President Obama appeared on The View today, an action that was apparently highly controversial according to most major news outlets (Ed. note–Seriously, press? Y’all do realize that the President delivered a speech on Education today–like, real news, worthy of discussion–right?), and during part of the interview the ladies grilled him on hot pop culture buzz subjects, from Mel Gibson’s need for anger management to Snooki’s aptitude for running a small Alaskan city:
It has to be said: President Obama suffers from a syndrome I’d like to call “President Brain.” It’s like the guy pays so much attention to stuff like his job and the oil spill and the wars and the economic meltdown and the country’s soaring unemployment rate and SB 1070 and Robert Gibbs’s talking points or whatever, that he doesn’t have time to catch up on important stuff like Jezebel’s bitchy Daily Show drama or how Taylor Momsen may or may not be devolving into a teenage crackwhore!
Guys, I think I just read the most humiliating sublebrity story I’ve ever read. Like, ever.
It involves a certain celebrity mom (ahem, see right) abusing her two cash cows’ daughters’ Carvel Black Cards to the point of a major incident (I’m talking, like, cops). The tore-up, deluded famewhore mother leaked her version of the story to the tabloids and played the victim–in response, Carvel cleared their name by publicly naming and shaming the whole family in an official press release.
NOT LYING: I AM LITERALLY JITTERING WITH TINGLES OF MORTIFICASIAN FOR EVERYONE INVOLVED.
Read what I wrote again, please. I’m not talking about the AMEX Black Card, I’m talking about a freebie card distributed by CARVEL–the ice cream company–to famous (Ali Lohan is famous? Eh, who am I to judge) folks, to entice those celebrities to come in person (as stated in the card’s fine print) to Carvel stores for a maximum of $25 free purchases per week, for 75 years. Pretty sweet deal for a bunch of people who’ll likely be in rehab or formerly famous in ten years!
“The Mean Girls star had arrived in India to film an expose of child labour and trafficking of women which was later broadcast on BBC3, but she provoked a row when she claimed to have personally rescued 40 children.
In a series of updates on the social networking site Twitter, she boasted of her role in a daring raid on a child labour sweatshop and claimed the experience had changed her life….
…Now she may not be able to visit India again after officials looked at her case and found she had failed to apply for a work visa for her trip.“
So okay, there are just a couple of teensy things that your big sistaz here at DISGRASIAN have to say (if we may):
First of all, we can’t condone crime, baby. That shit is not good for our collective AZN rep. Stealing is especially frowned upon (unless it’s of the spotlight, the glory, or some dirty bitch’s boyfriend) because it reads as really desperate, sad behavior. Our peeps—we aren’t desperate! We shouldn’t steal stuff cuz we should have stuff. We don’t need stuff, we’ve got good stuff. And if we want more stuff, we just do reallyreallyreally well at something and get a bunch of money and then buy that stuff. Know what we mean?
Secondly, bravo on turning yourself in. That shows a bit of penance, or at least the smarts to build leverage before you and your buddies get threatened with prison time and beaten and forced to narc like crazy on each other until y’all are facing life without the possibility of parole or something. Did your parents make you hand yourself over to the fuzz? Wait–do your parents EVEN KNOW YOU [ALLEGEDLY] ROBBED A COUPLE OF CELEBRITIES YET?!? Or do they think you’re off at college or something and just not returning phone calls about your grades? If not, whoa, sister. We don’t know you, but our spare room is open if you get released and need to hide/crash somewhere for the rest of your life. Shit.
In my most shameful of moments, I once received a boot on my car.
Not my boot. Or my car. But you get the picture.
And, okay, it wasn’t that long ago.
Fine, FINE. I deserved it. I’d racked up about five parking tickets in one month, and each little slip quickly got lost somewhere in my junk mail, or my trunk, or my purse–every one of them crispy with dried coffee stains and dirty from, ah, me stamping them with fury into the ground. Out of sight, out of my busy muthafuckin’ mind! I kinda assumed that the parking gods would just take care of it and I wouldn’t have to pony up $160 overdue bucks a pop.
Wrongo! They didn’t. So one day, I got the boot.
Now here’s the thing. I’m troublesome, but I never get in trouble–and certainly, not with the LAW. This was the worst moment of my life. I felt like a criminal. I didn’t know what to do or how to handle the situation. Was this going on my permanent record? Would I have to pay my fines or face jail? Do they flog you when they return to remove the boot? Why was it so ORANGE? Where was my lawyer? Was I a bad person now?
And my gosh, the large orange mark of shame somehow negated all of the coolness of my slick black car paint and rad Steelers license plate frame! ACK!
Most importantly: WOULD THE TERRIBLE PEOPLE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE BOOT TELL MY PARENTS (who I haven’t lived with since age 17)?!??!
I called the number, my heart racing. The mean old lady on the phone told me come down to some super-secret government/law/prison/clerical (it all sounds the same to me) office, where I would meet my reckoning.
Immediately, I raced to my closet, trying to imagine the outfit that would best convey my a) intense, due shame b) willingness to turn my life around c) overall good citizenship and d) inability (okay, lack of desire) to pay the fines in full. After much deliberation, I landed on a modest, sensible, not-too-luxe getup that screamed “I’m a non-profit librarian and devoted disadvantaged youth volunteer!”
I showed up at the office–which turned out to be administrative, with no armed guards flanking the entrance. I took a number, walked up to the window, gave her a bunch of money. The (different) mean lady at the window informed me that the boot would soon be taken off, and I was all set–I would not be arrested or even given a talking-to by the police. Sure enough, twenty minutes later, the orange boot of shame was gone–like a whisper in the wind.
I can’t help but think that dressing the part, showing how ashamed I was for being bad, kinda stood for something. Sure, the responsible garb didn’t garner any discount from The Man that day, nor did it save me from a ritual beating (shockingly, people don’t get beaten over parking tickets–although maybe they should?), but it did tacitly express deep remorse for my wrongdoings when I walked into the building. That counts, somehow. At a certain point, we’ve got to just tuck our tail between our legs, bow our heads, and admit that we’ve done something wrong. We’re not loud and proud and wrong, we’re just wrong. That makes it, y’know, better.
Perhaps this is why, when I eyed Lindsay Lohan’s “look” for her court appearance last week (to discuss violation of her probation), I was taken aback.
Who appears before a judge looking like…
…a cracked out, greasy-haired…
Moreover, a not sorry one?
Fortunately, for Lindsay, celebrities don’t have to be sorry. We’ll still keep “rooting for them” and extending their probation.
The death of DJ AM, also known as Adam Goldstein, becomes increasingly sad as the details publicly unfold. The New York Post reported that AM, who passed away from an apparent drug overdose, was confronted by his worried sponsor and manager on Thursday night. After smoking crack and swallowing pills in front of his sponsor, he eventually promised to check into rehab after a scheduled gig at the Palms in Vegas. He just never made it.
The drugs found in his apartment, largely painkillers and anti-anxiety meds like Vicodin, oxycodone, Xanax and lorazepam, tell a tacit story that doesn’t seem to be one of wild, thrill-seeking self-destruction, but instead: a deep and dark struggle with a great deal of inner pain. It seems difficult to imagine how one might cope with events so traumatic is the plane crash he survived last year–which woefully injured him and friend Travis Barker, while stealing the lives of four others. I didn’t know him, but I feel truly sad for his suffering, and the fact that it led to a very lonely and tragic end.
In the web universe, many of AM’s Hollywood pals were predictably quick to show how not alone he was, elegantly honoring his memory via Twitter.
Listen, I would never condemn anyone’s expression of grief. I just wonder: if you lose someone you really care about, aren’t they at least worth capital letters? Might their tragic passing perhaps warrant spelling out “you” for? Couldn’t the event amount to something more meaningful than a quick blip–the kind of thought mandated by Twitter, a platform with ephemera and meaninglessness built into its very structure, making it possible to bury a statement about the loss of one’s friend, five tweets later, with:
MICHAEL LOHAN: Eyyyyyy! [points to Ratner] My boyyyyyyyyyyyyys!! Yo!
JON GOSSELIN: It’s so different when you know there’s a camera there.
BRETT RATNER: Right?
MICHAEL LOHAN: Oh. I always know there’s a camera there.
BRETT RATNER: Right.
JON GOSSELIN: So…ah…where are all the fine ladies, or y’know, where are the…?
BRETT RATNER: What’re you talkin’ about bro? There’s so much snatch here you’d think we were robbin’ a bank.
MICHAEL LOHAN: Yeah, I could get some work done in a little orifice space.
BRETT RATNER: I could lick the poon clean.
MICHAEL LOHAN: Yeah, I bet half the girls here screw better than my daughter.
[Astronomically awkward, 9-months pregnant pause]
JON GOSSELIN: I, uh…
MICHAEL LOHAN: Don’t get your panties in a wad, spermy! I’ve never laid a finger on my little girl. You know, right? You’re a father.
JON GOSSELIN: I love my children. I just hated my wife. And my life.
MICHAEL LOHAN: So you know what I’m saying. I think my daughter is an incredibly gifted, talented, mature woman. I’m very proud of her and if any journalist or blogger of Facebooker here wants to put me on record saying that, bring it on.
MICHAEL LOHAN: Yeah he does. I bet she fucks real good.
JON GOSSELIN: Um. Michael?
MICHAEL LOHAN: Kidding, Gossie, kidding! You have daughters… you know what I mean!
JON GOSSELIN: I…er… don’t, dude. I don’t think I do.
MICHAEL LOHAN: Ha ha ha!
BRETT RATNER: Man, we are a force to be reckoned with, huh? Bunch of sucessful, powerful, good looking dudes.
JON GOSSELIN: Thanks for noticing! I’ve actually been doing some crunches in the mornings. I don’t know if I would call myself super successful, though. Well, I’ve sorta co-written a book. And I know what you do. But I don’t actually know what Michael does.
MICHAEL LOHAN: I’m a student of life, brah.
BRETT RATNER: Yeah, he’s a student of life, man! Look at him! He’s the man!
MICHAEL LOHAN: You could photograph me nude.
BRETT RATNER: I should cast you guys in a movie! [To Gosselin] You’re part Chinaman, right? And what are you, a Gemini, Aries?
JON GOSSELIN: Chinaman?
MICHAEL LOHAN: You eat rice.
JON GOSSELIN: So do you!
BRETT RATNER: Yes, but [points to himself and Lohan] it’s different when we do it.
JON GOSSELIN: I’m half Korean. I’m also French and Welsh.
BRETT RATNER: “Oh welsh!” Hahaha! I think you could still be a really funny Chinaman.
JON GOSSELIN: I’m not an actor.
BRETT RATNER: That’s what people told Michael, and look at him. That’s what people told me, and look at me!
JON GOSSELIN: Um. Yeah. I’m starting to think that I don’t really want to.
There’s a reason why most American actors and actresses, who typically act for film and television, only shoot commercial adverts for countries like Japan. Sure, the endorsements pay very well, but, let’s face it, commercials are a bit of a downgrade, and downgrading too much in your own market is eventually something an actor feels ashamed of.