August 4, 2011

Is Ryan Reynolds the best we can do? I take offense to Ryan Reynolds. Not him as a person, not his close-together eyes or bright orange complexion, not even that he married Scarlet Johansson, who despite being in my favourite Lost in Translation, comes off as super lazy and smelly with really questionable taste in men. No, none of these things are what make Ryan Reynolds unbearable to me. So what is it then? Let’s start with how he seemed to be such a mediocre actor accepting meaningless roles in really pointless movies, but now is poised to be the biggest star on the planet. When did this happen? Certainly not when he was dating Alanis Morrissette. I say somewhere between his ScarJo marriage and being in X-Men Origins: Wolverine, not that I’m going to even bother looking up when these two events actually occurred… Ugh. In fact, I’m not even going to go on anymore. Read this article if you want to know why Ryan Reynolds bothers me. It pretty much sums up how we’ve become so desperate for an authentic and reliable leading man in Hollywood that we’re now looking under rugs for some semblance of that fantasy. http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/6716942/the-movie-star I just want to know, when the world is going to wake up and realize that the Canadian Ryan you’ve been looking for to fill that gaping hole since Johnny Depp started wearing tints on the regular and Tom Cruise grew a third leg for his Scientology beliefs to stand on, is Ryan Gosling. Ryan Gosling. That’s all you need to know.

Is Ryan Reynolds the best we can do?

I take offense to Ryan Reynolds. Not him as a person, not his close-together eyes or bright orange complexion, not even that he married Scarlet Johansson, who despite being in my favourite Lost in Translation, comes off as super lazy and smelly with really questionable taste in men. No, none of these things are what make Ryan Reynolds unbearable to me. So what is it then?

Let’s start with how he seemed to be such a mediocre actor accepting meaningless roles in really pointless movies, but now is poised to be the biggest star on the planet. When did this happen? Certainly not when he was dating Alanis Morrissette. I say somewhere between his ScarJo marriage and being in X-Men Origins: Wolverine, not that I’m going to even bother looking up when these two events actually occurred… Ugh.

In fact, I’m not even going to go on anymore. Read this article if you want to know why Ryan Reynolds bothers me. It pretty much sums up how we’ve become so desperate for an authentic and reliable leading man in Hollywood that we’re now looking under rugs for some semblance of that fantasy.

http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/6716942/the-movie-star

I just want to know, when the world is going to wake up and realize that the Canadian Ryan you’ve been looking for to fill that gaping hole since Johnny Depp started wearing tints on the regular and Tom Cruise grew a third leg for his Scientology beliefs to stand on, is Ryan Gosling. Ryan Gosling. That’s all you need to know.

#ryan gosling #ryan reynolds #hollywood #leading man
/03:02 PM

March 24, 2011

The Truth About Haters “Just anybody, naysayers, haters, whatever the case may be. I just think, you know, being positive and promoting that is what I’m about so that’s what I’m gonna do.”—Chris Brown Waaay back during the rash of publicized celebrity domestic abuse cases of 2009, when Chris Brown gave Rihanna a pre-Grammy beat-down, I asked, “How come Charlie Sheen nearly chokes his wife to death and his show’s ratings go up but Chris Brown is sentenced to lifelong lambasting?” This question wasn’t meant to identify myself as a Chris Brown supporter so much as it showed just how much of a Charlie Sheen loather I was. I didn’t necessarily want Chris Brown to recover from the incident, but I did want Charlie Sheen to suffer somewhat. I wanted to point out our hypocrisies, that race definitely played a role in our perceptions and subsequent treatment of these misogynists, and yet we barely cared to address it at the time. Little did I know then that the chapters on these sordid tales were far from over.So since then, Charlie Sheen got a massive payraise, trashed a hotel room, locked a hooker in a closet while his kids were across the hall, was hospitalized, went to rehab, went back to work, went on an all-night cocaine binge, watched non-stop pornos, was hospitalized, was put on hiatus, went beserk, media-blitzed, was fired, waved a machete around in public, drank tiger blood, broke records on Twitter, is about to embark on a major North American tour, and now might possibly be re-hired. These are the actions of a madman plagued by an impenetrable sickness, but based on our almost embracing acceptance of his wild antics, has it not become apparent that Charlie Sheen kind of is winning where Chris Brown is not?In a weak attempt to prove, more or less, this same point after he threw a temper tantrum and then a chair into a window at Good Morning America, Chris Brown unabashedly tweeted: I’m so over people bringing this past shit up!!! Yet we praise Charlie sheen and other celebs for there (sic) bullshit. Unlike Sheen, following an assorted series of forced apologies, appearances in charming bow ties, pre-meditated, PR-motivated performances (see melodramatic, tear-laden MJ tribute at the BET awards show), unremorseful lyrics, and crudely unscripted YouTube rants, Chris Brown saw his popularity clear out faster than any scatter brought on by David Blaine magic. Stores wouldn’t stock his records, radio stations wouldn’t play his songs, it all felt like an organized conspiracy to shut him down for good. Undeterred by his newly established reputation as an unrepentant, entitled brat with a temper, Brown begrudgingly picked up the pieces and ungraciously plotted his eventual comeback. Many months later, and yet still seemingly out of nowhere, I started hearing a vacuous new track on the radio talking about drinking, DJs, dancing the night away, and putting your hands in the air, and I wondered if this single alone could win back the affections of a less than adoring public. I quickly realized that by hearing the single being played on a Top 40-format radio station at all, nonetheless ad nauseum as it would soon come to be, the public at large had already forgiven him, despite his lack of contrition and his continual need to blame the haters. What’s bugging Chris Brown though, is that we haven’t forgotten, like he so obviously has: “It’s not really a big deal to me now… as far as that situation… I think I’m past that in my life…” I bet one of the things they teach you in anger management is to let go of the hostility, which is probably why Chris Brown has made it clear that he’s moved on from the Rihanna incident and doesn’t want to rankle the masses, but by treating that episode as a non-event feels like a blatant insult to those of us that aren’t fans or haters, but people with genuine emotions who find it hard to get over his unapologetic delinquency. And because we haven’t forgotten, that’s what makes the rest of us haters? This is where I take issue with the excessive and erroneous use of the word ‘haters.’ Just because I am technically not a fan, that doesn’t automatically make me a hater and I’m sick of being grouped into this catchall category because the person trying to defend himself isn’t creative or smart enough to come up with a more reasonable explanation as to why I’m not a fan. Listen, Chris Brown, I am not your fan. Nor am I a hater. I don’t spend any amount of time in the day deliberately dissing you and if I am put off by your music, it doesn’t mean I’m simply a hater or that I’m jealous of your talent and humility and therefore a hater, or that because I don’t freaking LOVE everything, that I’m a hater. I am a highly educated person with my wits about me, who doesn’t ever feel the need to bring down something as remote and uninspired as Chris Brown or Charlie Sheen. I’d almost vouch that fans of douchebags like you can be considered greater haters than those who aren’t, based purely on the logic that those who intentionally pay attention to giant douchebags, have a more vested interest in mocking or participating in the mock culture around douchebaggery. Also, being critical of your work or your lifestyle doesn’t make me a hater. I think the music Chris Brown makes is lame. I think Chris Brown is full of himself. I think beating people is wrong, no matter how “provoked.” But I’m not out to “get him” because I’m a hater and that’s what haters do. No. This guy makes an ass of himself all on his own and then blames me for not understanding why he NEEDS to act like an asshole or lose his temper. You’d think after at least one anger management class, he’d have some degree of self-awareness. But I think anger management to someone like Chris Brown means, how do I best harness my raging anger to show ultimate dissatisfaction to the haters? What I want Chris Brown, and everyone else who overuses the term ‘hater,’ to understand is that being a hater or a naysayer—that takes some real effort. Haters are the ones who leave snarky, negative comments after reading newspaper articles, in hopes of coming off hilarious but never do. Haters create Facebook pages for the things they hate and then recruit as many random people as they can to join their crusade. Haters say they spread a message of positivity and don’t pay any mind to the naysayers, but deep down, they despise those they consider naysayers so fully that it incites frightening levels of violence, so much so that they can’t resist slipping in a condescending slight like F.A.M.E. (Forgiving All My Enemies, Fans are My Everything), failing to realize that the only enemy of a hater is himself. If I’m just sitting here, furrowing my eyebrows at your cause and effect, doesn’t that merely make me an innocent bystander somewhat reluctantly witnessing your downfall? And that, my friends, does not a hater make.

The Truth About Haters

“Just anybody, naysayers, haters, whatever the case may be. I just think, you know, being positive and promoting that is what I’m about so that’s what I’m gonna do.”
—Chris Brown

Waaay back during the rash of publicized celebrity domestic abuse cases of 2009, when Chris Brown gave Rihanna a pre-Grammy beat-down, I asked, “How come Charlie Sheen nearly chokes his wife to death and his show’s ratings go up but Chris Brown is sentenced to lifelong lambasting?” This question wasn’t meant to identify myself as a Chris Brown supporter so much as it showed just how much of a Charlie Sheen loather I was. I didn’t necessarily want Chris Brown to recover from the incident, but I did want Charlie Sheen to suffer somewhat. I wanted to point out our hypocrisies, that race definitely played a role in our perceptions and subsequent treatment of these misogynists, and yet we barely cared to address it at the time. Little did I know then that the chapters on these sordid tales were far from over.

So since then, Charlie Sheen got a massive payraise, trashed a hotel room, locked a hooker in a closet while his kids were across the hall, was hospitalized, went to rehab, went back to work, went on an all-night cocaine binge, watched non-stop pornos, was hospitalized, was put on hiatus, went beserk, media-blitzed, was fired, waved a machete around in public, drank tiger blood, broke records on Twitter, is about to embark on a major North American tour, and now might possibly be re-hired. These are the actions of a madman plagued by an impenetrable sickness, but based on our almost embracing acceptance of his wild antics, has it not become apparent that Charlie Sheen kind of is winning where Chris Brown is not?

In a weak attempt to prove, more or less, this same point after he threw a temper tantrum and then a chair into a window at Good Morning America, Chris Brown unabashedly tweeted:

I’m so over people bringing this past shit up!!! Yet we praise Charlie sheen and other celebs for there (sic) bullshit.

Unlike Sheen, following an assorted series of forced apologies, appearances in charming bow ties, pre-meditated, PR-motivated performances (see melodramatic, tear-laden MJ tribute at the BET awards show), unremorseful lyrics, and crudely unscripted YouTube rants, Chris Brown saw his popularity clear out faster than any scatter brought on by David Blaine magic. Stores wouldn’t stock his records, radio stations wouldn’t play his songs, it all felt like an organized conspiracy to shut him down for good. Undeterred by his newly established reputation as an unrepentant, entitled brat with a temper, Brown begrudgingly picked up the pieces and ungraciously plotted his eventual comeback. Many months later, and yet still seemingly out of nowhere, I started hearing a vacuous new track on the radio talking about drinking, DJs, dancing the night away, and putting your hands in the air, and I wondered if this single alone could win back the affections of a less than adoring public. I quickly realized that by hearing the single being played on a Top 40-format radio station at all, nonetheless ad nauseum as it would soon come to be, the public at large had already forgiven him, despite his lack of contrition and his continual need to blame the haters.

What’s bugging Chris Brown though, is that we haven’t forgotten, like he so obviously has:

“It’s not really a big deal to me now… as far as that situation… I think I’m past that in my life…”

I bet one of the things they teach you in anger management is to let go of the hostility, which is probably why Chris Brown has made it clear that he’s moved on from the Rihanna incident and doesn’t want to rankle the masses, but by treating that episode as a non-event feels like a blatant insult to those of us that aren’t fans or haters, but people with genuine emotions who find it hard to get over his unapologetic delinquency. And because we haven’t forgotten, that’s what makes the rest of us haters?

This is where I take issue with the excessive and erroneous use of the word ‘haters.’ Just because I am technically not a fan, that doesn’t automatically make me a hater and I’m sick of being grouped into this catchall category because the person trying to defend himself isn’t creative or smart enough to come up with a more reasonable explanation as to why I’m not a fan. Listen, Chris Brown, I am not your fan. Nor am I a hater. I don’t spend any amount of time in the day deliberately dissing you and if I am put off by your music, it doesn’t mean I’m simply a hater or that I’m jealous of your talent and humility and therefore a hater, or that because I don’t freaking LOVE everything, that I’m a hater. I am a highly educated person with my wits about me, who doesn’t ever feel the need to bring down something as remote and uninspired as Chris Brown or Charlie Sheen. I’d almost vouch that fans of douchebags like you can be considered greater haters than those who aren’t, based purely on the logic that those who intentionally pay attention to giant douchebags, have a more vested interest in mocking or participating in the mock culture around douchebaggery.

Also, being critical of your work or your lifestyle doesn’t make me a hater. I think the music Chris Brown makes is lame. I think Chris Brown is full of himself. I think beating people is wrong, no matter how “provoked.” But I’m not out to “get him” because I’m a hater and that’s what haters do. No. This guy makes an ass of himself all on his own and then blames me for not understanding why he NEEDS to act like an asshole or lose his temper. You’d think after at least one anger management class, he’d have some degree of self-awareness. But I think anger management to someone like Chris Brown means, how do I best harness my raging anger to show ultimate dissatisfaction to the haters?

What I want Chris Brown, and everyone else who overuses the term ‘hater,’ to understand is that being a hater or a naysayer—that takes some real effort. Haters are the ones who leave snarky, negative comments after reading newspaper articles, in hopes of coming off hilarious but never do. Haters create Facebook pages for the things they hate and then recruit as many random people as they can to join their crusade. Haters say they spread a message of positivity and don’t pay any mind to the naysayers, but deep down, they despise those they consider naysayers so fully that it incites frightening levels of violence, so much so that they can’t resist slipping in a condescending slight like F.A.M.E. (Forgiving All My Enemies, Fans are My Everything), failing to realize that the only enemy of a hater is himself. If I’m just sitting here, furrowing my eyebrows at your cause and effect, doesn’t that merely make me an innocent bystander somewhat reluctantly witnessing your downfall? And that, my friends, does not a hater make.

/11:26 AM

December 1, 2010

Is it really that Blue Valentine?

I haven’t seen it yet, but I predict that I’m going to love Blue Valentine—a surprisingly honest and difficult look at a once amazing love gone rotten, starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams. And as I watch the various trailers over and over again, I never get the feeling that this film will offend me to the core with its supposedly “graphic sex scene” (which is nothing more than a depressed woman getting pity oral sex from her husband), but according to the MPAA, it has potential to offend and thus they decreed an NC-17 punishment on a film that was never really going to attract the kind of audience that is easily offended anyway.

…Which is why this kind of censorship filtering is completely absurd. Though I can assure you that Sarah Palin types would be offended by this kind of film scene, I can also assert that Sarah Palin is the kind of half-wit who doesn’t even have the attention span to sit through the entire trailer of Blue Valentine without making a comment like, “If it ain’t got ‘splosions, then I ain’t ‘ntrested.” So… we needn’t worry about the half-wits because their brains only function at half the capacity of a non Tea-Partyist, so why then is the MPAA constantly pandering to them and their overbearing sense of moral righteousness?

Now, I know the answer to my question is that the ONLY job of organizations like the MPAAis to douse the inevitable flames that are sure to rage BEFORE the fires even start, but isn’t there some sort of statute of limitations on how much pandering to idiots one can accomplish before dooming the entire population to the same unrefined set of artistic standards?

Now, let’s say Sarah Palin was somehow forced to watch this film against her will. Surely and without hesitation she’d be complaining the second that uncomfortably real sex scene appeared on screen. She’d blame the unglamorous look at oral sex for causing teen pregnancy. She’d blame Muslims building the mosque close to Ground Zero on the American liberal media’s need for telling such sordid tales of sexual deviance. And the hypocrisy! By speaking out against it on any level, she’d essentially be putting down the merits of receiving oral sex from her husband, which any woman would know is a lie.

I’m not going to go all, “I can’t believe they show the Jersey Shore on TV but a woman getting eaten out in an art film warrants a nationwide warning about how your chaste vision will be compromised” on you, but I am going to say, does Sarah Palin not find Jersey Shore offensive?

Fuck it. Go see the movie and feel better than everyone else whose minds are so small they can’t stand it.

UPDATE: Saw the film when it finally hit theatres and while the performances were really great, and some of the subject matter spoke to me on a personal level, I really didn’t want these two to be together. They made an awful couple and were together for all the wrong reasons, expecting things to be made right over time. That being said, overall the film was kind of a fail for me. And that sex scene was just so sad and disheartening in an already supremely dejected movie, that it kind of made me angry how much they had to beat us over the head with it. As my husband said afterwards, “Boy, that Michelle Williams cannot make a film where she experiences any happiness.” ‘Tis true.

#Blue Valentine #Ryan Gosling #Michelle Williams #Film
/02:44 PM

November 10, 2010

The Muted Downfall of Morgan Freeman That is obviously a very glib description of Mr. Morgan Freeman’s varied and numerous accomplishments as an actor, director, businessman and humanitarian, but in the wake of his own mini Mel-gate, one has to wonder how public perception of his stately and regal image will change or at least be tainted against its once pristine status. Morgan Freeman’s personal life began drumming up interest after it was reported that he got in a car accident in August 2008 and flipped the vehicle over a few times. To add to the mystery around how it happened, a woman who was not his wife was also in the car and later tried to sue Freeman based on her allegations that he had been consuming alcohol prior to the accident. There was also the news that the woman, Demaris Meyer, had been invited to stay at a guest home on Freeman’s property for the night, which sparked further speculation in an already convoluted case. Eventually the stigma of this car accident faded and people went back to focusing on more alarming real-life villains like Mel Gibson. The recent and disturbing buzz around the 73-year-old these days is that he has finalized his divorce from wife, Myrna Colley-Lee so that he can finally marry his step-granddaughter, whom he’s been rumoured to be having a sexual affair with since she was in her teens. I don’t want to believe this at all. AT ALL! But why the tabloids won’t let this story go isn’t the same thing as how they won’t let Brangelina stories go. This doesn’t seem like news that people are hungry for. Sure, it’s sensational and involves a much beloved and respectable actor, but I’m sure Morgan Freeman doesn’t bring in the big sales when there are babies being adopted by more famous people everyday. With this in mind, I sometimes think that there must be a kernel of truth in there somewhere to keep following up on such a lurid yet languid story. I also think that we willingly cloud our perception for people we deem above such seemingly vile behaviour, Morgan Freeman, the dignified narrator of a million corporate taglines being the very best example. Remember when America’s favourite dad and pudding-pop pusher, Bill Cosby, was accused of drugging a friend so that he could take advantage of her? Nobody ever wants to give into tabloid talk that criticizes our most beloved stars. I love this man’s films and his outlook on life, and having met him once in my life, I was instantly impressed by his readiness to meeting anyone new and trying to sincerely engage with them. So is it possible then that Mr. Freeman’s public profile is as manufactured as they come? Is he just good at hiding skeletons because he has the wherewithal to know better if he wants to protect his career? Or are we willing to look beyond his troubling flaws because his sparkling reputation precedes any distortion to the reality we crave? I hope for his sake that these are just rumours, but after seeing so many stars go morally bankrupt in the last ten years, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least that Morgan Freeman, like practically everyone else in this world is a weirdo who simply couldn’t resist giving in to the pressures of his incestuous penis. (Note: This story was written closer to when the incident occurred but wasn’t published until now.)

The Muted Downfall of Morgan Freeman

That is obviously a very glib description of Mr. Morgan Freeman’s varied and numerous accomplishments as an actor, director, businessman and humanitarian, but in the wake of his own mini Mel-gate, one has to wonder how public perception of his stately and regal image will change or at least be tainted against its once pristine status.

Morgan Freeman’s personal life began drumming up interest after it was reported that he got in a car accident in August 2008 and flipped the vehicle over a few times. To add to the mystery around how it happened, a woman who was not his wife was also in the car and later tried to sue Freeman based on her allegations that he had been consuming alcohol prior to the accident. There was also the news that the woman, Demaris Meyer, had been invited to stay at a guest home on Freeman’s property for the night, which sparked further speculation in an already convoluted case. Eventually the stigma of this car accident faded and people went back to focusing on more alarming real-life villains like Mel Gibson.

The recent and disturbing buzz around the 73-year-old these days is that he has finalized his divorce from wife, Myrna Colley-Lee so that he can finally marry his step-granddaughter, whom he’s been rumoured to be having a sexual affair with since she was in her teens.

I don’t want to believe this at all. AT ALL! But why the tabloids won’t let this story go isn’t the same thing as how they won’t let Brangelina stories go. This doesn’t seem like news that people are hungry for. Sure, it’s sensational and involves a much beloved and respectable actor, but I’m sure Morgan Freeman doesn’t bring in the big sales when there are babies being adopted by more famous people everyday. With this in mind, I sometimes think that there must be a kernel of truth in there somewhere to keep following up on such a lurid yet languid story. I also think that we willingly cloud our perception for people we deem above such seemingly vile behaviour, Morgan Freeman, the dignified narrator of a million corporate taglines being the very best example.

Remember when America’s favourite dad and pudding-pop pusher, Bill Cosby, was accused of drugging a friend so that he could take advantage of her? Nobody ever wants to give into tabloid talk that criticizes our most beloved stars.

I love this man’s films and his outlook on life, and having met him once in my life, I was instantly impressed by his readiness to meeting anyone new and trying to sincerely engage with them. So is it possible then that Mr. Freeman’s public profile is as manufactured as they come? Is he just good at hiding skeletons because he has the wherewithal to know better if he wants to protect his career? Or are we willing to look beyond his troubling flaws because his sparkling reputation precedes any distortion to the reality we crave? I hope for his sake that these are just rumours, but after seeing so many stars go morally bankrupt in the last ten years, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least that Morgan Freeman, like practically everyone else in this world is a weirdo who simply couldn’t resist giving in to the pressures of his incestuous penis.

(Note: This story was written closer to when the incident occurred but wasn’t published until now.)

/12:04 PM

October 6, 2010

Undying Love For Keanu There was a time that I was truly in love with Keanu Reeves. It was 1991 and I was 15 years old when I first fell for him. I had already seen Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure and Parenthood, but at the time of watching those movies, he wasn’t my type and was far too old for my girlhood crushes. But when Point Break was in theatres, I went to see it with my girlfriend and before the end credits started rolling, my mad everlasting lusty infatuation with Keanu was born. I pretty much know everything about him and I’ve even kind of met and partied with him, but I’m not the kind of fan that ever tried to write him a letter or join his fan club. But let me assure you, I was OBSESSED. He was my go-to guy and everyone that knew me knew it. And I wasn’t afraid to hide it. In fact, I was extremely proud of my impressive choice in men because, let’s face it, Keanu seems like one fucking cool guy, even after all these years. Out of the 45 or so films he’s made, I’ve seen all but about 10, and those include all recent ones which I haven’t yet had the chance to view. As a teen, my appetite for Keanu was so voracious that I would spend hours scouring the weekly TV guide, looking for programming that might contain Keanu, and more often than not, I was successful. I saw many of his early films, that I imagine would be difficult to even find a copy of now, like Tune in Tomorrow, Permanent Record, Youngblood, and the incomparable cult classic River’s Edge. And in all seriousness, he is a good actor. Sure he’s had moments of incredible failure, but when you do get to see him in something as poignant as River’s Edge, you realize that his talent is often overshadowed by his unfortunate recital of poorly-written scripts. That being said, he’ll always be my one special obsession even though I admit much of it has faded now that I’m happily married and almost 20 years older. Regardless, I still turn my head when I see a picture of him somewhere or perk up my ears when his name is being uttered, just like when I was young. I remember being in a bookstore, sometime when I was 16 and spotting, with my most peripheral of vision, the side of Keanu’s head peeking out from behind a row of magazines on a rack. I immediately ran to it, pulled the magazine I suspected he was gracing the cover of out and bought it. It was something like $15 because it was SKY and therefore an imported title, but despite the fact that I had very little money and certainly not money that I should be spending on an overpriced magazine, none of that mattered… because… wait for it… there were naked pictures of him inside! I could hardly believe my luck. It was almost like it was tailor made for me. I was giddy for days. And so to commemorate nearly 20 years of loving Keanu, I thought I’d post a photo of him from that SKY magazine spread. Enjoy ladies and gentlemen, enjoy.

Undying Love For Keanu

There was a time that I was truly in love with Keanu Reeves. It was 1991 and I was 15 years old when I first fell for him. I had already seen Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure and Parenthood, but at the time of watching those movies, he wasn’t my type and was far too old for my girlhood crushes. But when Point Break was in theatres, I went to see it with my girlfriend and before the end credits started rolling, my mad everlasting lusty infatuation with Keanu was born.

I pretty much know everything about him and I’ve even kind of met and partied with him, but I’m not the kind of fan that ever tried to write him a letter or join his fan club. But let me assure you, I was OBSESSED. He was my go-to guy and everyone that knew me knew it. And I wasn’t afraid to hide it. In fact, I was extremely proud of my impressive choice in men because, let’s face it, Keanu seems like one fucking cool guy, even after all these years.

Out of the 45 or so films he’s made, I’ve seen all but about 10, and those include all recent ones which I haven’t yet had the chance to view. As a teen, my appetite for Keanu was so voracious that I would spend hours scouring the weekly TV guide, looking for programming that might contain Keanu, and more often than not, I was successful. I saw many of his early films, that I imagine would be difficult to even find a copy of now, like Tune in Tomorrow, Permanent Record, Youngblood, and the incomparable cult classic River’s Edge. And in all seriousness, he is a good actor. Sure he’s had moments of incredible failure, but when you do get to see him in something as poignant as River’s Edge, you realize that his talent is often overshadowed by his unfortunate recital of poorly-written scripts.

That being said, he’ll always be my one special obsession even though I admit much of it has faded now that I’m happily married and almost 20 years older. Regardless, I still turn my head when I see a picture of him somewhere or perk up my ears when his name is being uttered, just like when I was young. I remember being in a bookstore, sometime when I was 16 and spotting, with my most peripheral of vision, the side of Keanu’s head peeking out from behind a row of magazines on a rack. I immediately ran to it, pulled the magazine I suspected he was gracing the cover of out and bought it. It was something like $15 because it was SKY and therefore an imported title, but despite the fact that I had very little money and certainly not money that I should be spending on an overpriced magazine, none of that mattered… because… wait for it… there were naked pictures of him inside! I could hardly believe my luck. It was almost like it was tailor made for me. I was giddy for days. And so to commemorate nearly 20 years of loving Keanu, I thought I’d post a photo of him from that SKY magazine spread. Enjoy ladies and gentlemen, enjoy.

#Keanu Reeves
/29 notes /08:02 PM

September 21, 2010

Lainey’s Full Glare I am an avid reader of LaineyGossip.com. Are any of you? I read her site for a few reasons. First of all, I appreciate a celebrity gossip blog that puts its subjects under the lens for all sorts of analysis. Digging down through the layers to find out what motivates a person to do the things they do is hugely satisfying, especially when dealing with fameseekers. The second reason I visit is because, not only are Lainey and her associates incredibly literate in all things pop culture, (literature, film, TV, music, fashion, even sports!) but she always presents a very articulate and often relatable assessment of what she deems worthy and what she finds repulsive. More often than not, I agree with her likes and dislikes. For instance, I also feel the need to say, “I hate people” on several occasions throughout the day, in response to the countless instances where idiocy reigns supreme over intelligence. I think it’s shameful that more people watch soccer mom programming on TLC than they do Mad Men. I also really can’t stand Twilight freaks… you know, the ones that are so mentally imprisoned by their own self-imposed nerdiness that they can do nothing but sit around and wait to vigorously defend any slight to their beloved fictional franchise. (NO HATE MAIL, thanks. Not interested in the incoherent ramblings of semi-precocious tweens with a hard-on for Robert Pattinson). But once in awhile, Lainey will irritate the shit out of me when she blows things out of proportion, makes a vast, unscalable mountain out of an almost unnoticeable molehill. I remember the first case of this happening on the day after the 2009 Golden Globes. She posted some YouTube footage of Angelina Jolie’s apparently sour reaction to Anne Hathaway (and an absent Meryl Streep) winning the award in a category she was also nominated in. She boosted up her account of events by stressing what a magnificent bitch face it was and how, despite watching it in excess, nothing would ever top this mighty diss. Knowing full well how Lainey can sometimes embellish her disbelief to sell her point, I reluctantly watched that video. The camera caught Angelina Jolie as she was turning her serious into a sympathy smile, and there wasn’t anything particularly bitchy about it, unless you just find her bitch-faced all the time. But otherwise, to say that it was a waste of my time is doing an injustice to my reverence for time. It not only took away from precious minutes of working, it pretty much obliterated my entire trust of Lainey, knowing that I fell for such an old trick from such a usually forthcoming pal. Well today is another one of those days where I just can’t help but be a little miffed at her exaggerations. The photo above is of Tom Cruise and here’s Lainey’s take: This isn’t Photo Assumption. This is straight up Photo ForSureness. And, as his wife would say, totally making my life. It’s the GMD in Prague, apparently scouting locations for Mission Impossible IV. Or something. Whatever it is he looks very important and big bossy. He’s the decision maker. He’s the main dude. He’s the eye, he’s the brain, he’s the one with his arms folded across his hulking chest who thinks harder and faster and better than everyone else. Even when he’s randomly high kicking over a rope in the middle of the street, it’s only because he’s larger dicked than the others and needs room to flair. It’s that part at the end… “Even when he’s randomly high kicking over a rope in the middle of the street, it’s only because he’s larger dicked than the others and needs room to flair.” Now I don’t know about you, but to me it looks like Tom Cruise is navigating himself into an area that’s roped off, which means lifting one leg scissor-kick style and then the other in a very controlled fashion, in order to access said area. So essentially, Lainey has detected an exhibition of infantile behaviour being carried out by a man that everyone loves to disparage, when the man is just trying to get over an obstruction. Forgive me if I don’t think he’s having another freakout episode the way he did with Oprah and Matt Lauer, but he’s just not. He’s simply scouting for a location and was trying to get from point A to point B. He’s not erratically and impulsively kicking out his legs so that everyone can move out of his way and let him perform his antics because he’s sure his dick is just so much bigger than everyone else’s. That is a completely absurd observation of this photo. And what makes it worse is that Lainey is just so damn positive that she’s called this one out correctly, and is getting so many chuckles out of what she thinks is witty, when really it’s just a sad, baseless commentary on a slow news day. I would love nothing more than to sit down with Lainey and shoot the shit over some cocktails and cigarettes, but not when she’s finding every minutia of Tom Cruise’s life amusing enough to exploit. Photo: Wenn.com via LaineyGossip

Lainey’s Full Glare

I am an avid reader of LaineyGossip.com. Are any of you? I read her site for a few reasons. First of all, I appreciate a celebrity gossip blog that puts its subjects under the lens for all sorts of analysis. Digging down through the layers to find out what motivates a person to do the things they do is hugely satisfying, especially when dealing with fameseekers.

The second reason I visit is because, not only are Lainey and her associates incredibly literate in all things pop culture, (literature, film, TV, music, fashion, even sports!) but she always presents a very articulate and often relatable assessment of what she deems worthy and what she finds repulsive. More often than not, I agree with her likes and dislikes. For instance, I also feel the need to say, “I hate people” on several occasions throughout the day, in response to the countless instances where idiocy reigns supreme over intelligence. I think it’s shameful that more people watch soccer mom programming on TLC than they do Mad Men. I also really can’t stand Twilight freaks… you know, the ones that are so mentally imprisoned by their own self-imposed nerdiness that they can do nothing but sit around and wait to vigorously defend any slight to their beloved fictional franchise. (NO HATE MAIL, thanks. Not interested in the incoherent ramblings of semi-precocious tweens with a hard-on for Robert Pattinson).

But once in awhile, Lainey will irritate the shit out of me when she blows things out of proportion, makes a vast, unscalable mountain out of an almost unnoticeable molehill. I remember the first case of this happening on the day after the 2009 Golden Globes. She posted some YouTube footage of Angelina Jolie’s apparently sour reaction to Anne Hathaway (and an absent Meryl Streep) winning the award in a category she was also nominated in. She boosted up her account of events by stressing what a magnificent bitch face it was and how, despite watching it in excess, nothing would ever top this mighty diss. Knowing full well how Lainey can sometimes embellish her disbelief to sell her point, I reluctantly watched that video. The camera caught Angelina Jolie as she was turning her serious into a sympathy smile, and there wasn’t anything particularly bitchy about it, unless you just find her bitch-faced all the time. But otherwise, to say that it was a waste of my time is doing an injustice to my reverence for time. It not only took away from precious minutes of working, it pretty much obliterated my entire trust of Lainey, knowing that I fell for such an old trick from such a usually forthcoming pal.

Well today is another one of those days where I just can’t help but be a little miffed at her exaggerations. The photo above is of Tom Cruise and here’s Lainey’s take:

This isn’t Photo Assumption. This is straight up Photo ForSureness. And, as his wife would say, totally making my life.

It’s the GMD in Prague, apparently scouting locations for Mission Impossible IV. Or something. Whatever it is he looks very important and big bossy. He’s the decision maker. He’s the main dude. He’s the eye, he’s the brain, he’s the one with his arms folded across his hulking chest who thinks harder and faster and better than everyone else. Even when he’s randomly high kicking over a rope in the middle of the street, it’s only because he’s larger dicked than the others and needs room to flair.

It’s that part at the end… “Even when he’s randomly high kicking over a rope in the middle of the street, it’s only because he’s larger dicked than the others and needs room to flair.” Now I don’t know about you, but to me it looks like Tom Cruise is navigating himself into an area that’s roped off, which means lifting one leg scissor-kick style and then the other in a very controlled fashion, in order to access said area.

So essentially, Lainey has detected an exhibition of infantile behaviour being carried out by a man that everyone loves to disparage, when the man is just trying to get over an obstruction. Forgive me if I don’t think he’s having another freakout episode the way he did with Oprah and Matt Lauer, but he’s just not. He’s simply scouting for a location and was trying to get from point A to point B. He’s not erratically and impulsively kicking out his legs so that everyone can move out of his way and let him perform his antics because he’s sure his dick is just so much bigger than everyone else’s. That is a completely absurd observation of this photo. And what makes it worse is that Lainey is just so damn positive that she’s called this one out correctly, and is getting so many chuckles out of what she thinks is witty, when really it’s just a sad, baseless commentary on a slow news day.

I would love nothing more than to sit down with Lainey and shoot the shit over some cocktails and cigarettes, but not when she’s finding every minutia of Tom Cruise’s life amusing enough to exploit.

Photo: Wenn.com via LaineyGossip

#Lainey Gossip #Tom Cruise #laineygossip.com
/4 notes /04:34 PM

The Curious Case of Lindsay Lohan Lindsay Lohan must be snorting everything she can get her freckly fingers on in the wake of Emma Stone’s glorious introduction into the world of film. Not only is Stone a perfect physical replacement for anything Lindsay Lohan might be cast for, but she emits this aura of classiness that is undeniably genuine, and can probably out-act Lohan any day, simply based on her superior ability to stay sober. I know I shouldn’t be shocked, but I almost fell to the floor when I saw Lindsay in a commercial promoting her upcoming spoof film: The Underground Comedy Movie 2010. Directed by and starring Vince Offer (you know, the shamwow/slapchop guy) this movie is a sequel to what has been called one of the worst movies of all time, The Underground Comedy Movie. I know the girl is hurting for work and at the rate she spends, she can’t really afford to turn anything down, but this is a low that I thought was still a long time coming. I mean, I thought Dancing With the Stars would come first. You would think it certainly has more cred than ‘the worst movie of all time’ at the very least. Now comes the news that Lohan has failed two court-ordered drug tests, which is not a shock to anyone, but along with her widely disseminated dirty laundry came a very unexpected but no longer undeniable admission of her guilt. Only in Lindsay’s case, her confession/excuse of being a victim of a disease that cannot be easily treated overnight is anemic at best. Being the progeny of two destructive and selfish parents that continue to use her for both money and notoriety has equipped her with a sense of entitlement that rivals that of a legitimately rich spoiled brat like Paris Hilton. And to become so delusional is not an easy feat, especially when everyone can foresee the end of your career except you. I really stand behind Lindsay Lohan getting better because everyone deserves that chance and to not be judged for making poor decisions all throughout their youth. But at the same time, this girl just doesn’t get it. If she could only take her eyes off herself for 10 minutes, step back and see the craziness that she’s allowed to swallow her identity maybe she could slink out of the spotlight for long enough to recover. Instead, she swings recklessly from chandelier to chandelier, in search of her next moment of failure and a can of Red Bull. I was trying to find an old photo of Lindsay during her first SCRAM anklet years but I came across this BFF shot and couldn’t resist posting. Surely this will inspire a requisite Taylor Momsen rant. Photo via Zimbio.com

The Curious Case of Lindsay Lohan

Lindsay Lohan must be snorting everything she can get her freckly fingers on in the wake of Emma Stone’s glorious introduction into the world of film. Not only is Stone a perfect physical replacement for anything Lindsay Lohan might be cast for, but she emits this aura of classiness that is undeniably genuine, and can probably out-act Lohan any day, simply based on her superior ability to stay sober.

I know I shouldn’t be shocked, but I almost fell to the floor when I saw Lindsay in a commercial promoting her upcoming spoof film: The Underground Comedy Movie 2010. Directed by and starring Vince Offer (you know, the shamwow/slapchop guy) this movie is a sequel to what has been called one of the worst movies of all time, The Underground Comedy Movie. I know the girl is hurting for work and at the rate she spends, she can’t really afford to turn anything down, but this is a low that I thought was still a long time coming. I mean, I thought Dancing With the Stars would come first. You would think it certainly has more cred than ‘the worst movie of all time’ at the very least.

Now comes the news that Lohan has failed two court-ordered drug tests, which is not a shock to anyone, but along with her widely disseminated dirty laundry came a very unexpected but no longer undeniable admission of her guilt. Only in Lindsay’s case, her confession/excuse of being a victim of a disease that cannot be easily treated overnight is anemic at best. Being the progeny of two destructive and selfish parents that continue to use her for both money and notoriety has equipped her with a sense of entitlement that rivals that of a legitimately rich spoiled brat like Paris Hilton. And to become so delusional is not an easy feat, especially when everyone can foresee the end of your career except you.

I really stand behind Lindsay Lohan getting better because everyone deserves that chance and to not be judged for making poor decisions all throughout their youth. But at the same time, this girl just doesn’t get it. If she could only take her eyes off herself for 10 minutes, step back and see the craziness that she’s allowed to swallow her identity maybe she could slink out of the spotlight for long enough to recover. Instead, she swings recklessly from chandelier to chandelier, in search of her next moment of failure and a can of Red Bull.

I was trying to find an old photo of Lindsay during her first SCRAM anklet years but I came across this BFF shot and couldn’t resist posting. Surely this will inspire a requisite Taylor Momsen rant.

Photo via Zimbio.com


#lindsay lohan #underground comedy movie #vince offer #sham wow #slapchop
/11:12 AM

September 17, 2010

Cheating Makes Me Stronger I thought I’d write a follow-up to my piece about Leann Rimes. Like Jessica Simpson, she is so caught up in her own affairs of the heart that she has abandoned all sense of dignity and wears her emotions on her sleeve. I’m all for being head over heels in love, but not to the point where you cannot see clearly anymore and start letting your love life play out in public for everyone to judge. If this is the game you play, then you have no one to blame but yourself. Having already touched upon her obvious desperation to garner some badly-needed media attention through the showy boasting of her once-forbidden romance, I’m now going to address her latest ploy to maintain relevancy, which is by posing for the cover of yet another fitness magazine, the only magazines that will feature her as a cover model. And it’s not about what she’s doing on the cover, so much as what she’s saying in between. Without going into the whole boring article, here are the highlights: “My relationship with Dean was great, but ultimately it wasn’t a fulfilling marriage for either of us,” says the singer, 28. “We got married so young: I was 19 and he was 21, so as we got older, we grew apart.”“I understand why people are disappointed in me, especially since I grew up as America’s sweetheart,” she says. “I think any relationship is hard to get out of, and I don’t think the way I did it was right.” Looking back, she says, “I truly believe there are lessons in it for me to learn. Cultivating strength from rough situations is the most important thing. After going through this, I know I can face anything.” Her favorite body part? “My butt—well, I’ve always had a butt—but now I definitely have a butt, which I love.” So she opened her mouth and a bunch of verbal diarrhea spewed forth, prompting talk-show amazon, Wendy Williams to call her out on her infidelities saying, “It’s all very sloppy.” Leann has since tweeted back in defense of herself, calling Williams, “mean.” Oooh, good comeback. Personally, I think if you’re going to share your relationship with some dude you fucked while you were both married, to the world via twitter or body magazines, then you deserve any kind of scrutiny that is thrown your way. It’s obvious that Leann got exactly what she wanted by having the affair, but she’s not happy about her image being marred by the unforgiving press. What did she think would happen? She probably thought a throng of female fans would look up to her and covet all the things she possesses in life: talent, a great healthy bod, and a dimply-faced cut of man meat that she could proudly and openly parade around before the mainstream media. Even more than that, she views herself as quite the catch and probably wanted to project this irresistible self to all the men that normally save their ogling for the likes of Megan Fox. Instead, all she got was a moral reprimanding by the very people she was trying to impress. I also love how she points to growing up as “America’s Sweetheart” as the reason why so many people were disappointed in her. She was a child star, I’ll give her that, but she wasn’t exactly beloved by anyone who lived outside of the Bible Belt. By trying to ascribe more positive qualities to herself than merited, she comes off as an arrogant cliche. Hearing her say the words, it’s almost like I’ve never heard anyone say with such confidence that they love their big ass, or that surviving a tough time will ultimately make them stronger. So original. Someday Leann Rimes will learn that the best way to enjoy her relationship with her man is to keep to herself and be self-effacing. Until then, we have an endless supply of twitty tweets to keep us entertained. Photo via AccessHollywood.com

Cheating Makes Me Stronger

I thought I’d write a follow-up to my piece about Leann Rimes. Like Jessica Simpson, she is so caught up in her own affairs of the heart that she has abandoned all sense of dignity and wears her emotions on her sleeve. I’m all for being head over heels in love, but not to the point where you cannot see clearly anymore and start letting your love life play out in public for everyone to judge. If this is the game you play, then you have no one to blame but yourself.

Having already touched upon her obvious desperation to garner some badly-needed media attention through the showy boasting of her once-forbidden romance, I’m now going to address her latest ploy to maintain relevancy, which is by posing for the cover of yet another fitness magazine, the only magazines that will feature her as a cover model.

And it’s not about what she’s doing on the cover, so much as what she’s saying in between. Without going into the whole boring article, here are the highlights:

“My relationship with Dean was great, but ultimately it wasn’t a fulfilling marriage for either of us,” says the singer, 28. “We got married so young: I was 19 and he was 21, so as we got older, we grew apart.”
“I understand why people are disappointed in me, especially since I grew up as America’s sweetheart,” she says.

“I think any relationship is hard to get out of, and I don’t think the way I did it was right.”

Looking back, she says, “I truly believe there are lessons in it for me to learn. Cultivating strength from rough situations is the most important thing. After going through this, I know I can face anything.”

Her favorite body part? “My butt—well, I’ve always had a butt—but now I definitely have a butt, which I love.”

So she opened her mouth and a bunch of verbal diarrhea spewed forth, prompting talk-show amazon, Wendy Williams to call her out on her infidelities saying, “It’s all very sloppy.” Leann has since tweeted back in defense of herself, calling Williams, “mean.” Oooh, good comeback.

Personally, I think if you’re going to share your relationship with some dude you fucked while you were both married, to the world via twitter or body magazines, then you deserve any kind of scrutiny that is thrown your way. It’s obvious that Leann got exactly what she wanted by having the affair, but she’s not happy about her image being marred by the unforgiving press. What did she think would happen?

She probably thought a throng of female fans would look up to her and covet all the things she possesses in life: talent, a great healthy bod, and a dimply-faced cut of man meat that she could proudly and openly parade around before the mainstream media. Even more than that, she views herself as quite the catch and probably wanted to project this irresistible self to all the men that normally save their ogling for the likes of Megan Fox. Instead, all she got was a moral reprimanding by the very people she was trying to impress.

I also love how she points to growing up as “America’s Sweetheart” as the reason why so many people were disappointed in her. She was a child star, I’ll give her that, but she wasn’t exactly beloved by anyone who lived outside of the Bible Belt. By trying to ascribe more positive qualities to herself than merited, she comes off as an arrogant cliche. Hearing her say the words, it’s almost like I’ve never heard anyone say with such confidence that they love their big ass, or that surviving a tough time will ultimately make them stronger. So original.

Someday Leann Rimes will learn that the best way to enjoy her relationship with her man is to keep to herself and be self-effacing. Until then, we have an endless supply of twitty tweets to keep us entertained.

Photo via AccessHollywood.com

#leann rimes #wendy williams #cheating #gossip #celebrity #eddie cibrian
/1 note /03:27 PM

More Eric Bana, Less Brad Pitt I really like Eric Bana. I say, there’s not enough Eric Bana in the world. I realize there’s only one of him, and that’s all there can ever be, but it wouldn’t hurt to cast him in more films. First of all, he’s incredibly attractive and he’s got a total Richard Gere thing going for him without having to actually be or really resemble Richard Gere, if that makes any sense. Secondly, he’s seemingly mild-mannered and stays out of the spotlight. A girl can really grow to love that about a man, especially an actor. It’s respectable and sexy. Third, he’s got a really anonymous face, unlike someone like Brad Pitt. And you’d think that would work against you in Hollywood, but as a true film lover, I tire of seeing the same familiar faces in all the good movies because they become less believable with each role they assume and I become more convinced they’re one-trick ponies. Someone like Brad Pitt might be an alright actor, but he’s Brad freakin’ Pitt. There’s no shortage of Brad Pitt in movies because he’s an automatic cash grab, but when you oversaturate the market with one celebrity, it will backfire because the public grows weary and jaded quickly. But besides being ubiquitous in film, Brad Pitt has a larger-than-life persona, so I find it much more difficult to suspend disbelief. Whereas with Eric Bana, it’s so easy to see him in any role because he doesn’t have the same level of superstardom outside of his career. He can play someone’s father or a sheriff or a vampire without me ever having to really think about it. There was a time for Brad Pitt, but let’s move on to Eric Bana PLEASE. I thought I’d include a scrumptious photo of Eric and his wife to make your day less dreary. What a lovely and real couple they make. No wax figurines here! Photo via Zimbio.com

More Eric Bana, Less Brad Pitt

I really like Eric Bana. I say, there’s not enough Eric Bana in the world. I realize there’s only one of him, and that’s all there can ever be, but it wouldn’t hurt to cast him in more films. First of all, he’s incredibly attractive and he’s got a total Richard Gere thing going for him without having to actually be or really resemble Richard Gere, if that makes any sense. Secondly, he’s seemingly mild-mannered and stays out of the spotlight. A girl can really grow to love that about a man, especially an actor. It’s respectable and sexy.

Third, he’s got a really anonymous face, unlike someone like Brad Pitt. And you’d think that would work against you in Hollywood, but as a true film lover, I tire of seeing the same familiar faces in all the good movies because they become less believable with each role they assume and I become more convinced they’re one-trick ponies. Someone like Brad Pitt might be an alright actor, but he’s Brad freakin’ Pitt. There’s no shortage of Brad Pitt in movies because he’s an automatic cash grab, but when you oversaturate the market with one celebrity, it will backfire because the public grows weary and jaded quickly. But besides being ubiquitous in film, Brad Pitt has a larger-than-life persona, so I find it much more difficult to suspend disbelief. Whereas with Eric Bana, it’s so easy to see him in any role because he doesn’t have the same level of superstardom outside of his career. He can play someone’s father or a sheriff or a vampire without me ever having to really think about it. There was a time for Brad Pitt, but let’s move on to Eric Bana PLEASE.

I thought I’d include a scrumptious photo of Eric and his wife to make your day less dreary. What a lovely and real couple they make. No wax figurines here!

Photo via Zimbio.com

#eric bana #brad pitt
/01:39 PM

September 12, 2010

2010 MTV VMAs Liveblog So the VMAs has started and no surprise, they’re using Eminem as their opening act. It starts as a very subdued and honest performance of Not Afraid, on a set that resembles the small, brick-walled venues he got his start freestylin in, and graduates onto the huge MTV stage. As he continues rapping through a couple of verses, mostly without frills, the stage suddenly goes silent and Rihanna appears, looking like a beautiful Ronald McDonald in combat boots and a fairy dress, singing her Love The Way You Lie hook. They duet some more, again without much ado, and the song ends and everyone is thrilled, jumping out of their seats and the backdrop is on video-screen fire. The standard remixed announcer’s voiceover comes on and the Chelsea Handler sketch begins, intro-ing her as the host of this year’s VMAs. She’s walking through a hallway and all these black dudes she’s passing keep slapping her ass as they greet her. Are these people I’m supposed to recognize or is this just some strange, uncalled-for statement about black men? Suddenly she runs into a healthy and even normal looking Lindsay Lohan, who elicits an enthused cheer from the crowd, and she scolds Handler for drinking and setting off her SCRAM bracelet. Ha ha. They open the monologue with Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance and Chelsea Handler is dressed with a house on her head for a hat, and some shredded garland for a skirt. She lifts it up and releases a dove from her crotch and gets a mild laugh. Not very funny at all, but somehow endearing, no? She seems softer than usual (did she get a facelift?), but not just in looks, also in her humour, which has probably been diluted for air. She’s kind of cute still, strutting around on her tall heels, wearing her Brigitte Bardot hair as if she weren’t doing everything I’m sure she has always totally been against. She finally launches into her joke about the big black elephant in the room, obviously Kanye, and wraps up by showing the crowd how to keep a crasher offstage by pretending to unleash her self-defense moves on some poor protective gear-clad sucker. Ellen introduces the Video for Best Female Video and in what is sure to be a string of wins, Lady Gaga collects the award while teetering to the stage on her Alexander McQueen giraffe hoof heels. She thanks him in her speech because he clearly contributes more to her mystique through her wearing his incredible creations, than through any original expression of her own. And showing everyone that gray hair isn’t just some passing fad, she dons a long velvety wig of bluish-silver hue and tops it off with some sort of glittery tinker-toy structure running down the centre of head like a mohawk. Johnny Knoxville and the cast of Jackass present the award for Best Rock Video and wear 3D glasses on stage to watch some clips from what I’m guessing is an upcoming series(?), which has clearly run out of ideas and now blatantly steals its material from Wipeout. In what is a total shock to me, out of MGMT, Florence and the Machine, 30 Seconds to Mars, Muse, and Paramore, 30 Seconds to Mars wins the award and so I must prepare myself to be subjected to Jared Leto’s overinflated ego despite my best efforts. But he simply thanks his fans and doesn’t come off that cocky or weird at all and I feel stupid that I was ever scared. Laughably, they introduce Kim Kardashian as a fashion icon to further introduce Justin Bieber, and she reads from a teleprompter so poorly that I can’t follow her, she’s so inauthentic. Now here comes the Biebs. Get ready to have your heart melted…. A gazillion little girls are herded into some parking lot to watch him sing Baby Baby Baby, and I wonder if I’ve missed the news that MTV has been bought by Nickelodeon. He is quite a little dancer though. He’s definitely going to sleep tonight. Can’t believe he’s playing the drums! He’s a regular Donnie Wahlberg. Ke$ha and Trey Songz present the next performer and Ke$ha proves she’s done damage to her brain from too much JD by pausing for inappropriately long periods between her lines. Usher comes out in some sort of strange Mork from Ork ensemble, complete with kneepads for all the breakdancing he’s about to lay on our asses. I love OMG, I must admit, so I’m pretty excited and have to watch this part… Is it just me or has Usher put on a few pounds? Nah, it’s probably just because he’s dancing with 50 pounds of pleather armour on his tiny frame. Strange men are rappelling from the ceiling. Why? Loving this so much…. Wow, of course I loved the whole drumline bit at the end too. Ahh, that was satisfying to watch. Even Bieber is impressed. Oh, I guess he would be seeing as how that’s his mentor and all. Katy Perry and some chick I have no idea who she is come out and present the next award. What is this strange trend of wearing nude fabric tops? So unflattering, and I’m sure there’s a chunky zipper down the back like there was on Olivia Wilde’s Emmy’s dress. VMA for Best Male Video goes to Em for Not Afraid. Apparently Em has already left the building to catch a plane for Philly so Katy Perry awkwardly shouts out, “Nicki Minaj!” and so now I know who that chick is and that you pronounce her name ménage. What is this DeadMau5 business and when did what I think is house music get big again? I’m so old. The Chelsea Handler bit where she’s singing everything to Jason Derulo and Ke$ha in autotune is pretty hilarious but I think the jokes about autotune rode into the sunset long ago so… not very original MTV! Florence and the Machine are on, introduced by Jared Leto, damn it! That guy is acting far too moderate for my liking. Where are the silver Crocs? Watching Florence and the Machine perform makes me think that singers like Christina Aguilera must be seething to know that they can’t ever be that kind of artist. Florence’s big ethereal voice, flaming red locks, and gossamers gowns are so mesmerizing and empowering, and so much more meaningful and honest than Christina Aguilera, who still hasn’t been able to figure out which identity is going to maintain her relevance for longer than three months at a time. I just love Florence and the Machine and can hardly believe that they have to pander to thousands of Justin Bieber fans at their first VMAs. I love how they don’t teach Jane Lynch how to pronounce Ke$ha’s name so she looks like a total old ass up there and disses Ke$ha in the process, which isn’t a completely bad thing I suppose. But it doesn’t matter because Lady Gaga wins the award for Best Pop Video anyway. She needs two assistants to aid her the five steps from her seat to the stage because her dress apparently weighs too much for her to be mobile on her own. She continues to wear strange acrylic mohawk pieces on her head, but this time in black to match her Glad garbage bag gown filled with anvils. Oh little fame monsters, what would she do without you? Taylor Swift takes the stage by appearing after a melodramatic montage of last year’s Kanye sabotage on a black and white 60s television screen. Was that this generation’s JFK assassination? Pan to a glamorously styled Swift, playing a silver guitar and singing in trademark wonky voice. Yawn… but it is nice that she can finally have her big moment, possibly only to prove that she really didn’t deserve to win that award last year. Why does hearing her sing inevitably make me feel so uncomfortable? As I unclench my jaw, the Chelsea Handler bits continue, with her screaming at Justin Bieber to give her his wig, which he keeps insisting is not a wig, much to her chagrin. Again I must say, these jokes are a little old aren’t they? Or maybe I should cut them some slack because this is the first opportunity they’ve had to exploit them during a live broadcast since these singers have acquired their fame. Regardless, the other Justin, Justin Timberlake, comes out with two young dudes I don’t recognize to usher in Mary J. Blige and the much-anticipated Drake appearance. The stage is adorned in fancy ladies in swivel chairs and tiny little white lights with Drake globoed onto the center backdrop. Mary J. Blige sings in Drake, who Diddy-struts down a staircase and starts flowing in his white Sinatra jacket and… did I see that correctly? Is that a black turtleneck? I’m going to have to look that up later because that’s swagger if it’s true. It’s a nice performance but Mary J. Blige is kind of ruining the badass potential with her tired fedora styles. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Blige, but Drake isn’t being showcased enough, and Mary J. Blige isn’t old enough to be getting this kind of props like say, the way Betty White has been in the parallel celebrity world of acting. Wouldn’t it have been awesome if that had been Chris Brown doing all the singing bumpers? It’s like the only way to revive his career is to slowly reintegrate him back into MTV society and that would have been the perfect spot for him! Not that I condone any of that. Instead, it’s some guy I yet again don’t know getting all the action. The Jersey Shore cast do their thing in a jacuzzi and throw to Chelsea Handler, who throws to Sofia Vergara, who rambles in her charmingly half-fabricated accent. The Best Hip Hop Video award is presented to… “Ay yai yai! Eminem!” Aw shucks… it wasn’t Drake. Well now it’s getting really uneventful because remember everyone, Eminem isn’t here! He couldn’t even stay two lousy hours to gather a handful of awards, the ungrateful jerk. And if that weren’t enough, now Chelsea Handler is in the jacuzzi with the Jersey Shore cast in her cutout LBD, only to stumble out with a fake pregnant belly strapped to her, in a skit I wasn’t listening to so I didn’t fully get. Embarrassingly, they stick the always classy Ne-yo with elfin Selena Gomez to present Bruno Mars and B.o.B. I’ve gotta take a 10 minute break to go kill a bug and wash my hands of the deed. Excuse me… I’m back. Bruno Mars and B.o.B. collaborated on Nothing on You which lead nicely into Airplanes with Hayley Williams. I then pleasantly learned that Paramore sing that song, with the lyrics, “and you are the only exception…,” because they play it live. I hear that song a lot on the radio (yes I still listen to the radio, don’t mock), and it’s grown on me, but now I’m surprised by my own naivety. Out of the blue, Robyn makes a flashy, spritely comeback, and at first I have no clue who it is. I’m starting to think I really shouldn’t have cancelled those subscriptions to Spin and Rolling Stone years ago when lo and behold, the delicious Emma Stone appears onscreen and makes me search for a q-tip to clean my ears out with because did she just say, “Linkin Park?” Come on. Seriously, what year is this? Linkin Park had this kind of staying power? Who knew? I am from another school of music appreciation. Somewhere amongst all of that business, Biebs won Best New Artist and couldn’t find his way to the stage. Hilarious, that little guy. Where was I when this was happening? Killing the bug, one must assume. And now as we eagerly anticipate Kanye West’s great repentant MTV return, I must take another break to fully digest what will surely be a crowning finish to an otherwise snorefest of an awards show. Wait… in a crazy homage to pantslessness, Cher is the big surprise guest that is presenting the award for Video of the Year. Katy Perry, Rihanna and Ke$ha are standing side by side, in jaw-drop awe, stars alit in their eyes as they gaze upon their pantaloon-emancipated idol. But it’s the other pants-free goddess, Lady Gaga, who wins and this time is wearing a meat dress inspired by her meat dress from a recent magazine shoot to give her speech and impromptu song. She asks Cher to hold her meat purse and then exclaims that she never thought she’d ask that of Cher, but you kind of have to wonder if that wasn’t exactly what Lady Gaga has been building up her entire life and body of work for… “I’m sorry Cher, but can you hold my meat purse?” A toast to douchebags, assholes, scumbags, jerkoffs, the guys that never take work off? Is that what he said? Oh Kanye. You’re so prolific, but at the same time, you’re bordering on R. Kelly territory. I loved the ballet dancers, but I’m partial because I work closely with ballet dancers. I hope this isn’t part of the trend that will surely ensue when Black Swan finally makes its way into major theatres and wins Natalie Portman an Oscar, because otherwise, I can’t understand the ballet dancers. Was he trying to be fragile? Was he toasting to himself? Yes! That’s it! Kanye’s performance was a love letter to himself after his self-directed twitter lashout. Poor thing, still hasn’t recovered from last year’s show. In my opinion, Usher saved that show, but I’m always up for a ridiculously self-indulgent Kanye spectacle so… well-played Kanye, but let’s tone it down on the Trapped in the Closet allusions. Oh, and stop ripping off my husband’s styles. We don’t want to share our love for red with you. And that was my MTV VMAs viewing experience in a nutshell. Off to bed. Photo: Robin Beck/AFP/Getty Images via EOnline

2010 MTV VMAs Liveblog

So the VMAs has started and no surprise, they’re using Eminem as their opening act. It starts as a very subdued and honest performance of Not Afraid, on a set that resembles the small, brick-walled venues he got his start freestylin in, and graduates onto the huge MTV stage. As he continues rapping through a couple of verses, mostly without frills, the stage suddenly goes silent and Rihanna appears, looking like a beautiful Ronald McDonald in combat boots and a fairy dress, singing her Love The Way You Lie hook. They duet some more, again without much ado, and the song ends and everyone is thrilled, jumping out of their seats and the backdrop is on video-screen fire.

The standard remixed announcer’s voiceover comes on and the Chelsea Handler sketch begins, intro-ing her as the host of this year’s VMAs. She’s walking through a hallway and all these black dudes she’s passing keep slapping her ass as they greet her. Are these people I’m supposed to recognize or is this just some strange, uncalled-for statement about black men? Suddenly she runs into a healthy and even normal looking Lindsay Lohan, who elicits an enthused cheer from the crowd, and she scolds Handler for drinking and setting off her SCRAM bracelet. Ha ha.

They open the monologue with Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance and Chelsea Handler is dressed with a house on her head for a hat, and some shredded garland for a skirt. She lifts it up and releases a dove from her crotch and gets a mild laugh. Not very funny at all, but somehow endearing, no? She seems softer than usual (did she get a facelift?), but not just in looks, also in her humour, which has probably been diluted for air. She’s kind of cute still, strutting around on her tall heels, wearing her Brigitte Bardot hair as if she weren’t doing everything I’m sure she has always totally been against. She finally launches into her joke about the big black elephant in the room, obviously Kanye, and wraps up by showing the crowd how to keep a crasher offstage by pretending to unleash her self-defense moves on some poor protective gear-clad sucker.

Ellen introduces the Video for Best Female Video and in what is sure to be a string of wins, Lady Gaga collects the award while teetering to the stage on her Alexander McQueen giraffe hoof heels. She thanks him in her speech because he clearly contributes more to her mystique through her wearing his incredible creations, than through any original expression of her own. And showing everyone that gray hair isn’t just some passing fad, she dons a long velvety wig of bluish-silver hue and tops it off with some sort of glittery tinker-toy structure running down the centre of head like a mohawk.

Johnny Knoxville and the cast of Jackass present the award for Best Rock Video and wear 3D glasses on stage to watch some clips from what I’m guessing is an upcoming series(?), which has clearly run out of ideas and now blatantly steals its material from Wipeout. In what is a total shock to me, out of MGMT, Florence and the Machine, 30 Seconds to Mars, Muse, and Paramore, 30 Seconds to Mars wins the award and so I must prepare myself to be subjected to Jared Leto’s overinflated ego despite my best efforts. But he simply thanks his fans and doesn’t come off that cocky or weird at all and I feel stupid that I was ever scared.

Laughably, they introduce Kim Kardashian as a fashion icon to further introduce Justin Bieber, and she reads from a teleprompter so poorly that I can’t follow her, she’s so inauthentic. Now here comes the Biebs. Get ready to have your heart melted…. A gazillion little girls are herded into some parking lot to watch him sing Baby Baby Baby, and I wonder if I’ve missed the news that MTV has been bought by Nickelodeon. He is quite a little dancer though. He’s definitely going to sleep tonight. Can’t believe he’s playing the drums! He’s a regular Donnie Wahlberg.

Ke$ha and Trey Songz present the next performer and Ke$ha proves she’s done damage to her brain from too much JD by pausing for inappropriately long periods between her lines. Usher comes out in some sort of strange Mork from Ork ensemble, complete with kneepads for all the breakdancing he’s about to lay on our asses. I love OMG, I must admit, so I’m pretty excited and have to watch this part… Is it just me or has Usher put on a few pounds? Nah, it’s probably just because he’s dancing with 50 pounds of pleather armour on his tiny frame. Strange men are rappelling from the ceiling. Why? Loving this so much…. Wow, of course I loved the whole drumline bit at the end too. Ahh, that was satisfying to watch. Even Bieber is impressed. Oh, I guess he would be seeing as how that’s his mentor and all.

Katy Perry and some chick I have no idea who she is come out and present the next award. What is this strange trend of wearing nude fabric tops? So unflattering, and I’m sure there’s a chunky zipper down the back like there was on Olivia Wilde’s Emmy’s dress. VMA for Best Male Video goes to Em for Not Afraid. Apparently Em has already left the building to catch a plane for Philly so Katy Perry awkwardly shouts out, “Nicki Minaj!” and so now I know who that chick is and that you pronounce her name ménage. What is this DeadMau5 business and when did what I think is house music get big again? I’m so old.

The Chelsea Handler bit where she’s singing everything to Jason Derulo and Ke$ha in autotune is pretty hilarious but I think the jokes about autotune rode into the sunset long ago so… not very original MTV! Florence and the Machine are on, introduced by Jared Leto, damn it! That guy is acting far too moderate for my liking. Where are the silver Crocs? Watching Florence and the Machine perform makes me think that singers like Christina Aguilera must be seething to know that they can’t ever be that kind of artist. Florence’s big ethereal voice, flaming red locks, and gossamers gowns are so mesmerizing and empowering, and so much more meaningful and honest than Christina Aguilera, who still hasn’t been able to figure out which identity is going to maintain her relevance for longer than three months at a time. I just love Florence and the Machine and can hardly believe that they have to pander to thousands of Justin Bieber fans at their first VMAs.

I love how they don’t teach Jane Lynch how to pronounce Ke$ha’s name so she looks like a total old ass up there and disses Ke$ha in the process, which isn’t a completely bad thing I suppose. But it doesn’t matter because Lady Gaga wins the award for Best Pop Video anyway. She needs two assistants to aid her the five steps from her seat to the stage because her dress apparently weighs too much for her to be mobile on her own. She continues to wear strange acrylic mohawk pieces on her head, but this time in black to match her Glad garbage bag gown filled with anvils. Oh little fame monsters, what would she do without you?

Taylor Swift takes the stage by appearing after a melodramatic montage of last year’s Kanye sabotage on a black and white 60s television screen. Was that this generation’s JFK assassination? Pan to a glamorously styled Swift, playing a silver guitar and singing in trademark wonky voice. Yawn… but it is nice that she can finally have her big moment, possibly only to prove that she really didn’t deserve to win that award last year. Why does hearing her sing inevitably make me feel so uncomfortable?

As I unclench my jaw, the Chelsea Handler bits continue, with her screaming at Justin Bieber to give her his wig, which he keeps insisting is not a wig, much to her chagrin. Again I must say, these jokes are a little old aren’t they? Or maybe I should cut them some slack because this is the first opportunity they’ve had to exploit them during a live broadcast since these singers have acquired their fame. Regardless, the other Justin, Justin Timberlake, comes out with two young dudes I don’t recognize to usher in Mary J. Blige and the much-anticipated Drake appearance. The stage is adorned in fancy ladies in swivel chairs and tiny little white lights with Drake globoed onto the center backdrop. Mary J. Blige sings in Drake, who Diddy-struts down a staircase and starts flowing in his white Sinatra jacket and… did I see that correctly? Is that a black turtleneck? I’m going to have to look that up later because that’s swagger if it’s true. It’s a nice performance but Mary J. Blige is kind of ruining the badass potential with her tired fedora styles. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Blige, but Drake isn’t being showcased enough, and Mary J. Blige isn’t old enough to be getting this kind of props like say, the way Betty White has been in the parallel celebrity world of acting.

Wouldn’t it have been awesome if that had been Chris Brown doing all the singing bumpers? It’s like the only way to revive his career is to slowly reintegrate him back into MTV society and that would have been the perfect spot for him! Not that I condone any of that. Instead, it’s some guy I yet again don’t know getting all the action. The Jersey Shore cast do their thing in a jacuzzi and throw to Chelsea Handler, who throws to Sofia Vergara, who rambles in her charmingly half-fabricated accent. The Best Hip Hop Video award is presented to… “Ay yai yai! Eminem!” Aw shucks… it wasn’t Drake. Well now it’s getting really uneventful because remember everyone, Eminem isn’t here! He couldn’t even stay two lousy hours to gather a handful of awards, the ungrateful jerk. And if that weren’t enough, now Chelsea Handler is in the jacuzzi with the Jersey Shore cast in her cutout LBD, only to stumble out with a fake pregnant belly strapped to her, in a skit I wasn’t listening to so I didn’t fully get.

Embarrassingly, they stick the always classy Ne-yo with elfin Selena Gomez to present Bruno Mars and B.o.B. I’ve gotta take a 10 minute break to go kill a bug and wash my hands of the deed. Excuse me…

I’m back. Bruno Mars and B.o.B. collaborated on Nothing on You which lead nicely into Airplanes with Hayley Williams. I then pleasantly learned that Paramore sing that song, with the lyrics, “and you are the only exception…,” because they play it live. I hear that song a lot on the radio (yes I still listen to the radio, don’t mock), and it’s grown on me, but now I’m surprised by my own naivety. Out of the blue, Robyn makes a flashy, spritely comeback, and at first I have no clue who it is. I’m starting to think I really shouldn’t have cancelled those subscriptions to Spin and Rolling Stone years ago when lo and behold, the delicious Emma Stone appears onscreen and makes me search for a q-tip to clean my ears out with because did she just say, “Linkin Park?” Come on. Seriously, what year is this? Linkin Park had this kind of staying power? Who knew? I am from another school of music appreciation.

Somewhere amongst all of that business, Biebs won Best New Artist and couldn’t find his way to the stage. Hilarious, that little guy. Where was I when this was happening? Killing the bug, one must assume. And now as we eagerly anticipate Kanye West’s great repentant MTV return, I must take another break to fully digest what will surely be a crowning finish to an otherwise snorefest of an awards show.

Wait… in a crazy homage to pantslessness, Cher is the big surprise guest that is presenting the award for Video of the Year. Katy Perry, Rihanna and Ke$ha are standing side by side, in jaw-drop awe, stars alit in their eyes as they gaze upon their pantaloon-emancipated idol. But it’s the other pants-free goddess, Lady Gaga, who wins and this time is wearing a meat dress inspired by her meat dress from a recent magazine shoot to give her speech and impromptu song. She asks Cher to hold her meat purse and then exclaims that she never thought she’d ask that of Cher, but you kind of have to wonder if that wasn’t exactly what Lady Gaga has been building up her entire life and body of work for… “I’m sorry Cher, but can you hold my meat purse?”

A toast to douchebags, assholes, scumbags, jerkoffs, the guys that never take work off? Is that what he said? Oh Kanye. You’re so prolific, but at the same time, you’re bordering on R. Kelly territory. I loved the ballet dancers, but I’m partial because I work closely with ballet dancers. I hope this isn’t part of the trend that will surely ensue when Black Swan finally makes its way into major theatres and wins Natalie Portman an Oscar, because otherwise, I can’t understand the ballet dancers. Was he trying to be fragile? Was he toasting to himself? Yes! That’s it! Kanye’s performance was a love letter to himself after his self-directed twitter lashout. Poor thing, still hasn’t recovered from last year’s show. In my opinion, Usher saved that show, but I’m always up for a ridiculously self-indulgent Kanye spectacle so… well-played Kanye, but let’s tone it down on the Trapped in the Closet allusions. Oh, and stop ripping off my husband’s styles. We don’t want to share our love for red with you.

And that was my MTV VMAs viewing experience in a nutshell. Off to bed.

Photo: Robin Beck/AFP/Getty Images via EOnline

#MTV #VMAs #Lady Gaga #Justin Bieber #Katy Perry #BoB #Drake #Eminem #Rihanna #Florence and the Machine #Chelsea Handler #Emma Stone
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