Dear Bradley Pitt-Jolie,
Remember that time when we were roller skating together? It was a party for a mutual friend who had been nominated for a big deal Hollywood award. He was cool enough to have it at a roller rink in Glamorous Glendale. You were still married to Jenny A. and you had the long hair and beard look for the first time that the public will remember.
You were a terrible roller skater. I was good, possibly even great. You remarked on it from your butt as I winged past you to some Donna Summer. Toot toot, yeah, beep beep.
Anyway, I’m not bringing this up to pretend that we are friends or to impress others that we are long lost casual acquaintances. I’m doing it to remind you that once upon a time you looked up to me for my mad skills. I want you to think about me gliding around on my four-on-the-floors and listen to me when I tell you that when presented with a script as dopey and a concept as flimsy as this Chanel No. 5 commercial, you have the power to say no. You do not need the money.
Sure, sure, all those kids’ college educations aren’t going to pay for themselves, but that’s why you and Angie Baby play act in the movies. You do not need to shill for the Kaiser and his stinky toilet water. Shiloh will be able to buy her own man-tailored clothing well into her fifties with the money she makes from her tell all Mommy and Daddy Dearest book she writes.
It is quite likely one of those kids will try to burn the house down. Let’s just hope they manage to destroy all evidence of this piece of Limburger.
Also, I would like to put my vote in for the look where you are pretending to give a fuck—the one where you have short hair and you shave. You are a very good-looking man, some would say bordering on pretty. You might as well flaunt it. Because after this display of poor judgment, you’re going to be on a back lot filming Ocean’s 37 before you know it.
Your friend and roller skating mentor,
The sympathy notes have been streaming in from all corners of the world since the announcement a couple of hours ago that my favorite chubby dictator has gone and taken himself a child bride. Turns out the mystery woman pictured with him last week was neither sister nor slutty concubine, but rather lawfully wedded wife, Ri Sol-ju.
Ms. Ri not only seems to be quite lovely in photos, she’s also a hell of a lip syncher. Witness this catchy little number, Soldiers’ Footprints.
It’s probably better that KJU and I didn’t end up together anyway. My go-to karaoke number, You’re So Vain would probably be misconstrued by my dearly beloved and would lead to all sorts of marital troubles and maybe even an early death (mine) shrouded in suspicious circumstances.
I’m going to send KJU and RSJ a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey as a wedding present. Judging by the high cultural standards in the fine nation of North Korea, I have a feeling that pile of horseshit is going to really knock them out.
If you are looking for me today, I’ll be on the computer Googling the crap out of “single dictators” and crying into my Taedonggang. (That’s North Korean for beer.)
Tell me which it is , KJU. If I am to continue having an affair with you in my mind, I need to know who I’m up against, competition-wise. Is this your lady friend? Is she married pop singer Hyon Song-wul who your daddy disapproved of and would not allow you to marry? Is it your sissy Kim Yeo-jung? Or is she your mystery wife?
Honestly, it doesn’t matter that much to me who she is because as far as I’m concerned she is standing next to you, pudgy dreamboat and I am here in Los Angeles at my computer. Well, if it’s your sister or some government official I suppose I don’t care all that much.
But if she’s your lady love, then it’s Xisca all over again. Well, not exactly. But you get my drift.
Vamos, Rafa! Me, Xisca, KJU and the mystery woman will all be cheering you on during the Olympics. It’s bound to be better than Wimby, right?
MJ: Hey everyone! Look at me! You thought it was crazy when I tattooed an Eames couch on my stomach. Look at me now that I am channeling Chris Evert and Miles Standish at the same freaking time! I am so odd. I’m edgy. I’m weirder than anyone else in the rooooooooooooom.
Wait. What? Peter Fucking Marino is here? Who let him into my party? It’s MY party. I want to be the biggest weirdo. I want everyone to talk about me. I want to be OUTrageous!!!
Oh Christ on a stick, fine. I’ll let him take a photo with me but if he gives me one of those bear hugs…
Oh fuck. Here he comes.
PM: Goldilocks! Who’s been sleeping in Papa Bear’s bed? Now come give Daddy some sugar.
Today, on Weibo (China’s answer to Twitter) they are saying that Kim Jong Un was killed in Beijing. I know this because I read it on Gawker. I refuse to believe it because one country cannot possibly withstand another onslaught of fake tears like those shed for Dear Leader KJU’s Pops, Kim Jong-Il. Also, are people going to be punished if their displays of fake grief aren’t as convincing as they were for KJI? I am getting way ahead of myself here, but you know, a superfan’s mind travels fast when there are so many unanswered questions.
I’m keeping this short and sweet until I have some more “evidence”. If I had a glass coffin making business in Pyongyang, I’d be polishing up a plus sized model for Jr., that’s for sure.
I am totally going to add this one to the pile of ideas I come up with that are a) brilliant, and b) will never see the light of day: BOARDWALK VAMPIRE.
Yep, the name says it all. It’s a brand new series on the tellyvision (well, on the HBO so they can use swears and show off their incredibly toned posteriors) all about vampires during Prohibition.
It stars Steve Buscemi. (Have you seen those teeth? He’s a for-sure IRL vampire. Test out my theory. Stand behind him in a mirror and try to see his reflection—I’ll bet you a kajillion dollar you’re alone in the glass.) ASkars and Rob Prettyboy Pattinson are in it too since they are the standard bearers of the vamp genre.
BV is like the all-star Olympics of vampire television. Stephen Moyer is not in it and neither is Anna Paquin. In fact, ASkars is the only one from True Blood who makes the cut. I’ll let Kelly MacDonald be in it. She plays a kept widow vampire who is stuck with old tombstone teeth Buscemi but at some point during season 3 when we’ve run out of actual plots and we’ve resorted to just letting everyone sleep with everyone else she’ll get some sack time with Skarsgard and Pattinson—at the same time, of course.
During the first episode Omar Little will figure heavily into things because I think having Michael Kenneth Williams play a character who’s all about the suit he wears (Chalky White) is a serious waste of both talent and facial scar. Oh! I know—there will be time travel between 1920’s Atlantic City and Baltimore in the 2000’s. That way Jimmy McNulty, Bunk Moreland, Stringer Bell, Marlo Stanfield and Chris Partlow can all come and go from time to time as can Coach Eric Taylor, Tim Riggins, and Tami “Mrs. Coach” Taylor when we shoot the entire 5th season in Dillon, Texas.
Maybe I haven’t exactly thought out the story arc so well, but I don’t really see that as a deterrent, do you Lorne Michaels? Because BV would be a totally awesome skit on the SNL. Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg can write a song about it and perform it at the Emmys when I pick up my statuette for best mash up in a television series, miniseries, drama or comedy.
I would like to see this one through, no really I would. It’s just that I’m putting the finishing touches on my song “Old Man Slippers” (sung to the tune of Old Man River), which is an ode to the awesomeness of those brown vinyl slippers gang bangers like to wear with white socks. I should have it up and selling like hotcakes on iTunes any day now. Then it’s onto Boardwalk Vampire.
Look out world, I’m about to make something HUGE happen.
It rained for two straight days this week at the Open so instead of watching my boyfriend stomp around the court like a bull, I’ve been forced to entertain myself in other ways. Somehow all this free time didn’t convert itself into productivity. Far from it. Instead it manifested in a mini marathon of Toddlers and Tiaras. (Don’t hate me—hate the weather in New York or—preferably—hate the parents of these little terrors.)
I cannot find a single redeeming thing about this show. The children are freaky. The parents are overbearing, desperate and deeply disturbed. I mean, really, what part of investing time and energy into parading your small child in makeup and inappropriately adult Dynasty dresses doesn’t cry out for serious time in a shrink’s office? I had resisted T and T when it debuted because I had a more than mild obsession with the whole JonBenet Ramsay thing and figured I had already visited this topic ad nauseum. Apparently I underestimate my capacity for schlock.
I somehow pulled myself away from the Cars and Stars pageant in Indianapolis and turned my attention to the Internet where the now teenaged blogger and fashion world castoff Tavi Gevison debuted her “magazine” Rookie. To have the audacity to call Rookie a magazine is beyond grandiose. It is a blog. By a 15-year-old. Modeled on a magazine popular in the 90’s. It is also a blog that is basically a teenage girl’s take on a decade during which she mostly wore diapers. It is quite boring and unoriginal, yet the New York Times Magazine profiled Tavi and Rookie last Sunday and according to the NYT Tavi, who was originally supposed to do a reboot of Sassy with its founder Jane Pratt, instead parted ways with Pratt upon the advice of This American Life’s Ira Glass and his nosy parker wife because they were looking out for Tavi’s best interests. Someone should have looked out for this kid a long time ago and left her in school instead of allowing her teeny granny self to sit in the front row at haute couture shows.
After the announcement about the new version of Sassy there was a flurry of cloying expectation and requisite anticipatory press. So what happens next? Is it a magazine? Is it great? No. And double no. It is, however, a lot like Sassy in that it takes all of its cues from grunge rock and phony teen angst (don’t hate on other girls—love them!) In fact if I were Jane Pratt I just might be peeved at the potential Eve Harrington storyline here. Peeved enough to call old Ira Glass up and give him a piece of my mind anyway. Maybe he would put me on This American Life and I’d kill two life goals with one vitriolic phone call.
Toddlers and Tiaras and Tavi all share what I see as the “my kid is mediocre/not that cute/a terrible athlete yet I’m going to tell her she shits sparkly rainbows” syndrome. If you’ve ever been to a Little League game or a toddler pageant you know what I’m talking about. Everyone gets a fucking medal or a crown. The winners get a slightly bigger, gaudier prize, but no one is left out. How the hell will these children ever figure out that they are C students at best? That’s just it. They never will. They will continue to blow their own horns and shoot fairy dust out of their asses until they get their own reality series like the Kardashians and make kajillions of dollars, pointing their fingers at me and laughing all the way to the bank as they pass me by in my pauper’s cocoon of good taste and judgment retirement home.
Well, at least I got one good idea out of the rain delays. I’ll call it Crabby Acres: A rest home for those with discriminating taste.
Thanks God it stopped raining in New York and I can go back to watching real athletes compete for one trophy and one prize at the US Open. VAMOS RAFA!