At a time when America's collective fat ratio is perilously disproportionate, and the only people with a booming business are cardiac surgeons and pharmacists, there's nothing our nation needs more than Food Network "star" Guy Fieri celebrating the wonders of low-priced, artery-clogging T.G.I. Friday's appetizers every fucking 30 seconds.
You know the guy: He won that Next Food Network Star competition and then launched a series of programs revolving around down-home, no-frills food to ensure immediate gratification and even more instant mortality. And edge-ified the channel with a burly personality that befit his raspy voice, Hot Topic Hair and a shit-eating goatee.
I guess I'm not inherently adverse to the culture of crappy eating he promotes, nor the fact that he's cashed in on it with a soulless endorsement for a flavorless gourmet fast-food chain. I'm just generally allergic to any publicly visible personality who patches together an aesthetic out of second-hand, adolescent symbols of awesomeness and attempts to ooze his coolness juice all over something that was either helplessly mundane, or had plenty of inherent charm for anyone without a completely crippled attention span or insecurity in their individual sensibilities.
Fuck that guy. That Guy Fieri even. He sucks. Click here for the Sucks archive.
OK, I couldn't help the ironic allure of that headline, but it kind of makes me look like a dick. Because in reality, Apple's 52-year-old co-founder and Chief Exec Steve Jobs (aka the computer guru who didn't get pulled over and have a ridiculous mug shot snapped) has taken a leave of absence for at least a few months due to an ambiguous, but worsening, medical condition.
Or at least Jobs is leaving the details cloudy. Outsiders speculated with some concern that it may be a recurrence of his pancreatic cancer from four years ago. Meanhwile, insiders have merely panicked at the possible business repercussions, as Apple shares immediately started to sink. Which, in the business world, is the equivalent of a guy rocketing up shareholders' death-pool lists.
Man, today's just full of bummer news, as this of course arrives on the Heaven-bound heels of Ricardo Montalban's passing. But hopefully Jobs will pull through, so that his creative vision can lead to more unbelievable TV spots like the one above, from a quarter-century ago (watch it and marvel at how far your little MacBooks have come).
Nothing has curdled my stomach more in the last few days than grown-up screen brat Jason Hervey introducing the cast of VH1's Confessions Of A Teen Idol to a focus-group segment they were about to endure. Something about his little monologue reeked of the kind of self-satisfied, Napoleonic smugness that can only exude from one's paean pores after decades of portraying total douchebags both onscreen and behind the scenes of Hollywood.
Let's review: After peddling countless commercial goods in the early '80s with his bland precociousness, Hervey not coincidentally nailed the entitled man-child antics of a kid actor as Kevin Morton during the movie-within-a-movie climax of Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. Stunt casting, perhaps?
And then, of course, on The Wonder Years, Hervey was the human embodiment of the demonic older-brother caricature every terrified nerd carried with them throughout childhood. His contribution to the show seemed to be almost method in execution. But Hervey was no prodigious thespian. A la with Pee-Wee, it was evident that his authenticity as Wayne Arnold stemmed from a blurry line between reality and fiction. Art imitating douche.
Well, to be slightly more accurate, ex-Heather Mills nanny Sara Trundles is suing the former Mrs. Paul McCartney for "constructive dismissal claim with an employment tribunal." Which means, in non-archaic Parliamentary parlance, that Trundle claims she had to spray tan Mills' nude body (prosthetic appendage presumably included) and suffer other apparently sueable injustices, like working really long hours.
Mills is apparently "devastated by the allegations," although one imagines it couldn't compare to her horror at the New York Jets' late-season collapse.
Now, while Mills has proven to be a fairly loathsome figure, it's a bit difficult to empathize with Trundle exploiting her former employer's wealth and sensational status to eek some bucks out for being as overworked (though hardly underpaid, you'd figure) as the average Joe schmo. Not to mention the obvious seizing of an era in which celeb nannies (Jude Law, David Beckham, et al) have become favorite subjects of UK tabloid fodder.
So, Ms. Trundle, while I do believe you deserve a hug for spraying down Mills' faux-lower-limb on a regular basis, I'd have to say the court of public opinion may not swing in your favor on this one.
Welcome to NCDSUV's splenetic, embittered new weekly feature, Overdressed & Underclassed, which with each installment will dissect a different aspect of celebrity fashion with the enthusiasm and exactitude of a taxidermist suffering from the second clinical phase of rabies (caution: We have reached the contagious stage).
This week we address the worst fashion moments of the year. Fashion faux pas are like a particularly virulent breed of bronchitis; a disgusting, unpleasant fact of life that certain celebrities catch once and toss off without missing a well-heeled step, while others seem to be permanently felled by a chronic case that sends bystanders scurrying for cover for fear of contracting the dread disease. Here's our votes for an octagon of the '08's most offensive.
8. Agyness Deyn It's chronic. There are flashes of delicious, savory brilliance in Agyness' fashion fruit n' nut grab bag. And yet, Agyness' insistence on cultivating a bleached, neglected, teased and abused Cha-Cha-Cha-Chia-Pet-style 'do, coupled with her penchant for dressing like Billy Idol circa 1983, an unreasonable devotion to bandanas and questionably tailored pants (that look uncomfortably tight in the crotch area) outnumber her waltzes with aesthetic resplendence. She's more fashion idiot than savant.
7. Blake Lively Take a hot bath and consult your stylist in the morning. You're right, Blake: Fashion is all about fantasy. That's great, honey, because you embrace that concept. Especially when wearing short, sparkly postage stamps on the red carpet or fluttery white dresses and cowboy boots while flitting about Manhattan and flashing that toothy grin at the stalkerazzi. They love you, we love you, it's all good. But leave the more "conceptual" clothes to the darker, smarter, sassier indie crowd. No one wants to see you in a shiny, baggy pondscum-green, wrinkled jumpsuit and high heels. I know you were going for the insouciant sophisticate thing, but this makes you look like you belong in the pit at NASCAR, wiping the sweat from your fair brow and tinkering with a miter saw and mini-torch while muttering about "that durn Cletus. Tol' him ta plug that leak durn it anyway."
6. Sarah Jessica Parker It's (rather) chronic. Much like her alter-ego Carrie Bradshaw, Sarah definitely likes to take sartorial risks that would make less temerarious women blanch. And while she's more than likely to pass the Anna Wintour sniff test, Sarah's flops are unsurpassable. Like the time she decided to wear a green pillbox hat that resembles a large breast (nipple included!) and sprout a Brobdingnagian floral arrangement to the Sex And The City movie premiere (reminds me of the hideous bird Carrie strapped to her head to wear for her ill-fated fictional nuptials).
5. Anna Wintour Take a hot bath and consult your stylist in the morning. Willful idiosyncrasy, clothing as wearable sculpture and high-brow reflections of the current social/economic/cultural climate are all expected, even necessary, components of haute couture. And few people people's names are as synonymous with couture as Anna's. So heads understandably turned when Nuclear Wintour showed up to the Met Costume Gala (her gala, the fashion gala to end all fashion galas) in an actively odd Karl Lagerfeld dress that appeared designed to make the already serpentine editrix resemble a horned lizard dipped in mercury. While I don't agree with Time about it being the biggest fashion faux pas of the year, considering Wintour's pedigree, it's certainly up there.
As was discussed recently on NCDSUV, Jay Leno's questionable appointment (mirroring many of Barack Obama's cabinet picks) to a daily 10 p.m. slot is possibly the least progressive move NBC and Ben Silverman, its co-chair of Entertainment, could make. Desperate to hold onto their bland, ghost-white cash cow (or perhaps bleached-white steer skull, as Leno's humor is devoid of flesh, muscle and vitality, leaving merely effluvia and bones), they struck some expedient bargain.
It's admirable that they want to keep their contractually-enforced agreement with Conan O'Brien, but his show (at least in its present form) has no business being on at 11:30, even though it's quite great. Furthermore, forcing Leno to an earlier timeslot just means that the crypt-keepers that watch him will now migrate along, leaving 11:30 a desolate negative zone.
As TV critic Alan Sepinwall noted in his Star Ledger column, Silverman, the enfant terrible of the executive asshole class, said, "[The allure of this is] having the stability of Jay on every single night, on that lineup, driving what the NBC brand is, which is a comedy brand, and is a brand of true talent, and that's what Jay is."
Or as Leno then quipped: "What Ben's saying is we barely have six hours of programming." It's still a joke if you say something with a straight face and no one laughs and everyone nods and someone in the back purposely says, "How true," right?
Tired of buying your relatives the same old fruit cake and set of all-usage garden pliers? Frustrated you lost the bidding for Justin Timberlake's half-eaten French Toast all those years back? Well, good news folks.
Act now, and you can not only satisfy your celeb-salivating relative and contribute to charity, but you can accomplish both noble feats while fetishizing your unhealthy affection for and interest in people more famous and better looking than you.
After Scarlett Johansson (and why does her name have a double "s" anyway? Kind of obnoxious, no?) blew her cold-riddled nose into a tissue amidst a Jay Leno interview last night, she put the booger-bedazzled nasal napkin up on eBay, with the profits (bid hovering around $2,000 as of press time) going to charity.
So hurry, and certainly don't wait. ScarJo's virus-infected viscosity can be yours, and subsequently something you can share with the one you love. Because there's no wrong way to say "I think you're a worthless piece of shit."
It's that time of year again. Holiday-shopping season. That apocalyptic assemblage of weeks in which retail outlets become surrogate synagogues and major corporations push unnecessary product rollouts on a discount/one-of-a-kind-gift-hungry public.
Which means it's also time for celebrities to shill themselves with all the grace and pride of a struggling sitcom during May sweeps. And in particular, it becomes ground zero for the marketing of celebrity fragrances. Over the last couple of weeks, you may have seen ads for perfumes and colognes bearing the name, likeness and, presumably, grundle odor, of super-famous hotties and hunks.
Britney Spears, Mariah Carey, Hilary Duff and, yes, even Tim McGraw
(whose "McGraw" cologone is fashioned to resemble, you guessed it, a
cowboy hat) are among those in the fray-grance.
Eh? See what we did there? Bet you thought it was an article about Hugh Hefner, and that it maybe included unnecessary nude pictures of Holly Madison and Kendra Wilkinson, and that's why you clicked and kept reading?
Well, unfortunately, we only have nude pictures of Hugh. Or at least our attempt to have some fun and link you to some Photoshop magic was valiant but futile, and now "Hugh Hefner Nude" will ominously linger in our cache.
Anyway, Christie Hefner, the bag-of-bones' 56-year-old daughter (i.e. the only woman who has a relationship to his penis not entirely sychophantic) announced plans to step down as the company's top chairman.
Hefner claims the company is doing fine and espouses pride in their accomplishments, but also alludes to her desire to work in the non-profit sector and politics, and parallels her desire for change to the country's overall move in a new direction.
In other words, she's tired of queenpinning a brand known primarily these days for her dad's televised tomfoolery with barely legal sex kittens and realizes the end of Playboy's run as a progressive cultural pioneer are about as eminent as her final period.
Maybe now Al Goldstein can take his rightful seat as heir to a legitimate pornographic throne.
In
spite of a robust Black Friday and a new president-elect in town, we
are in a recession. The media is afraid to officially declare it, but
as they say, if it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, then
it's probably a mallard looking for work.
If the gloomy financial
climate's got you down, forget what Jim Cramer, the Money Honey,or
anyone else on CNBC has to say. Everything you need to know about
making your way through this dry spell can be cribbed from the world of
film. At the very least, these 13 economically sound pictures will keep
your spirits in the black even if your assets are in the red.
13.Zack And Miri Make A Porno
Do what cums naturally and get paid for it.
Judging
by the population size of most third world countries, it's apparent
that there is one thing in life you can still do for free. So why not
document it and make some money while you're at it? It might cost you
your self-respect and your dignity, but you could always buy those back
later.
12.Tommy Boy
Going through life fat, drunk and stupid is a viable option... most of the time.
There
is nothing like a road trip to get your slacker ass in gear. If you
happen to be on a last chance, Hail Mary mission to save your late
father's company make sure that you take a little hope, a bit of
salesmanship and an inhumanly high threshold of pain with you. And
while you're at it, bring along a pessimistic, sarcastic sidekick to
keep you grounded and to sing back-up. Stir these elements together, and
"voila!" your recipe for success is complete.
11. The Money Pit
Avoid fixer-uppers at all costs.
The
housing crisis has everyone scared for a lot of different reasons, but
until you're electrocuted by your own doorbell or the bathtub falls
through the ceiling, you don't really have anything to fear. On top of
that, you do not have Shelley Long bitching continuously in your ear,
so quit whining.
10. Mr. Mom
Leave the house, homemaking is not for pussies.
Think
it's a jungle out there? Feel that stay-at-home moms have it easy? Do
screaming children, predatory neighbors and killer appliances sound
like fun? Didn't think so. Whenever your boss or the assholes at the
office give you a hard time, remember that it ain't all bonbons and
soap operas at home either.
9. Down And Out In Beverly Hills
Get adopted by a rich family.
Wealthy
kooks are a dime a dozen in the 90210 zip code, and when they aren't out
making petty wagers on peoples' lives, they're busy giving handouts to
bums and layabouts. If you ever find yourself without a pot to piss in
or a window to throw it out of, just track down a tony household with a
dog (like Tarzan, the homeless have an uncanny ability to bond with
animals) and become a guilty liberal's mascot for a while. It's a dirty
job, but it beats turning tricks for loose pocket change any day.
8. The Pursuit of Happyness
"If you want something, go get it. Period."
Who
is more qualified to make that statement than Will Smith, a man from
the suburbs who struggled valiantly from birth to the ripe old age of
twenty before he finally became an international superstar in the face
of practically insurmountable odds? Keep the Fresh Prince's words of
wisdom in mind the next time you're forced to crash in the men's room
for the night.
