:

Saturday, 5/30

2:00 PM - It's the day before the big show, and I've managed to not yet vomit. My parents insist on giving me a ride to SFO, which I gratefully accept, even though I object that I'm a strong, capable, adult woman (meanwhile, my mommy holds my hand the entire 30 minute trip). My aunt and uncle, visiting from New York, join us for the ride, and remind me that stars are just people. Really, really beautiful, rich, powerful, lucky people who are better than you and me. Okay, that last part I filled in myself. 3:30 PM - I board my luxurious Virgin America flight and proceed to spend the next hour watching back-to-back Disney shows starring the network's most popular tweens. First up is Sonny With a Chance, which I've never heard of, but it stars the adorably precocious Demi Lovato. Next, I finally catch an episode of Wizards of Waverly Place featuring the world's cutest kewpie doll, Selena Gomez. No wonder Taylor Lautner hit that. Lastly, Miley Cyrus effed it all up with an episode of Hannah Montana. Still wildly entertaining, but leaves me with a dirty feeling. In any case, I spend an entire 60 minutes thinking of nothing but the wonderful world of Disney, and manage to de-stress from Sunday's looming chaos. Until landing at LAX.

5:30 PM - Waiting for Melissa to pick me up, I stop into Starbucks with the full intention of shelling out cash for this week's Life & Style featuring my beloved vampire, Robert Pattinson. The dilemma however, lay in the fact that his cover story was a fabricated load of ridiculousness that paid homage to the famewhore blonde who sold her pictures with him from the Cannes Film Festival. (Only crazy fans know this stuff, don't feel bad if you're having trouble keeping up). Just as I was debating the moral implications of financially supporting the very publication that was destroying R. Patz's soul, there it was! Some kind fellow Starbucks patron (or complete idiot) had left the very magazine in question next to the napkins and straws! Ethical crisis averted!

7:30 PM - Melissa is off to watch Dane Cook at the Staples Center, and I'm left to panic solo. I successfully find Long's Drugs (okay, lie. My iPhone helped me navigate the 1.5 blocks that I feared were too geographically complex for my impaired sense of direction), and then locate a Rubio's Mexican Grill. I sheepishly place my ridiculously convoluted, unlisted order ("Is there any way you can add chicken to this veggie burrito, but make the tortilla whole wheat, take off the cheese, beans, rice, sour cream, and add a side of guacamole?") and am pleased to find that LA residents don't even bat an eyelash at eccentric food orders. Reason #4,251 I like this place.

9:00 PM - I spend the rest of the night breathing deeply, painting my nails, watching Drive Me Crazy, and researching tomorrow's nominees and presenters. I list about 2 questions for each person, just in case. And 12 for Rob. Just in case.

Sunday, 5/31

8:00 AM - I awake after a not-as-restless-as-expected night of Movie Awards dreams. Most of my unconscious visions include hard-hitting interview questions and pleasantly sweet celebrities. The valerian root I downed the night before really must have soothed me.

9:30 AM - I walk in my pajamas to Alberton's and buy a ridiculous amount of provisions in anticipation of a nonstop day. I'm still finding Cliff Bars tucked away in my luggage.

11:00 AM - I have 90 minutes to go from pajama-clad, glasses-sporting SF homebody to an LA glamazon draped in Michael Kors and armed with super savvy journalistic queries. Or, you know, a chick who looks like she can at least apply eyeliner. I wind up somewhere in the middle.

12:30 PM - We have to hit the road, but my hands are shaking so bad, I insist on downing one shot of vodka. Ever calm and patient, Melissa offers up her Absolut Peach. Instantly more composed, I grab my bag, and we're on our way. I only have to turn around once to retrieve a forgotten item (Ray Bans).

1:15 PM - We arrive at Universal Studios, and the scene could not be more surreal. Forget the fact that lil' ol' me is attending the awards show of my dreams, but I now have to deal with parking in the Jurassic Park lot, and facing life-size cardboard cut-outs of cartoon icons. That was just one shot of vodka, right?

1:45 PM - After checking in at the press table, we're escorted to the amphitheater and herded down the red carpet. THE red carpet. The one and only red carpet I've ever seen in my life. It's illuminated by blinding lights, lined with TV cameras, and littered with random MTV personalities that look remarkably life-like in person. Jessi and Dan from The Hills After Show?! I know you guys!

2:15 PM - We're instructed kindly but firmly to NOT MOVE from the Gibson Amphitheater lobby where all press is segregated into sections, according to their importance. We're dead last. I eye the locked-up liquor storage next to the concession stand. I instead opt for a Cliff Mojo Bar. Not the same effect, but the last nutrition I'll get for 6 or so hours.

3:15 PM - Christian Siriano (Project Runway season 4 winner) is the only celebrity I've seen thus far and I'm getting antsy. America's Next Top Model, cycle 7 winner, Caridee, enters the press area. Melissa is not impressed. Ben Lyons from E! joins the crowd. Melissa is super impressed.

3:30 PM - Finally, we're escorted out to the red carpet. To be fair, we're not dead-dead last. We're only circa-dead last. We're between About.com and Twilighters.org. I wish I were kidding. About 28 people trail us, and about 2,700 precede us. It could've been worse?

3:45 PM - A publicist approaches! He eyes my credential and informs me that I can have the opportunity to interview Kenny Ortega. Er...maybe my research wasn't extensive enough? He tells me Mr. Ortega directed High School Musical (1, 2, AND 3) and will direct Chase Crawford in the remake of Footloose. This man has touched Chase AND Zac "Zaquisha" Efron"? Sign me up!

4:00 PM - Justin Bobby from The Hills lingers near our end of the press line and proceeds to creep me out. Melissa attempts to take a picture of my horrified expression in the foreground and J.B.'s scruffy face behind me, but the photo doesn't turn out as planned: "Michelle, don't EVER make that face again. My god, I'm deleting this right now, seriously."

4:15 PM - In an effort to condense this post, I'll just say that the next hour and a half is spent gawking at stars and growing slowly accustomed to the complete absurdity of the situation. Despite the pre-show jitters, my hands stay relatively steady, and not once do I feel a panic attack threaten to incapacitate me. Whether this is comforting or infuriating, celebrities look exactly like you expect them to. Paris is skinny and a hazy shade of orange-bronze. Will Ferrell sort of looks like he'd eat a Subway sandwich and play basketball with my dad. Mario Lopez could save a burning village with the sheer power of his dimples. Nothing you wouldn't anticipate by flipping through an US Weekly once or twice (or 8,000 times if you're me). If you have any interest in seeing who actually stopped to chat, check out the interviews at 7x7.com: http://www.7x7.com/blogs/clamour/hitting-mtv-movie-awards-red-carpet I somehow managed to talk to Ashley Greene and Kellan Lutz from Twilight (Alice and Emmett Cullen), which may not mean much to the average adult, but because I have a 12-year-old teenybopper trapped inside my soul, it was pretty exciting.





5:45 PM - Just as the red carpet is closing, Taylor Lautner (a.k.a. Jacob from Twilight, a.k.a. the only 17-year-old on the planet I feel okay ogling because he's totally asking for it) saunters by. Right behind him is Bella Swan herself, Ms. Kristen Stewart, in all her angsty, twitchy glory. K.Stew speeds by us in a blur of pale skin and scrawny limbs, but all I can focus on is the gaping hole behind her. WHERE IS HE??? R. Patz is set to present the New Moon trailer with Kristen and Taylor, yet his amazingly wonderful, awkward presence is conspicuously absent from the carpet. Hope of a marriage proposal is dwindling, but not dead.



6:00 PM - The carpet closes and the big show starts inside. I bid adieu to Melissa, and apologize profusely again for only scoring one ticket. No worries: 15 minutes later, she texts me to say she's successfully made it into the show. Of course. Why did I ever doubt her? I stumble in the dark for my seat in section 15, row G. It turns out to be not ideal (in R. Patz's lap), but not terrible. I'm in the second section from the stage, and my seat is next to ANTM winner, Caridee. I introduce myself and she asks for my card to give to her publicist. Nice.

6:15 PM - The show is underway, and Andy Samberg is my hero. The first commercial break starts, and I fidget in my seat, text my sister, adjust my dress, and finally, look up just in time to see Robert Pattinson strutting the walkway in front of my section, performing his trademark hand-through-hair maneuver. Would it be too dramatic to say that time stands still? Well screw you, it's my blog. Time stands still! He walks to his seat, in the section directly in front of mine, and disappears into the mass of A-listers. My jaw remains on the floor until the next commercial break (the picture is not mine, unfortunately).

7:00 PM - The rest of the show goes smoothly, including the obviously rehearsed Eminem/Bruno stunt that everyone is up in arms about for days. Audrina walks by, and ignores an "Audrina, I love your dress!" holler from someone in my row. Paris and her upstanding boyfriend (you know, that douchebag from The Hills), Doug Reinhardt, walk by. She skips in her high heels and makes O-face at no one in particular. Kristen Stewart drops her popcorn statue onstage and then has to wait in front of my section to be seated while Kings of Leon perform. She makes standing look like a horrendously nervewracking experience. R. Patz gets up and changes seats according to which award he's about to win. You mean this show is staged?!

8:00 PM - The show wraps up and I meet Melissa in front of the bathroom. After chatting up Chet from the Real World: Brooklyn (he immediately falls in love with my crafty friend, and I swear I foresee him renouncing Mormonism), Melissa quickly scores after-party tickets from a kindly gentleman. We immediately descend on the open bar and quickly move on to the decadent buffet ($90 macaroni and cheese, made with truffle oil? Yeah, seriously). I nervously chew on popcorn and down my drink, scanning the crowd for any signs of hot vampires.


9:30 PM - We find some friends and they inform me that the real celebs won't be attending. My heart breaks, but I don't give up hope. However, when Justin Bobby is still the biggest celebrity I've seen at 10 PM, I then give up hope. My toes no longer bend, thanks to 9 hours in heels.

10:30 PM - Melissa and I drive to the Roosevelt Hotel, where there is supposedly another after-party and a promise of movie-star make-outs (see how I've downgraded my dreams from marriage to one-time fling? It's best to be realistic in these situations). After 20 minutes in the warm car, and no call-backs from our party friends, we decide to head back to Santa Monica and call it a day/night. By 11:30 PM, I collapse into a ball of wounded toes, schoolgirl glee, and second-hand star fumes.

And that, my friends, is the story. Next time, expect less nerves, more scandal.

I Am Woman...

Can I just say what a promising, inspirational time it is to be a woman! Gone are the days of oppressive societal roles, cultural expectations, and crude critiques based solely on physical appearance and compliance with damaging constructions of feminine norms! No longer do women exist only to be perceived as objects to be gazed upon, stifled, and forced into rigid, unfulfilling molds! Oh no, wait a minute. That totally still happens.

I've avoided doing a "screw you, Media, for prioritizing the size of a woman's jeans over her accomplishments" post because, well, it's been done. To death. What hasn't been said about our society's gross fascination with thinness, hotness, youth, and femininity? But recent twitterings in the blog world have forced me to break my own ban and vent some much-pent-up frustrations about the way our little world works.

Exhibit A: Michelle Obama. Harvard Law graduate? Check. Pioneering community service program advocate? Check. Fearless defender of policies supporting families? Check. America's first ever African American First Lady? Check. But really, let's get down to what's important: her body and clothes!


Almost everything I've read about Michelle in the days following Barack's inauguration have focused primarily on her wardrobe and her biceps. Both, in my opinion, are stellar, but are we serious? I understand the long-standing tradition of First Ladies serving as fashion plates, a la Jackie O., but this is beyond ridiculous. The LA Times website asserts, "Some found Michelle Obama's dress breathtaking and sexy. Others said it looked like a chenille bedspread or like it was made of toilet paper." Breaking news, indeed.

But it goes so far beyond the typical "Hot or Not" shallowness we're all used to. Not only is it appropriate for the public to exclusively judge her based on appearance, but it's also perfectly okay to find fault with all possible facets of it. The Black Artists Association is attacking Michelle because she chose inauguration looks by Cuban and Taiwanese designers, but not an African American one. The nerve! Not only did her outfit strike some as a toilet paper art project, but it didn't equally represent every race, nation, and culture on God's green earth! What kind of First Lady are we dealing with here? Then of course there was the uproar that followed when the alleged toilet paper gown's designer, Jason Wu, revealed he'll be doing "a significant fur collection." Aha! Guilty animal murder by association! So now the media has reduced our Harvard Law whiz kid/community leader/family activist to a mink-killing, racist, toilet paper wearer. Awesome.

And don't get me started on the buzz surrounding her exposed and impressively toned arms.



Oh, but it gets better. I haven't even scratched the surface of how high a value our society places on the female sex. Well, except for when they're fat. And by fat, I mean approaching the average height and weight criteria for optimal health. Just yesterday, Jessica Simpson made it on to every blog, entertainment show, news site, and radio program because, (insert gasp - it's quite shocking) she dared to don a body skimming outfit on stage, even though she had no visible bones protruding! Who does she think she is!? The media was up in arms over the fact that Jessica seems to have "let herself go" and no longer resembles the walking masturbatory fantasy she was in Dukes of Hazzard. Of course, Jess has since admitted that getting that body required 2-hour daily workouts and an aversion to all things carby, but hey - what's a little compulsive exercise and malnutrition when you can achieve a headline-worthy ass? She may not be the most talented singer (yes, she sings), but she's built a considerable career and done some admirable charity work - all totally worthless, now that she can't wear size 00 daisy dukes - what a loser!



Joining Jess on the Hollywood fat train are Jennifer Lopez and supermodel Karolina Kurkova. You know, J.Lo - ridiculously beautiful artist, recent mother of twins, and Karolina - insanely hot underwear model who claims to have a thyroid disorder (and who's listed on dnamodels.com as being 5'11" with a 25" waist). Perez "Going Straight to Hell" Hilton wrote, "No one wants to see the rolls, mami!" after Lopez wore a super revealing dress to the Golden Globes and had the audacity to bend in such a fashion as to create a crease in her skin. If all new moms (of TWINS!!) looked as hideously fat as J.Lo, I think the rates of postpartum depression would decrease exponentially.



Karolina was torn apart in the Brazilian media for her "cellulite and love handles" after Fashion Week in Sao Paulo last year. Well, with a little more heartless prodding and condemnation, she could get down to an enviable 88 pounds like Brazilian model Ana Carolina Reston - oh, but wait - she died from complications due to Anorexia.

Thank goodness for that women's lib movement!

I'm a Slave 4 U

Guilty. Pleasure. Two words that have become so ingrained in my vocabulary, so instrumental to my daily life, that I'm often tempted to hyphenate them and pass the new word off as my middle name (as if my name needed any extra syllables). Nothing is as comforting, relaxing, tranquilizing as a walk down mindless entertainment lane. And last night really drove home how much I'd like to build a house, raise a family, and retire on said lane.


After refusing to drink the American Idol Kool-Aid for the post-Kelly Clarkson years, I sheepishly found my way back to Simon's magnificent V-neck t-shirts last season. And now that season 8 (?!) has officially kicked off with a string of tragic auditions, I'm fully invested. As is my Tivo. Fortunately, I opted for the non-bottom-of-the-barrel/non-actually-impressive recorder that can handle two shows at once, because 90210 was also on at 8 PM. Laugh all you want, but when a childhood obsession is reincarnated as an overacted CW mess, you watch it. My trusty Tivo was chugging along, dutifully recording both embarrassing trainwrecks, when I received a text from my forever-loyal BFF: "Nick Cannon just said Leo was coming up on the Inauguration Ball thing on Channel 7." A snag in the plan! An unexpected DiCaprio cameo?! No! Reliable as he is (and yes, he is a he), Tivo can't handle switching channels when he's busy recording two things at once. Beads of sweat began to form, and every muscle tensed, engaged in full fight or flight mode. What the hell could I do?

The story itself is pretty anti-climatic: I waited for a Leo appearance on snowy, non-cable basic TV while Tivo did his jobs (which Erin reacted to with an "Eww. You're like a poor person" text). But it really solidified the fact that guilty pleasures rank high on my Important Things in Life list (somewhere between family and well-Windexed glass surfaces). But I'm not the only one. For years, I faithfully, yet shamefully, clung to my guilty pleasure, while I assumed the rest of the world engaged only in significant and thought-provoking pastimes. Thank god recent events have proven how shallow and easily amused the rest of the population is. Just like me!

What is it about a guilty pleasure that is so long-lasting, so relentless? It's been almost 13 years since Romeo & Juliet came out, and I still can't quit Leo. A very close, very dear kindred spirit of mine hasn't, after all these years, been able to snuff out her Days of our Lives obsession. Does she appreciate the witty dialogue and the cast's true mastery of the acting craft? Um, are you kidding? She's the first one to ridicule the grandma/granddaughter/doctor love triangle, the pregnant-teen baby commissioning, the evil memory-erasing and subsequent disk storage of erased memories. But her awareness of D.O.O.L.'s (it's not really a guilty pleasure until you have an acronym for it) insanity does nothing to quell her addiction. If anything, each delightfully improbable storyline only fans the addictive flames. This is a woman who by day, assumes the role of a smart, successful, hot young professional. But by night, is consumed by thoughts of Stefano and Patch (I couldn't make those names up if I tried).

And she's not alone. My mom - my ridiculously beautiful, wise, talented mom - can't fully unwind until she catches up on her Russian soaps, which are so over-the-top and animated, even I can understand them - which means they must be really rudimentary. I know plenty of respectable adults that can't live without their US Weekly fix. And the perfect icebreaker for practically every awkward meeting is, "Hey, do you watch The Hills?" So, the moral of the story (or what I choose to designate as the moral because this is my blog, and you'll like it) is that everyone has a lame, lowbrow fixation that brings them unparalleled joy, and we should all learn to accept one another's unique guilty pleasures. And if I want to Windex my apartment while dancing to Britney on repeat, then you should probably learn to respect that too. Thank you.

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.