Let me be the first to congratulate Gisel Bundchen and Tom Brady on their stealth Thursday night nuptials. They are a match made in bod-squad heaven, and now Hollywood will predictably begin a cycle in which everyone a) starts to ask when they are going to procreate b) speculates that she is already pregnant and c) begins comparing the yet as unknown child - who we can all Gis-om, because let's face it, that kid could be named Tampon and still be a knockout - to the Brangelina progeny.
I don't mind this speculation, mostly for the child's sake. If I was the product of those two, I'd hope the press was applying some serious pressure so that I could get myself conceived ASAP.
And secondly - the people that said that an ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure have it right. I checked out Gwyneth Paltrow's blog GOOP after having heard more about it than I had ever wanted to, and I must echo the grumblings of a much disgruntled constituency. She may have been well-intentioned, but should have more aptly been titled POOH for 'Pretension! Ooooh.' Pooh-bear has looks, talent, and a husband who croons, but I think her site is a load of...yeah, goop.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Oscar Primping 2009
Ok, let's discuss an event that has already been discussed to death: the Oscars.
I am always captivated and grateful for this day of Hollywood glitterificness. This year, I was given more to be thankful for than ever before. As the worldwide economy whizzes pasts Turdsville on a sinking Craptanic, I am thankful for the plethora of Hollywood stars that filled the Kodak Theatre blinged out like a bunch of drunken thieves, talking about the issues that they know captivate us all: themselves.
In any year, I find it funny that we take a night out to celebrate the people that we celebrate the other 364 days a year. Especially since they do a good job at celebrating themselves. But this year, seeing a chilly-faced Angelina (and many, many others) march past us wearing emeralds the size of kumquats, I marveled at Hollywood's power to have no clue about what is going on around here. And when I say around here, I mean the other 2,999+ cities in the United States.
But it's not only the big stars. I also frown on PeeWee Seacrest.
Ryan Seacrest is no brainiac, but I watched gaping as he asked Danny Boyle if the children from Slumdog Millionaire were 'from real slums.' This followed Act I, in which Seacrest tried to interview the children, and having decided their names were too hard to pronounce, waved a scrap of paper containing the names wildly at the camera. I would venture to guess that if they were as famous as Anjalina Rajajolie, he would have gotten it right.
Let it be said that if Hollywood is a legion of primpers who've lost any sense of what real people are about, Mr. Seacrest is their Charmin Ultra.
Sure, the Oscars provide a distraction in these trying times. But so does cleaning my ears. If you want me to wear La Jolie's emeralds while I do it, we'd have a great show in about five minutes, saving ourselves the additional three hours of narcissistic drivel. If someone starts a Facebook group in support of this idea, hand me the kumquats, I'm yours.
I am always captivated and grateful for this day of Hollywood glitterificness. This year, I was given more to be thankful for than ever before. As the worldwide economy whizzes pasts Turdsville on a sinking Craptanic, I am thankful for the plethora of Hollywood stars that filled the Kodak Theatre blinged out like a bunch of drunken thieves, talking about the issues that they know captivate us all: themselves.
In any year, I find it funny that we take a night out to celebrate the people that we celebrate the other 364 days a year. Especially since they do a good job at celebrating themselves. But this year, seeing a chilly-faced Angelina (and many, many others) march past us wearing emeralds the size of kumquats, I marveled at Hollywood's power to have no clue about what is going on around here. And when I say around here, I mean the other 2,999+ cities in the United States.
But it's not only the big stars. I also frown on PeeWee Seacrest.
Ryan Seacrest is no brainiac, but I watched gaping as he asked Danny Boyle if the children from Slumdog Millionaire were 'from real slums.' This followed Act I, in which Seacrest tried to interview the children, and having decided their names were too hard to pronounce, waved a scrap of paper containing the names wildly at the camera. I would venture to guess that if they were as famous as Anjalina Rajajolie, he would have gotten it right.
Let it be said that if Hollywood is a legion of primpers who've lost any sense of what real people are about, Mr. Seacrest is their Charmin Ultra.
Sure, the Oscars provide a distraction in these trying times. But so does cleaning my ears. If you want me to wear La Jolie's emeralds while I do it, we'd have a great show in about five minutes, saving ourselves the additional three hours of narcissistic drivel. If someone starts a Facebook group in support of this idea, hand me the kumquats, I'm yours.
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