The second week of President Barack Obama's (yeaaaaah, it feels good, doesn't it?) tenure in Washington left a few less casualties than usual in Hollywoodland. Unless you count Steven Adler, but his exploits on Sober House were technically filmed a few months back.
It was mostly a week for celebration, as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie unveiled their finest work yet, two nauseatingly adorable children, to the entire graduating class of a Japanese photography school.
But it was also five days of serious social commentary, courtesy of Ashlee Simpson and Kim Kardashian.
So without further drawn-out teasing of content that will ultimately be more succinctly stated than its lead-in, here are the top five things we learned this week:
5. Whether Tyler Perry's films offer something unique for an underserved demographic or actually pandering nonsense is debatable. But what's not up for argument is that someone should raise Jim Varney from the dead and give him some of Medea's royalties.
4. Jennifer Aniston likes to pretend getting naked on the cover of a magazine that sophisticated men jerk off to is somehow more noble than displaying airbrushed areolas for a publication less discreetly aimed at teenage boys and male divorcees. Then, again, what do you expect from a woman who's first major film role was in Leprechaun?
Guy Ritchie may have made out like a cockney-accented pulp-movie bandit during he and Madonna's divorce settlement. But she's heading back to the States with their two little tots, Rocco and David.
Or at least that's the word on the street. But it's been raining all morning and the sidewalk-chalk isn't really legible anymore, so who knows.
But presuming this information is accurate, one hopes Ritchie will be making occasional custody visits to ensure the safety of their tiny innocents. Because although it's a little known fact, Madge maintains her tightly wired figure and muscularity by draining the life's blood out of cute young boys in a scared Kabbalah ritual.
What do you think explains her relationship with Justin Timberlake?
Even though Jessica Simpson is looking more like Selma Bouvier these days, siblings and other celebrities are coming out in droves to embrace all 52 inches of her suddenly expanded waistline. First, we had new-mom Ashlee delivering a less-than-groundbreaking state-of-tabloid-culture address on behalf of her big (no pun intended) sis.
Now, Kim Kardashian is stepping up to the plate, telling People that she thinks Jess looks fab-o-rama and "being super skinny just isn't attractive to me." And surely, not at all taking her publicist's advice that this story is ideal for her to comment on as a fellow full-figured lady, thus keeping her name in the papers as well.
Only difference, Kimbo slice, is you're Armenian, and blessed with a naturally curvacious anatomy that makes sense for your size and proportions. Jess is just a little itty bitto Anglo whose clearly been spending too much time at country cookouts during her current stint as a Nashville wannabe.
Damnit, Donny! Just when we were ready to crown you with the honor of NCDSUV's favorite Donny of all time over both Monsieurs Wahlberg and Brasco. But no, you had to go parading your filthy, filthy lies all over national television, leading us to report that you had signed on for the upcoming season of Dancing With The Stars. Only to retract your claim mere days later.
Presumably, ABC gave you a bad-boy beatdown over your hasty proclamation, even though you claimed it was an offer you weren't ready to accept at this particular juncture. But oh, how glorious it would have been to follow in your sister Marie's mambo-happy footsteps and appear on the inexplicably popular program. Not since Jose and Ozzie Canseco or, well, Mark and Donnie Wahlberg would their have been such an anticipated sibling thruline in recent pop-culture coincidence.
Puppy love our tuchus. You're in the NCDSUV doghouse now, buddy.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features,
where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of
Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by
the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge
affinity for their body of work.
Yesterday we did our best impression of a demon taking to dump in emulation of vocal wizard/one-time Faith No More frontman Mike Patton, and today we may be throwing a suprise cyber-bash for a legendary MC, but we assure him it ain't no joke.
Proving that she's not as literally ill-equipped for public discourse as her sister, Pete Wentz' baby mama, Ashlee Simpson, has nonetheless displayed an impressively substance-less intellect regarding the ills of cultural prejudice and tabloid shaming.
After the blogosphere understandably recoiled with horrified curiosity at pics of Jessica Simpson resembling a middle-age metastasized version of her normal figure, lil' sis shot back with the groundbreaking rhetorical inquiry, "Since when did a woman's weight become newsworthy?"
Despite presumed muffled-cough interruptions from Jennifer Love Hewitt, Ann Wilson, Kirstie Alley and the late corpose of Luther Vandross, the recent mother (apparently having missed months of boilerplate commentary on weight-obsession in Hollywood while training a swat team of stay-at-home nannies) went on to add that it's "embarrassing and belittling to all women to read about a woman's weight
or figure as a headline on FOX News." And even expressed concern that the scorn surrounding her sister's fried-chicken chic would undermine the post-Obama "feeling of hope in
the air for our country."
Spoken like a truly out-of-touch celebrity with no conception of that fact that a vast majority of Americans are actually, contrary to herself and Jessica, struggling with issues much greater than cholestorol counting. Such as, oh, I don't know being unemployed and about 27 million dollars less comfortable than the Simpson brood.
Everyone's favorite Meth-od woman, Fergie, may be considering the Angelina Jolie-Brad Pitt route and adopt a child with husband Josh Duhamel. Or at least according to the venerable sources at National Enquirer, which are about as reliable as Stephen Glass's.
And while this would run in curious contrast to the singer's recent announcement of a supposed couple o' kittens in the oven, it's a vaguely more enticing rumor to become wrapped up in. Why, you ask? Because it would certainly support many-a-person's notion that, in light of Duhamel's clean-shaven visage, Fergie only exists to be his faithful beard.
If you know what I'm sayin'. Eh? Eh? See how silly and suggestive we're being about it so that Josh can't sue us for libel?
How do you know when you have Donny Osmond fever? Usually the classic symptoms involve rampant ocular bleeding, arthritic knee-weakening and a case of puppy love that not even Joshua Miller circa Teen Witch could find a cure for.
So look out, Dancing With The Stars lunatics, you're about to get your ball sockets and corneas cremated by awesomeness of The Big O himself. And no, we ain't talkin' bout Stedman. And unfortunately, we're not talkin' bout K-Fed either, the falsely rumored would-be participant in the reality competition's next season.
'Tis one-time show-participant Marie Osmond's former teen-idol sibling who will strap on the sequins and soak in the softened praise of harshened middle-age spotlight. So get ready to have your temperature for ballroom-and-salsa awesomeness re-measured. Because Donny fever is on its way, and the man himself will be taking your thermometer reading... rectally.
What exactly does a "tycoon" really represent in 21st century society anyway? It's like calling someone a robber baron or a haberdasher. Especially if they're a "yacht tycoon," like Spice Girls ginger snap Geri Halliwell's new fiance, Fabrizio Politi (not to be confused with one-time Drew Barrymore beau, Fabrizio Moretti of The Strokes). I kind of imagine the guy to be like a combination of Scrooge McDuck and a sea-faring pirate.
Anyway, despite only dating for a couple of weeks, the pair has announced their nuptials-to-be. Through Halliwell's management company. Because their decision has nothing at all to do with the desire for Geri to share some of the Spice-y spotlight continuously hogged by Victoria Beckham and her husband David. And everything to do with the kind of shotgun love only two near-40-year-old mature adults can understand. Yeah, that's the ticket.
While this release week may bring more anticipated and notable efforts like the Dan Deacon /Adventure split 12" and The Whore Moans' Hello From The Radio Wasteland!, we here at NCDSUV prefer to analyze more futile musical recordings.
Welcome back to Unnecessary Album Releases, a feature in which we highlight the week's most egregiously bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial. Behold the obscure, the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of January 27, 2009.
6. The Guggenheim Grotto, Happy The Man If you prefer your music with a message and featured on poorly scripted family dramas about unwanted teen pregnancies and kids who can't live up to their parent's expectations (think One Tree Hill and Brothers And Sisters), then this second release by Dublin darlings, The Guggenheim Grotto, which teems with the mawkish smell of freshly disposed Kleenex, is sure to make even the unhappiest man happy, man.
5. The Toy Killers, The Unlistenable Years Every so often (let's call it chance), an album title comes along and practically guarantees an excruciating listening experience. Featuring an hour-long, monotonous cacophony of unbridled noise, unheard studio and live material from 1980-'84, The Unlistenable Years is, unbearably, just that.
Granted, I my soul was already in mid-rot after viewing Rock Of Love Bus and some True Life episode about a fat kid whose friends make him lose weight so he's not a cockblock to their lusty pursuits. But somehow my stomach did a backflip after seeing the commercial for the new MTV reality show, T.I.'s Road To Redemption.
Just to refresh you memory, the rapper (whose music we love here at NCDSUV, incidentally) plead guilty last March to possession of unregistered machine guns and
silencers, unlawful possession of machine guns and possession of
firearms by a convicted felon. In other words, serious motherfucking shit. And was subsequently sentenced to a year and a day in prison (out of a possible maximum of 30), a term that was deferred until he completed a 1,000-hour-plus community-service program, in which he educates young kids on the dangers of guns, violence and general badassery.
Doesn't sound all that evil right? High-profile superstar who's weary of his personal safety makes immature mistake of having unregistered ammo, gets busted, and tries to make amends by conducting the kind of public outreach he probably should have felt compelled to do anyway as thoughtful reciprocation for his ascent to fame and fortune.
The problem is, it got spun into (and was likely intended all along as) a pseudo-sanctimonious reality show that manipulates a humbling and deserved punishment into an opportunity for PR redemption during the period of his incarceration.
Well, ladies and gents, we can now move ahead toward a time of economic prosperity and racial harmony, because Barack Obama has been sworn into office. What's that? You're still unemployed and your boss keeps referring to you by prejudiced terminology? Oh, bummer. Guess one man can't change everything.
But even if you haven't been swept up in Obama-as-Messiah fever (ironic given his presidency signals an end to high government as guise for holier-than-thou demagoguery), we can all agree it was pretty sweet to see George W. Bush (and don't call him Prez) sent off on that helicopter one last time.
Not as sweet as seeing the likes of Mike Myers and Cameron Diaz get sliced and diced by the Razzies of course. So without any last-minute presidential pardoning, here are the top 5 things we learned this week.
5. Katy Perry may pretend she likes to kiss girls and is preciously cute when calling other people gay, but apparently she'll settle for nothing but the straight dish when tabloids report on her sex life, or lack thereof.
4. Britney Spears is somehow being raked over the coals for the suggestive phonetic pronunciation of her new single. Meanwhile, no one raised an ounce of cain over Van Halen's non-too-subliminal epithet placement within the titular acronym of their 1991 album. Guess parents were less afraid of Sammy Hagar gettin' their teenage tots in a heated lather.
We here at NCDSUV already knew that former Christian pop wannabe-turned-Betty Boop pseudo-punkette Katy Perry kinda sucked, but now apparently she's so well-seasoned by the rigors of press junkets and popularity that she's developed standards of quality journalism.
After telling TV Guide she was going to take a year off from men after breaking up with the ridiculously pierced frontman for Gym Class Heroes and only share kisses with her cat, Katy has rescinded her Paris Hilton-esque proclamation (is anything about Perry's identity construction original?), adding, "That was a joke, and any fine journalist would have got that."
Ah, any "fine" journalist. How about this as an alternative possibility: Were you doing anything that merited discussion beyond the gossipy environs of TV Guide or the blogosphere, maybe you would have: A. Been probed for more interesting topical matter and B. Not have outlets reproduce the most reductive elements of your interviews out of context as the only headline-worthy material surrounding your nearly expired window of fame.
But the sad truth is, whether it's conversation around cuddling up with cats or getting back in the sack, it seems all anyone wants to report on is stories surrounding your pussy.
Yes, this is my life: Scouring the wires for stories about adolescent celebrities because I missed the boat on formerly teenaged Hollywood elite getting busted for assault, like loathsome Kelly Osbourne.
But alas, aren't those preciously lucky daughters of Barack Obama, Malia and Sasha, the luckiest little twosome on earth? Because while their mother, Michelle, was giving daddy his first presidential knob-polisher, they were having their hormones manipulated via a visit from The Jonas Brothers last night.
Unbelievable. I get within 100 feet of the White House fence and am considered a threat to national security, but slap on a tux and single a few Disney-friendly ditties and you're ushered in like Secret Service to make an inaugural bid for the hearts of the two most powerful pre-teen girls in the world.
As we reported yesterday, Britney Spears was being rushed back into the emergency room. But this time it was her music studio and not a psychiatric ward, to do some last-minute surgery on her new single, "If You Seek Amy." Apparently, the title was subversively intended to sound like something a good deal naughtier when pronounced phonetically, sparking commercial radio's refusal to air the track, and thus its impending resurrection as the nonsensical "If You See Amy."
Of course, Mrs. Spears is just the latest in a long line of illustriously censored songs. This differs, of course, from a mere lyric being bleeped out, which would canvas nearly every hip-hop single of the last two decades; cover art being airbrushed, a la the Black Crowes' Amorica; or a song's complete and controversial removal from all pressings, as in the case of Body Count's "Cop Killer."
But the guiding forces are generally the same, and at their minimum incorporate the following: conservative media, righteous protest groups and puritanical retail chains. All of the above have upheld the time-honored tradition of illogically inciting teen-baiting scandal and sensationalism around something that would otherwise pass through the bowels of our cultural intake like a harmless blast of fiber.
So while there are no doubt several more worthy of inclusion, here are five risque, and subsequently retitled, songs that either awkwardly sapped the song of its original appeal, or in some cases just made us laugh at the stick up censor-happy advocates' asses.
5. Akon featuring Snoop Dogg, "I Wanna Fuck You" Re-Titled As: "I Wanna Love You" Degree Of Silliness: Absurd, But Understandable Granted, if you're going to release a single that graphically refers to copulation, you're probably well-prepared to acquiesce and record a modified version. But "I Wanna Love You" presents a dual-edged dilemma: 1. Particularly when paired with the video, and for anyone familiar with either man's careers, it rings transparently disingenuous as a romantic offering. 2. It presents "love" in this instance as an action verb, and it ultimately winds up feeling as if its missing a double modifier, like perhaps a "make" before "love" and a "to" prior to "you" for clarification. Because to suggest "love" in its most sentimental form is both in blatant contrast to where Akon places emphasis on the lyrics and awkwardly juxtaposed against the content of the verses.
4. Crass, "Reality Asylum" Re-Titled As: "The Sound Of Free Speech" Degree Of Silliness: Silly In An Ominous Big Brother Kind Of Way In 1978, punk upsetters Crass were releasing their Feeding Of The 5000 EP. Only problem was the pressing plant was offended by its Jesus-eviscerating lyrical content and refused to finish the job. So in a truly anarchist spirit that would be total anathema to most mainstream cowtowers, the boys simply filled the space with white noise, rechristening it (pun very much intended it) "The Sound Of Free Speech," an ironic fuck you to the bullying of opposing points of view that still resonates influentially today.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features,
where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of
Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by
the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge
affinity for their body of work.
Yesterday we revved up our best perverted Dolly Parton nursery rhymes in honor of the country legend/amply bosomed blonde icon, and today we whip out our special 40th birthday bobbleheads in honor of one of modern television's greatest sitcom foils.
Just when Britney Spears thought she was a woman, no longer a girl, her raunchy little number "If You Seek Amy," which both spells out something naughty when phonetically articulated and contains some un-teen-friendly lyrics, has been prohibited by most radio stations. And hence, she is quickly re-recording a more agreeable, if sensually neutered, version titled "If You See Amy."
For one thing, I felt like the guy in Mallrats who couldn't see the 3-D sailboat on my first attempt to decode the track's sneakily suggestive intent. So from that vantage point, Spears' sales will benefit from the classic, "Kids now realize there's something taboo where it would have gone over their heads before" trick.
And besides that, it will now enter the pantheon of pop hits absurdly, and patronizingly, tweaked for PG parental approval, like Akon and Snoop Dogg's hilariously reworded "I Just Want To Love You."
Poor, poor Britney. All that time and money spent resurrecting her tattered career and forging her newfound matured independence, only to be dramatically reminded that she's about as self-determined an artist as a prison laundry operator.
While this release week may bring anticipated and more notable efforts like the triumphant Airing Of Grievances by Titus Andronicus or Andrew Bird's Noble Beast, we here at NCDSUV prefer to analyze more futile musical recordings.
Welcome back to Unnecessary Album Releases, a feature in which we highlight the week's most egregiously bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial.
Behold the obscure, the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of January 20, 2009.
6. Combichrist, Today We Are All Demons While they assume a glut of dubiously, dizzying, dark descriptors like "Hellektro," Terror EBM" or "Harsh EBM," the electro/industrial rock by Norwegian sextet Combichrist, would have justifiably leave genre pioneers like Ministry with a wry discontent.
5. The Harvest Floor, Castle Decapitation This jarring juggernaut of relentlessly grinding blast beats features the ferociously horrifying vocals of Travis Ryan, who concocts something akin to Gollum from Lord Of The Rings and a demonic death rattle all hoped up on steroids. Enjoy.
I mean, we're almost positive she'd listen to Us Weekly and their stupid do's and dont's, but little old NCDSUV? Naw, why would a mega-celebrity who represents one half of the world's most glamorous red-caret couple pay a scintilla of mind to our concerns about their appealing attributes? Well, OK, fair enough.
Well, come to think of it, she tends to elicit more erotic excitement when leaving just enough to the imagination, so this is probably a better move than, say, joining some of the Rock Of Love Bus cast members in porn videos or Penthouse.
How this woman gleaned everlasting fame and fortune from representing a middle ground between well-managed socialites and overly polished one-hit pop wonders is beyond me anyway.
When we heard why Milk scene-stealer James Franco, who won our hearts years ago as bad-boy Daniel from Freaks & Geeks, was missing at the Golden Globes last week, we were agog. It seems Franco was busy studying poetry at Warren Wilson College in Swannanoa, North Carolina, where he is enrolled in the school's MFA For Writers. The image of Franco eschewing fancy Hollywood award ceremonies to brood over his coffee-stained notebook of post-confessional free-verse, or linger over a glass of sweet tea, clutching a dog-eared copy of Mark Doty's My Alexandria... um, it kinda made us swoon. But it also got us wondering: What other charmed boldfacers would we love to see insert themselves into the raging creative class?
7. Sarah Palin Remember the lady with the glasses who ran for that political office that one time? She seemed to have some trouble, er, collecting her thoughts, on occasion. "We believe that the best of America is not all in Washington, D.C." Palin once told a crowd at a fundraiser many moons ago. "We believe that the best of America is in these small towns that we get to visit, and in these wonderful little pockets of what I call the real America, being here with all of you hard working very patriotic, um, very, um, pro-America areas of this great nation." She's like the next Edward Albee, no?
6. Christopher Walken It's quite possible C-Walk would be even less popular describing his process in a workshop than the Palinator. Can you... imagine... listening... to... him... discussing... his... character's... inner... monologue... and... psychosis... this... slowly? And what if he wrote exactly like he speaks?
5. Sean Penn Somewhere, right now, Penn is seething with jealousy over Franco's secret taste for the literary arts. They can't both do it! Penn, of course, got his byline on the cover of The Nation last month for his oh-so-astute international reportage. So why not attempt to best his younger, immensely attractive co-star and tackle a creative writing MFA while he's at it? We'd adore listening to his justification for turns of phrase like, "He was God's pessimist."
And the feeling is mutual between Lopanthony and the public. Which is why get off on reading stories about the possible dissolution of their matrimony. I mean, what could there possibly be to loathe with searing disdain and jealousy about a relatively talent-free pair of Hollywood darlings who get paid oodles of cash to peddle their newborns around on magazine covers?
But much like Jenny From The Blizock revealed images of her twins via the sophisticated pages of People, she has gone through an equally ironclad journalistic outlet, InTouch, to ensure the public that "divorce is not an option."
And from a PR standpoint, probably not, as everyone knows La La Land has a three-strikes-and-yer-yesterday's-trash rule about three-time divorcees.
Incidentally, has anyone actually sat through El Cantante, she and Anthony's primary creative collaboration together? If you thought Mariah Carey's Glitter was as helpless a vanity biopic project as it gets, go try that foul-stenched turd on for size. I bet it will be even less complemetary to your day than Jennifer's wedding ring was to her Golden Globes dress.
Even amidst semi-legitimate websites and all-inclusive gossip blogs, one thing has remained resoundingly clear about the Internet: It was designed for the proliferation of booby pictures. OK, and maybe an occasional facial (NSFW) or finger fuck. But the "candid" celebrity shot and red-carpet nip slips that fill out headlines like implants in a waterbra have truly captured our cultural zeitgeist. Although the tried-and-true movie-still compilers, like Mr. Skin, still possess a necessary function for cyber-pervs the world over.
However, like a record-label A & R rep indiscriminately scouring MySpace for hot acts, the wider the net is cast, the more likely you're gonna catch a few stinkers you'd rather throw back in the ocean.
So for reasons no less superficial than these images' original publication, and if anything, to take the piss out of folks dangled on high as the beautiful ones, we present the 10 least arousing nude celebrity boobs (10, of course, as in five pairs of two). And in the interest of being an equal-opportunity sexist, we may even produce a sequel to this feature that reappropriates its, ehem, titular meaning and breaks down the most orgasm-killing male Hollywood mimbos. And suffice to say, virtually every link from here on out is NSFW, meaning we expect a hearty boost in page views between the hours of 6 p.m. and midnight.
10. & 9. Victoria Beckham, aka Posh Spice
It's hard to say which one of Posh's not-so-perky perforations deserves more of a honest, cups-off assessment, number nine or 10. Oh, heck, we'll call it a wash. But the bottom line is, for all her preening around in the newest haute coutoure, push-up-undergarment abuse and implicitly demeaning infrared glances at the rest of Earth's female populus, we wouldn't want to hop in the shower and soap up those plump-yet-shapeless post-pregnancy glands.
8. & 7. Teri Hatcher
Memo to Seinfeld's fact-checkers (and yes, we are contractually obligated to incorporate a Seinfeld reference in every other post): They might be real, but they're not exactly spectacular. When the would-be glamorous Desperate Housewives queen bitch bared all in cheapo flick The Cool Surface, someone should have ordered some hot maple syrup, because those babies are what those in the know refer to as pancake boobs.
Hopefully all those anticipatory Super Bowl partiers will be ready to step aside from their beer bongs and nachos during the pre-game festivities for a solemn moment of poignancy. Awkwardness will no doubt abound in America's living rooms, and girlfriends will assuredly be slapping their insensitive partners' into compassion when Jennifer Hudson takes the stage to sing the National Anthem before the big game on February 1.
This will, of course, be the singer/actress' first public appearance since the horrific slayings of her mother, brother and nephew in October. And what a doozy it is. However, much as I'd love to muster my usual cynicism and insinuate that Hudson manipulated the situation into a triumphant PR resurgence, I will propose the following two motives on her behalf: A. She's using the money toward legal fees to send the alleged killer to jail or for a foundation in her late relatives' names, or B. She's viewing this is as the utmost cleansing catharsis, perversely less excruciating than reemerging via a series of smaller appearances.
Either way, Hudson has one hell of an inner resolve. Maybe it's her whole Jesus-loving thing. Hmmmm. Perhaps I should give that a try.
While this release week may be delivering notable efforts like Andrew W.K.'s greatest hits/covers collection and the re-release of The Lemonheads' It's A Shame About Ray on vinyl, we here at NCDSUV prefer to analyze more futile musical recordings. Welcome back to Unnecessary Album Releases, a feature in which we highlight the week's most egregiously bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial. Behold the obscure, the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of January 13, 2009
7. Saxon, Into The Labyrinth These dinosaurs of British metal have been at for more than 30 years, ensconcing the headbanging world with well over 25 releases. But while their copious output illustrates a seemingly august career, Into The Labyrinth's first single, "Live to Rock," glaringly nods (and that's being nice) at AC/DC's anthem, "For Those About To Rock (We Salute You)."
6. Late Of The Pier, Fantasy Black Channel While it may have seemed like a good idea, this genre-bending debut from the U.K.'s Late Of The Pier, brimming with a hybrid of power chord-driven electro-punk, painfully resembles last year's obnoxious, release by Does It Offend You, Yeah? Which of course renders Fantasy Black Channel's glaringly disconnected tracks perfect for the gyrating hipster pining for mindless, sweaty, cockney tunes.
5. El Goodo, Coyote Phil Spector's celebrated "wall of sound," made famous for its lush textures, sunny harmonies and ringing Rickenbackers, paved the way for cult-fave power-pop bands like Big Star. Unfortunately, the Big Star reference in El Goodo's name is as close as these droning, stodgy sons of Resolven, Wales are going to get to "September Gurls." (In that respect, we figured you'd enjoy the below of Big Star performing "El Goodo" more than a track by the band themselves.)
Amy Winehouse getting on the mend was fairly apparent when nude photos (NSFW) of a healthy looking (if not wildly sexually appealing) Wineo frolicking on the beach with new boyfriend Josh Bowman smothered the Internet.Â
But in a new interview, she confirms that she'll avoid becoming the next Nancy Spungen, largely due to dumping her Sid VIcious-meets-Pete Doherty, soon-to-be-ex-husband Blake Fielder-Civil, getting off drugs and banging her new Beauman like it's, well, everybody's business.
Of course, it's unlikely many skeptics are removing her from the upper echelons of their death pool just yet. But given Winehouse's genuinely astounding talent (frankly, while apples and oranges, her voice rivals that of a Beyonce, accept she seems to actually have some sense of a soulful legacy), it's hard not to root for everyone's favorite wig-wearing Jewess to make it through. You go, girl!
Everyday, struggling bands scuffle their way through the great unknown, clawing at a chance for their music to be heard, a T-shirt sold or to claim the most hits on their MySpace page among their faux-hawk bedecked, douchebag circle of friends. But even as these budding rock 'n' rollers aspire to achieve just the "toppermost of the poppermost," legions of today's hottest performers, both young and old, inundate us with reworked versions of some of their cornerstone songs.
Remaking music to make some new money is nothing novel. Whether an artist was forced to duplicate a smash hit because they made the jump to a major label and management wanted to polish up their biggest underground hit; their voracious record company wouldn't license the original recordings for commercial use; or because the band simply wanted to rehash old glory, sell out and cash in, this phenomenon seems to be happening with greater regularity as platforms for exposure increase.
Here's eight of the most noteworthy unnecessary attempts at recapturing the past, whatever the reason.
8. Erasure, "How Many Times" (1989, 2006) In 2006, the synth-pop duo got all countrified with their 12th studio album, Union Street, stripping down some of their lesser-known hits, providing a country twang in place of their familiar electro theatrics. And though the band was said the record was an attempt at shedding new light on lesser-known tracks, the dull second take of "How Many Times," already a humdrum affair in its first rendering on WILD!, left one wondering how many times the boys suckle from the tranny breast of their proverbial catalog.
7. Nirvana, "Polly"/"(New Wave) Polly" (1991, 1992) The music of Nirvana, like it or not, is one of the great cultural happenings of the last few decades. You can remember exactly where you were and what you were doing when those power chords completely annihilated your pretty little apathetic teenage ears. Originally released on Nevermind, the stark acoustics of "Polly" stood out against the album's otherwise sludgy post-punk tracks. A year later, at the height of their success, Nirvana buffed and sped the track up and even added the rather ill-defined addendum "New Wave" to its title for their Incesticide compilation. But despite suggestions that the rarities collection was a goodwill offering to their fanbase (or an outlet for Kurt Cobain's creepy artwork), the only logical conclusion aims directly at the rather equine features of drummer Dave Grohl's ego, only then in utero. Perhaps he couldn't cope with Nevermind having a song that didn't feature his percussive cacophony of drumming, but looking back, its clear that the re-vamped version (albeit a cut that worked better for band and fans alike), was nothing but vainglorious chow for the seemingly haughty stickman.
6. Bad Religion, "21st Century (Digital Boy)" (1990, 1994) In 1990, Bad Religion was arguably at the top of their game, releasing intelligent, thought-provoking, aggressive punk rock off of the then-under-the-radar independent label, Epitaph. And "21st Century (Digital Boy)," off 1990's Against The Grain, quickly scored high with their enthusiastic, long-time disciples. But their '94 move to major label Atlantic found the bespectacled Cali-punkers in need of some radio-friendly concessions. Rumor has it that their blood-sucking, evil-doing new home asked the band to re-record the track because they didn't hear a single off Stranger Than Fiction. So way to go, gentleman, for taking all the grittiness out of the near, perfect original rendition and glossing it up for your big-time debut.
5. Face To Face, "Disconnected" (1992, 1994, 1995) The early-to-mid-'90s alterna-punk scene belonged to bands like Face To Face and their catchy, southern-California melodies, making it possible for loathsome impostors like The Offspring to claim their piece. "Disconnected", arguably the bands biggest single, was first featured on a 1992 full-length and then a 1994 EP, and though only included as a "bonus" track for their major label debut, Big Choice, its intro featured a humorous exchange between the band and their manager, debating the dilemmas of selling out. Unfortunately, the attempt to save face (to face) came off as an embarrassing justification for potentially tarnishing their integrity. Everybody knows, Face To Face, everybody knows.
Hey there, and how's your father? No, seriously, he wasn't doing so well the last time we made love and I'm genuinely curious if he's gotten over that horrible encounter with the Samoan princess.
Well, at least we've been able to competently take the temperature of Hollywoodland, and let me tell you, it is burning up. No pun intended in the case of still-rockin' and still-shirtless Travis Barker. And absolutely pun intended in terms of the rampant gonorrhea ravaging the Rock Of Love Bus.
But those were just a couple of the items exploding the zeitgeist since last weekend that have whetted our appetites for some good ol' pop-culture excess and voyeurism, and on that accord we triumphantly bring you the top five things NCDSUV learned this week:
5. Were we the only ones who read the news about Travis Barker getting back behind the drum kit, became momentarily inspired, then saw that he was still insistent on playing shirtless despite a burn-ravaged body and thought, "Man, he's still a skater douche, huh?"
4. Awww, Jennifer Love Hewitt and Patricia Arquette broke up with their boyyyyfweeeends. Someone call the waaaaaambulance. Now the remainder of Hollywood's single male population will have two more pairs of phenomenal, natural breasts to play comeptitive tourneys of backgammon over. Waaaaaa!
A couple months back, NCDSUV began broadcasting a new feature known as Just Because, highlighting something inane, obscurely amazing or just plain jaw-dropping from the outlines of pop culture and viral content.
These differ from, say, insanely retarded local ads, or eccentric YouTube karaoke performers,
which can be grouped into their own self-referencing regular
spotlights. Nor do they need to be burdened by standards of timeliness
or having been as-yet-unearthed.
They are the standalone wonders of the cybersphere that made us all
get a computer in the first place, and occasionally need to be inserted
into a day of normal online programming.
So while the last installment of Just Because teased our upcoming presidential inauguration with some unforgettable footage from a recent mayorial swearing in, this week we zap you back to almost a decade ago, to a time when Howard Stern was at the peak of his powers and chose to zero them in on a helpless Magic Johnson.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features,
where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of
Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by
the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge
affinity for their body of work.
And while somebody peed all over yesterday's birthday candles in honor of R. Kelly, today we say "Damn boyfriend, you're almost 60?" to a glam-punk pioneer-cum-cabaret icon.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features,
where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of
Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by
the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge
affinity for their body of work.
And while yesterday ushered in the seventh decade for Kenny Loggins, a magically bearded man equally enamored with gofers and Pooh, today we head to the after party after the show after the pre-show dinner for a controversial but undeniably talented R & B legend.
You've got to hand it to Travis Barker. He'll always give you the shirt off his back. Even when he's been horribly scarred by first-degree burns after nearly dying in a plane crash that claimed several other victims.
Just last night, the former Blink-182 stickman was back behind the kit, coupled with his partner-in-peril, and music, DJ AM on the ones and tizoos. And per his norm, was performing sans shirt, his giant "HOPE" tattoo peeking out somewhat more profoundly from his lower back.
That sounded weirdly erotic. Anyway, all easy jabs at the combo's musical leanings aside, it's hard not to tip your cap to their courage for moving forward with their music after such a devastating incident. Now if only they'd play something worth getting fired up about.
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).
In the spirit of the reincarnation mojo that comes with each New Year, we decided to take the opportunity to (for a change) applaud some much-welcomed progress in the wardrobe department of some of our favorite Hollywoodland targets over in Hollywoodland.
8. Angelina Jolie Unlike most of the rest of the planet, I remain resolutely unimpressed with Angel Angie. Yes, she's adopted a bijillion babies and has accomplished truly superb things as a Goodwill Ambassador for the U.N. Refugee Agency. And that whole Academy Award thing is nothing to spit at. But everyone else (including Angie) is so busy showering praise on her frail little shoulders, there's hardly room for one more accolade from the peanut gallery. I'm saving my accolades for her closet. She somehow managed to go from fright-night horror (all big lips, vials of blood, vacant eyes, witchy black hair tied with an oversized leopard-patterned ribbon and hideous jean jackets) to polished mommy glamazon (all big lips, purposeful gazes, yummy mummy beautifully tailored, tasteful and flattering clothes and much better accessories, Brad Pitt being the penultimate of course).
7. Jessica Biel She has managed to evade two major H'wood facts of life: People who star in family friendly crapfests on the small screen (7th Heaven) will never make it to the big-budget big screen (The Illusionist, Blade: Trinity, etc.) and that women have to dress like prostitutes to be taken (ahem) seriously by major studios. Biel embraced her down-home, super-casual style a touch too fervently, however, and I'm relieved to see she's eschewed the shapeless girl-next-door bell-bottoms and the random, ill-fitting shiny tops obviously slapped on her by a desperate stylist in a last-ditch attempt at glam for the occasional elegantly slinky dress that bares her impressive booty.
6. Kirsten Dunst Sharing your first kiss onscreen at the tender age of 11 with a vampire and then being launched into a brutal, multiple movies a year schedule would warp anyone. And Kirsten, like most child stars, failed or was never given the opportunity to develop as an individual. Obvious and tragic symptoms aside, (stints in rehab, troubled relationships), the perfectly cute, and totally underrated, blond starlet drowned her sorrows in an unforgiving sea of chipped, noir nail-polish, poorly executed updos, Jessica McClintock-like formal wear and outfits that look as if they were produced by frazzled clerks during a hold-up of the Salvation Army. But girlfriend got her groove back from whence it was hiding, and while she'll probably never hit the dizzying heights of chic, she's finally come into her own with brushed and styled (hello!) golden tresses, offbeat takes on downtown prep and the proud display of legs that goes for miles and miles and miles and miles...
5. Nicole Richie Forget Madonna. Richie has reinvented reinvention. She went from a slightly pudgy (but consummately cute) Paris Hilton sidekick in The Simple Life to a cadaverous L.A. beach bum, club troll and inmate to trim, suburban wife and mother in less time than it takes some people to get through Madge's Sex book. But almost invariably, Nicole manages to effortlessly pull off aggressively casual West Coast refinement (face-eating sunglasses and hair don'ts notwithstanding) like no one else. The only thing threatening her reign over the Valley was her Skeletor stage, hopefully a problem rooted firmly in her past.
Since the fine folks at TMZ have nothing better to do than spy on mismatched celebrities canoodling together, and since NCDSUV has everything better to do than play voyeur on their findings but opts for lethargy, we thought we'd put in our two cents about Nicollette Sheridan and David Spade. You see, apparently, the puzzling pair were spotted dining last night, after allegedly hooking up back in November, which of course came in the wake of Sheridan ditching adult-contempo super-stud Michael Bolton.
Now, do us a favor and read that again. Michael. Bolton. Being that mystified as to why she'd make the supposed step down from Mr. Sensitive to Mr. Sarcastic would be like feigning utter shock at Sheridan leaving a relationship with Kenny G for recent Awesome Celebrity Birthday honoree Kenny Loggins. Or in other words, it's a relatively lateral move.
Speaking of which, you seen this Desperate Housewife's lats lately? Daaaaamn! Someone's trying to make sure she comes out on the right side of the PR battle of her breakup.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features,
where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of
Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by
the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge
affinity for their body of work.
And while yesterday we said "OK, fine you're the boss, jeeeez" to ex-pre-pubescent Tony Danza sidekick Danny Pintauro, today we get ourselves in a fine Messina trying to put the icing on the birthday cake for a folk-cum-'80s-radio-rock stalwart.
It may only be the first official week of the inaugural year, but the fruitless hits keep on comin'! Welcome back to Unnecessary Album Releases, an NCDSUV feature in which we highlight the week's most egregiously bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial. Behold the obscure, the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of January 6, 2009
6. The Mongoloids, Assorted Music With a moniker that brings to mind indigenous peoples of Asia or chromosomal abnormality, The Mongoloids' Assorted Music is perfect for two-fisted vegans and New York Hardcore leftovers still pining for the days of Sheer Terror.
5. The Newleydeads, Dreams From A Dirt Nap This "greatest hits" collection by Goth/Industrial rockers The Newleydeads, featuring members of Faster Pussycat, is the ideal model for those who missed the cultural gap between early Marilyn Manson and the widely overstated ballyhoo that is director Rob Zombie's horror films.
Just when it seemed U2 was the only group to withstand the kind of intra-band tension that drives its original members apart, jettisoning them into a world of betrayal, incestuous relationships and back-talking, drummer Larry Mullen has slammed their frontman Bono in the latest issue of Q.
The iconic quartet's stickman says he cringes at his oft-sunglasses-adorned bandmates' political affiliations, specifically lamenting that, "I think Tony Blair's a war criminal. And I think he should be tried as
a war criminal. And then I see Bono and him as pals, and I'm going, 'I
don't like that.'"
Well, fortunately, for Bono, the casual U2 fan is too busy basking in the singer's well-crafted demagoguery to even notice that Mullen still improably sports his military-style crew-cut, nevermind that he spouts opinions about globally relevant issues.
However, it certainly reinforces the skeptical notion that Bono's spiritual past has led in questionable ways to public paling around with the likes of George W. Bush (and yes, I am getting a head start and leaving "President" unattached to his name). Or that he's just an egomaniacal douchebag with a martyr complex. Which would of course make him no different whatsoever from any frontman in the history of rock 'n' roll. So take a chill pill and count your money, Mr. Mullen, cause much of it has come your way due to Bono's admittedly cringeworthy antics.
Think about this: There was a time when Bret Michaels and his band Poison would have been too edgy for VH1. You know, back in the '80s, when the network doubled as second home to Michael Bolton and late-period Steve Winwood. But now, his efforts to pursue poontang and pure romance have become the debauched ground zero for their Celebreality empire, as evidenced by the New Year's-ball-dropping-esque countdown ticker for Rock Of Love Bus displayed during the preceding premiere of Confessions Of A Teen Idol (which was kind of awesome and gripping in a Celebrity Rehab sort of way, FYI).
And while the latest seasonal installment in the fake-extensions, bandana-toting, one-time pop-metal superstar's serial opus no doubt garnered ginormous ratings, I fear a backlash may finally ensue.
Welcome to NCDSUV's splenetic, embittered new weekly feature, Overdressed & Underclassed, which dissects different aspects 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).
Fashion trends generally reflect the time in which they're created, ergo cash means flash, recession means regression. So what can we expect when a full-blown depression is being forecast? As I turn my jaundiced eye to 2009, I predict that the (hopefully) temporary stumble of Western Civilization will lead to a number of unsightly trendlets among the glitterati. My predictions for who will wear what, below.
8. Rumpled Luxe Most Likely Victims: Angelina Jolie, Madonna, Sean Penn Much like Kathy Fuld's rather feeble attempt to hide her weekly $10,000 shopping sprees at Hermes (you know Kathy, wife of the disgraced Lehman Brothers Goliath, Tricky Dick Fuld) in unmarked bags to protect the great unwashed masses from the awareness of her continuing spendthrift ways, there are going to be gaggles of stars known for their cultural and political "sensitivity" who will attempt to downplay their own profligate spending with the Rumpled Luxe look. Because a Prada dress that's ill-fitting, baggy, wrinkled and strapped together with a series of creased ribbons (and just happens to cost thousands) totally says, "I relate to unkempt homeless people and the struggling working class."
7. Statement Headpieces Most Likely Victims: Nicole Richie, Mischa Barton, Christian Siriano Broke but still want to look a la mode? That's where "statement" headpieces come in. And in keeping with the bipolar mood the wild fluctuations of the market have inspired in the general populace, the message this season's "statements" are sending are decidedly crazypants. Take Blumarine, for example. The unwieldy beige contraptions strapped to models' heads are tied in various fanciful designs. The giant upside down Christmas-bow that threatens to take out a model's eyeball, or at the very least, her line of vision, is my personal favorite. It perfectly evokes the topsy turvy/helter skelter spirit of our times and chooses to join in the chaos and embrace the screwball and the scary, instead of run in the other direction, screaming. Which will most likely be the common reaction if you attempt to replicate this look.
6. Sleepwear As Outerwear Most Likely Victims: Britney Spears, Matthew McConaughey, Courtney Love Luxe lads and ladies too depressed, unemployed, drunk and/or insolvent to change out of their jammies can rest assured that they'll still totally be in style. Dolce & Gabbana has conveniently devoted its 2009 line to various pajama-inspired ensembles that will take you from the deli... to the couch. The dresses resemble Hugh Hefner-style silk smoking jackets and trench coats, shorts, flowy pants and button-downs that scream "naptime!" abound -- casual lolligag belting options included. Perhaps the idea here is to allow the still gainfully employed to stand in solidarity with their jobless brethren by unabashedly approaching their oh-so-urgent PowerPoint presentations and TPS reports with the same vigor their cohorts approach their glazy-eyed afternoon slumps on the couch, clicker in one hand, giant vat of soda in the other, bowl of popcorn precariously balanced on lap strewn with trashy magazines. Let's get this economy started!
5. Bike Shorts Most Likely Victims: Lindsay Lohan, Rihanna, Nicky Hilton Leggings' tacky redneck cousins have arrived. Brace yourselves, because bike shorts are "in." Nothing says "we give up as a society" like oversized cotton T's paired with plain black leather belts that are neither thin, thick, tight or loosely slung and bike shorts... posing as haute couture. Let's keep our fingers crossed and hope that Americans en masse don't pick up this style. We've lived through enough with the redoubtable muffin top/hipster jean/peekaboo thong triangle of terror, and I'm not sure we could withstand the kind of shock and horror that would surely entail if mall rats, Soap Opera Digest subscribers and soccer moms all started sporting short, tight, shiny Lycra pants.
While slogging through VH1's autopiloted, best-of '08 (i.e. best of their coverage of '08) programming during the last week, I made it through a few more of their I Love The... and Top 100... clips shows. During one such marathon, a segment featured the best air-guitar song of that year, with celebrities and professional air guitarists alike superimposed over, say, a Judas Priest clip, wah-wah-ing and soloing away on their imaginary axe.
Oh, I'm sorry, did I just say professional air guitarists? Excuse me while I get my dick out of my hand until someone gives me my paycheck for professionally jerking off. I think what I actually meant to say was unemployed loser who lives in his mom's basement and makes a living through some mundane postmodern form of theater that lands approximately in between a Rock Band jam session and the early audition stages of American Idol.
Firstly, all the value from air guitar histrionics has historically been derived from it being a private endeavor, something that, a la singing in the shower, is vulnerable to shame and embarrassment if caught on tape or by accidental interruption.
Had your full of toothsome glazed meats oozing with holiday mirth? Is your skull still echoing from a blizzard of Christmastime music? Then welcome back to Unnecessary Album Releases, an NCDSUV feature in which we highlight the week's most egregiously bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial. Behold the obscure, the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of December 30, 2008.
6. Return To Forever, Romantic Warrior This week, jazz-rock savant and card-carrying Scientologist Chick Corea and Return To Forever re-release the 1976 progressive rock/jazz record Romantic Warrior, made famous for its technically rigorous playing and gold-charting status. Yet despite those accolades, we can't help but think that Romantic Warrior should return its dank, medieval, circus jazz-rock to forever they came from. (Eh?)
5. üNN, Exit Have a deep penchant for droning, ordinary ambience backed-up by a deathless dime-store techno-beat this coming new year? Then look no further; similar to the drip of intravenous therapy, üNN's Exit is the perfect resolve.
4. Alice In Videoland, She's A Machine There's nothing subtle on the third release from electro-punk outfit Alice In Videoland. On She's A Machine, this Swedish quartet builds upon early '80s new-wave disco à la synthpop acts like OMD and Alphaville, with a newfangled electro-punk rock swirl. But while the stomping aggrepo is a throwback to pioneers like Nitzer Ebb, the feigned vocals of vocalist Toril Lindqvist remind us of the squawking absurdity on Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl." "This shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S."
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 one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features, where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for their body of work.
On Friday, we flipped for acrobatic infielder Ozzie Smith, and today we're readying the rubber room for a permanently, gorgeously flipped out middle-aged songstress.
While the rest of you lazy schlubs were spending the holiday week glugging down eggnog and making sexy eyes at that random third cousin whose bloodline connection feels tenuous at best, NCDSUV was still soaking in the pop culture rays.
Humorously enough, however, there was a conspicuous paucity of tabloid-friendly stories breaking over the last several days. This could lean one to hypothetsize that much of the entertainment world's daily headlines harbor hazy significance at best and are generated so the blogosphere merely has an excuse to catalyze conversation and ramp up page views.
But, of course, we're not that cynical. We are, however, newly educated on everything from Michael Jackson's supposedly deteriorating lung to Amy Winehouse's most certainly replenished bosom. Here are the top five things we learned for this final full week of 2008, in a very much specific order. 5. Despite our very keen eye for newly portly former sex symbols, Kathleen Turner's massive tumble into terrifyingly negative sex appeal slipped through a canyon-sized crack. She might portray a dog trainer in Marley & Me, but it appears her personal workout coach really screwed the pooch.
4. Just when we thought we were out.... Actually, it's Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt who are out... (wait for it, wait for it) of their minds! And in and out of matrimony, as they teased us with yet another wedding-related ratings booster on The Hills, only to hold off on an official ceremony as a presumed cocktease for their inevitable spinoff show. Hey, it's not like marriage has been a particularly sanctified concept in recent decades anyway, so these two nutballs may as well shit all over it to advance their careers.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features, where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for their body of work.
On Wednesday, we blew out the candles for Motorhead master-riffer Lemmy Kilmister. Today, we raise a green Christmas glass of suds to everyone's favorite Irish punk rocker and hot, drunken mess.
With the recent release of Rivers Cuomo's second CD of home recordings, a nostalgia has been drizzled over our beings like Christmas spirit over the dinner ham. Or whatever it is that gentiles eat. Cookies or something. Regardless, a fondness for a former age, a period where Weezer wasn't a pale parody of its previous self, is upon us like carolers preying upon a fresh plate of ham-flavored cookies.
The beckoning nostalgia spurs us on to try and recapture the feeling Pinkerton gave us, with its vaguely crazy songs about obsession and creepy Sinophilia. However, like the childhood you're so desperate to recapture but never can, and so you grow into a twisted man-child unable to form adult attachments, that feeling is forever lost, much like the possibility of Rivers Cuomo ever writing another decent song with Weezer. Oh spirit of music past, show us the True Enlightened Path Of Splendor!
In all, or at least a minimal amount of, seriousness, what makes Pinkerton such a great album (even more than The Blue Album), is that it's completely and absurdly earnest, and like Oscar Wilde and Ernest Hemingway know, it's important to be that. (According to them though, it's also important to end your life as a shriveled shell of your erstwhile self. Or just to end your life period.)
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's
favorite daily features, where we acknowledge
another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if it's a
celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the blogosphere, and
regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for their body of work.
And while yesterday saw Corey Haim pushing ever-closer to an improbable 40, today we hire a stripper to leap out of bread and frosting for a man who defies age, fashion trends and decibel levels.
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.
With the passing of Rock Of Love Charm School, we also mourn Riki Rachtman's re-exit from the revolving door of pop culture's spotlight. For now. For a moment. Until some other opportunity arises for him to continue his improbable, two-decade tenure as a parasite on the buttocks of heavy-metal culture, during which time he's used his inflated status as backstage hanger-on extraordinaire to get consistent visibility on MTV and VH1.
Rachtman was always a clueless, over-quaffed nitwit on Headbanger's Ball (especially when making the awkward transition into the grunge years). And as evidenced in The Decline Of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years, was an even more egregiously 'do'd dipshit during the formative years of his Cathouse proprietorship (the rock club, not the HBO brothel).
Or at least Michael Jackson's "spokesperson," Dr. Tohme Tohme (presumably a refugee born on Neverland Ranch), managed to breathe those words through his own lungs. Hmmm.. Hmmmm? Anyskidaddle, Dr. "Don't Call Me Jim" Tohme released an official statement last night regarding tabloids reporting that biographer Ian Halperin's new book alleges MJ had lost 95 percent of vision in one eye and needed a lung transplant.
"The writer's wild allegations concerning Mr. Jackson's health are a total fabrication," Tohme announced, even declaring that the King Of Pop was working on plans for a new tour and series of specials and appearances.
Now, we can believe, Senor Tohme, that said tabloids are parasticially feeding off the impending book's sensationalistic appeal. But don't lead us down the happy trail of supposed public appearances and triumphant returns to the stage when the guy's generally seen in either a wheelchair or his pajamas. Or both.
My guess? This is one set of rumors very likely to be true, and Tohme/Jackson freaked (interesting choice of words there I guess) because they may in fact have been involved in some entertainment-related negotiations.
Guess we'll just have to wait and see how the rest of this.... thriller turns out.
Welcome back to Unnecessary Album Releases, an NCDSUV feature in which we highlight the week's most egregiously bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial.
Behold the obscure, the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of December 23, 2008, just in time for the holiday edition! 5. Stephanie A. Smith, Not Afraid We never thought we'd say this, but can we hear more Pink please? On Smith's debut, she mawkishly wangles bad love songs, supercharged with enough contrived rock/pop, um, hooks, to hold her audience of Kelly Clarkson spillovers captive.
4. Leng T'che & Fuck the Facts, Split What's better than having a metal grindcore band tear into your cochlea? Well, two grindcore bands of course. This split 7-inch from Canada's Fuck The Facts and the Belgium-based Leng T'che is perfect for those who prefer their brand of raw and abrasive metal violently regurgitated.
Actually, heroin-hottie Amy Winehouse doesn't look all that bad in these paparazzi pics (NSFW, in more ways than one) of her sunbathing topless in the Caribbean. Which has sparked more conversation than the actual nudity itself. Besides, we've all seen enough pictures of her in her underwear roaming helplessly around London streets by now.
However, just two throw my two cents in about her pair of public-peeking mammories, I do have to confess: They were a lot less, er, skeletal looking than I would have imagined. Although it's mostly a shock to see her wet hair matted down sans retro extension. Of course, given that she was still adorned in a bikini bottom, so no telling if the bush matches the beehive.
OK, that deserved as much of an ewww as the news of the leaked pics themselves, but it was sort of begging for it.
Ah, the last week before the Christmas-time blitz of abusive commercialism and schmaltzy, ceremonial sentimentality. A time for celebrities to get one last headline blast before the world pretends to care about religion and family more than the dogma of tabloid culture for a few days.
Fortunately for us, there was no shortage of boob-flashing, divorce scuttlebutt and rehab-hyjinks. So without further prolonged pause, here are the top five things we here at NCDSUV (and we hope you as well) have learned this week:
4. Tara Reid, not to be outdone by her more youthful underlings Lindsay Lohan et al, finally went into rehab for undisclosed reasons. We're guessing it's because she's been chronically addicted to an illicit co-dependent substance, but what the heckfire do we know?
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features,
where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of
Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by
the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge
affinity for their body of work.
On Thursday, we wished happy 65th to a guy who spent much of youth 69-ing with young, tourniquet-equipped groupies, and today we gather together in an a cappella chorus of "I Need A Hero" for the star of both a cult '80s film and an equally culty '00s Showtime drama.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features, where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for their body of work.
On Wednesday, we wrung our hands nervously while wishing a happy 62nd (and many more!) to neurotic cult comic actor Eugene Levy. Today, we're just kinda standing here in slack-jawed awe at the continual survival of one of the best rhythm guitar players around and possessor of what must be the world's most pickled liver.
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.
Sure, his name has an extra "t" in it, but Guy Ritchie's finally embodying the promise of his name in undeserved wealth, if not believably accrued critical kudos. Even Paul McCartney and Phil Collins have to be cringing with empathy for Madonna, who forked over $76 million and some of their shared property to the middling quasi-pulp director.
Does this mean Madge is finally completing her long overdue separation from vacuously vicarious faux-Britishness? Is the Queen actually dead? Or is she too busy tripping over herself on stage lately to have any equilibrium one way or the other?
And incidentally, enough with the guitar-playing during segments of your new concert tour. You're about as believably authentic straddling a six-string as Jon Bon Jovi in the "I'll Be There For You" video.
Welcome back to Unnecessary Album Releases, an NCDSUV feature where we highlight the week's most bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial. Behold the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of December 16, 2008.
6. Electric Wizard, Let Us Prey Doom rockers space out on re-issue These doom/stoner metal makers have been at it since 1993, and this week, are apparently re-releasing what seems to be their entire catalog. But it's the would-be-cleverly titled Let Us Prey that caught our eye. This sludgy, aggressive record is the perfect for those who missed the stoner-rock boat when it was named KYUSS.
5. Mr. Children, Supermarket Fantasy J-Pop superstars realize fetish on new effort What's creepier than naming your band Mr. Children? Naming your 12th studio release Supermarket Fancy and adorning the cover art with two lovers embraced amidst an orbit of groceries. In all fairness to arguably the most successful Japanese pop act, it just might be that the title looses something in its translation, right?
As we gear up for the holidays, Hollywood has no intent on settling down its array of shenanigans. Particularly as it revs its self-promotional engine and rings in the start of awards season.
Yes, the big news this week (well, apart from that awful business surrounding Mark Ruffalo's brother, but let's not dwell on the morbid) involved Heath Ledger getting one last laugh after his tragic death, thanks to his work as The Joker in Dark Knight being recognized amidst the Golden Globe nominees.
But there was also the minor matter of Britney Spears' comeback, not to mention, Heather Chadwell getting the steel-toed stripper boot from Rock Of Love Charm School. So without further shenanigans of our own, here are the top five things we learned this week:
5. Apparently, there's a groundswell of second-generation punk fans just creaming their pants for the opportunity to revisit GG Allin's propensity for not wearing any.
4. Heather Chadwell, aka Heather from Charm School, may actually have less self-esteem than the people who read this site.
This one's for all your college kids out there, suffering through O.A.R. (aka Of A Revolution, which sounds more like a shitty new line of "edgy" denim wear at Macy's than a band with any depth) as their generation's Dave Matthews Band. You know, the kind of band that kids of the download era spread around with each other bootleg-style after going to one of their shitty stadium shows at the corporate-subsidized arena 10 minutes from campus.
You know, the one that's fronted by an earnest and down to earth-but-just handsome enough frontman and buoyed by a bassist that compensates for lack of charisma with a crappy haircut, flip-up collar and rhythmless bounce on his hind foot.
The kind that you'd first assume was a Christian rock band of the Nickelback variety, where religion doesn't explicitly motivate their music but implicitly informs its faux-inspirational soulless anti-anthems.
I'm not sure these guys are what The Beatles had in mind when they were talkin' bout a "Revolution," or what The Clash intended when they rallied their fans around the "Revolution Rock." But what I do know is that man, do these guys suck.
Today marks the launch of 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).
In this inaugural piece, we will explore the prevalent problem of personality disorders among the glitterati and their affect on our ability to surf the Web and flip through glossies without causing our eyes, nay, our very souls, to bleed. One in five adults has a personality disorder that can interfere with their ability to separate fact from fiction, zebras from zinnias and prettiness from pulchritude. And logic dictates that personality disorders would affect celebrities more than the rest of the species. Today, we're focusing on female offenders.
9. Madonna Diagnosis: Schizoid Personality Disorder Madge bears all of the unfortunate hallmarks of SPD: odd dress, beliefs and behavior; palpable discomfort with close relationships; inappropriate emotional responses; and "magical thinking," i.e. the belief that you can influence people and events with your thoughts alone. Her Madgesty's sartorial sins are really just drops in her shiny, black-latex crazypants bucket, but they are significant nonetheless. Since the dawn of the new millennium and (coincidentally?) middle age, the Material Girl lost her fashion touch. The heady days of drooling over a brash, grinning bleach-blond in cone bras, tacky-chic lace gloves, insanely poofy but totally cute taffeta skirts, (ironic) religious jewelry and an armful of black rubber bracelets are gone. Now we've got snaps of a snarling Ms. Ciccone flexing her pale, ropy limbs for the stalkerazzi in her skuzziest skull-emblazoned workout gear or sporting questionable couture. Worst of all, Marc Jacobs, generally brilliant but a total ditz when it comes to selecting his "muses," is perpetuating, under-writing and encouraging the fashion train wreck by signing Madonna as the new face of Louis Vuitton. The new, frozen, swollen, sullen, skin-tight skullface of Louis Vuitton.
8. Amy Winehouse Diagnosis: Borderline Personality Disorder There are a few things you can depend on with Wino: glittering eyes that perpetually burn with the spark of chaos and fashion choices that clearly reflect her BPD; impulsive and risky behavior (see: the shameless cultivation of her omnipresent beehive and frequent decisions to don bras as tops and sport see-through tank tops sans necessary supportive undergarments); lack of stability (see: repeated sidewalk spills due to a deadly cocktail and total inability to commit to either crackwhore chic or baglady chic); and volatile relationships (see: an apparent total disregard for her apparel, as expressed through repeated cutting, shredding and tearing of wife beaters and Daisy Dukes).
7. Winona Ryder Diagnosis: Antisocial Personality Disorder Ryder was the '90s rolled up into one gloomy, pale, listless (yet still strangely perky and idealistic) package, but since then her star has been eclipsed by the go-go Hollywood hussies of the aughts. During her Icarus-like flameout into B-status, the erstwhile drab packer threw off the oversized flannel but maintained her distinctly APD approach to clothing herself. Winona's condition is characterized by a disregard for others, a persistent streak of lying and stealing, recurring difficulties with the law and repeated violations of the rights of others. Like her career, her targets of thievery have spiraled downward; this year, she was accused of stealing make-up from CVS. Winona was never officially charged.
6. The Olsen Twins Diagnosis: Avoidant Personality Disorder The direful dyad has always worn APD (feelings of inadequacy, extreme shyness in social situations, timidity, social isolation, hypersensitivity to criticism or rejection) on its hyper-tailored sleeves. The reclusive, creepy-close genetic photocopies have never really been accepted by young Hollywood's reigning nightlife cabal (Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole RIchioe, et al), likely perpetuating the Olsens' already gossamer grip on sanity. Currently, their increasingly pinched, pixie-like faces can rarely be spied poking through their cascading blond tresses and under their titanic shades as they clutch each other and shuffle on their reedy little stems in Grey Gardens-esque "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale gear (giant fur coats atop leggings and high-rise platform heels, paired with giant designer bags in exotic skins and ludicrous scarves) from one awkward press event to the next. When Ashley and Mary-Kate muster enough courage to emerge from Cousin It mode and smile for the cameras, the results are invariable cringetastic, their pasty, angular faces resembling kabuki masks suddenly coming to life.
It's been a week since the apocalypse was announced under the guise of Lil Wayne's Grammy-field-leading eight nominations for the annual music-awards ceremony. And now Britney Spears has asserted the final piece in the puzzle of her world domination, debuting at No. 1 on the Billboard charts with more than half a million copies sold of Circus.
We've of course been diligently reporting each step in the mega-star-turned-trainwreck-turned-reconstructed-icon's metamorphosis. But in case you've been paying attention to your rapidly shrinking bank account instead, Spears is basically the pop world's Humpty Dumpty, except with creepy music-industry handlers like Larry Rudolph instead of king's men (but were there a king, ohhhhh were there a king).
But Rudolph and camp deserve kudos, as it's hard to imagine a precedent for this kind of successfully strategized celebrity redemption, especially with such quick turnaround (although that's a must in an era where fans are oversaturated 24-7 with reminders of famous flubbers' indiscretions). However, it is our job to point out that until she disappears for almost two decades to work on a bloated vanity project that she releases with no fanfare in one retail outlet, and still sells a quarter mil upon the album's release, she's still no Axl motherfuckin' Rose.
It's somewhat tough to rag on Demetri Martin. Especially when I'm on the rag. Or at least my feminine side is. Or at least that's the excuse she keeps giving me in order to avoid coitus. But now the only red wings I'll earn are a bucket of Mild 'n' Spicies down at Jimmie's Chicken Shack, which I was given as payment in lieu of monetary remuneration for being their manager. I guess the only thing I managed though was fuck up their careers. Which is sadly the only fucking I've ever done.
But Deme (or is it Deme?), just because you've been laying low lately developing a celluloid career doesn't mean the long arm of the Sucks law (a disfigured, leprotic limb of mottled flesh) can't grab at you longingly. But, like I noted above, it's a bit difficult to really let Martin have it. He's no magnificent asshole like Craig Kilborn, nor some political ovary coat like Bill Maher, and some of his jokes are rather wry. However, the bad bits outweigh the good to a significant degree, and like the scales of blind, lady justice (the juridical symbol, not the stripper that refused to give me a handjob, regardless of how much cash I threw at her ingrate feet and one great rack) the tipping point has emerged. And from on high, a judgment is handed down, "Marty, you stink like gangrene."
Beginning today, NCDSUV will broadcast a weekly feature known as Unnecessary Album Releases Of The Week, highlighting the week's most egregiously bizarre, dull and often unpleasant albums from the music industry's "left"er side of the dial.
So, from the shrills of pop to the bass-driven rhythms and rhyme of hip-hop, to studious indie rockers and the guttural belly of death metal shockers (not to mention dance, trance and fancy pants), we'll exhume the most fantastically superfluous musical curiosas for the week of December 9, 2008.
7. GG Allin, Freaks, Faggots, Drunks & Junkies Shit-eater resurfaces Though Allin has an immense catalog of music, he was probably best known for performing naked, while rolling around, eating his own excrement. His abrasive and largely vulgar punk rock spent much of its lifespan holding court in the nether regions of punk's nowhere Ville, making you wonder why anyone would itch for a reissue that includes the gem "Suck My Ass It Smells."
6. Magica, Wolves And Witches Dio finally inspires Symphonic power/gothic metal quintet Magica (yes that's their real name) formed in Romania in 2002 and have waxed tacky, cringe-worthy, absolutely gratuitous music since. The quintet, led by the grating vocals of Ana Mladinovici, is perfect for those mythic role-playing gamers who woefully pine for the Scorpions or Helloween.
5. Jimmy Buffett, License To Chill Mr. Puka-shell is laid back, with his money on his mind It's pretty tough to imagine that, after writing such ditties as "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and "Margaritaville," the Hawaiian shirt-wearing Jimmy Buffett maintained anything resembling a career. On License To Chill, he embraces old-school country songsters like Hank Williams with a little help from new school twangsters. But, oddly enough, the re-released and embarrassingly titled record (OK, not so oddly, as the record was the biggest-selling in Buffet's three-decade-long career), resurfaces just in time to unleash that holiday party animal in your parents.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features, where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for their body of work.
Friday, we screeched "happy birthday" in our best falsetto for histrionic R & B legend Little Richard and today, we're screeching "happy birthday" in our best post-fem angry/ironic wail for a catastrophe-prone, punk rock babe.
I realize this isn't the timeliest Sucks tangent, as the singer formerly known as Alecia Moore released her Funhouse record several weeks back. And perhaps it was spurred on by her new single, "So What," being perennially pumped at my local gym to the point where I'm considering purchasing a Soloflex.
But regardless, I can't help but cringe to the depths of my soul when I hear the former flame of Surreal Life vet Corey Hart sneer and growl her way through four more minutes of faux-riot grrrrl ranting.
Releasing albums with exclamation points and backwards Zs, occasionally flashing your tits as some pseudo-empowered gesture, employing soulless session musicians and former frontwomen from shitty '90s alt-rock bands to craft something ultimately derivative of Kelly Clarkson, and namechecking such cutting-edge femme-ragers as Rihanna as inspiringly badass chicks in music doesn't make you an authentic shit-starter, nevermind the second coming of Janis Joplin crossed with Joan Jett.
Which is unfortunate, since you have a genuinely powerful voice. But all your antics and clueless stabs at credibility have you more closely resembling Ann Wilson during her fat stage crossed with some kind of Hot Topic weekend shifter gone postal.
Remember a couple weeks back when we reported the heeeelarious story about Boy George luring some young stud over to his house for a coke-fueled naked photo shoot, but then imprisoning him and beating him 8MM style?
Well, apparently there is nothing Taboo for the 47-year-old Culture Clubber, real name George O'Dowd. A jury listened to the testimony of his alleged victim, Audun Carlsen, examined the bondage-gear-and-bruises-based evidence, and convicted the singer of false imprisonment.
Ya know, this kind of makes you realize that when you're watching movies about the seedy underworld of celebrities that involve peripheral characters lost in a miasma of masochistic excess, it's because those filmmakers probably encounter the likes of Boy George during their introduction to Hollywood.
Moreover, what does this say for George's pal and one-time producing partner Rosie O'Donnell? Perhaps that her motivation behind saddling up in leather and cuffs for Exit To Eden was more than the misguided advice of her agent?
Well, anyway, George-y boy, when you're surrounded by horny hooligans in jail, you can always stop, look them sympathetically in the eyes and plead, "Wait... do you really wanna hurt me?" Stay tuned for an update on the imprisonment status of fellow fallen celeb O.J. Simpson.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features, where we acknowledge
another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if
it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the
blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for
their body of work.
Yesterday, we said happy 71st to a proudly entrepreneurial Beverly Hillbilly, and today we emit an effeminate, histrionic howl in honor of a living R & B legend and possible re-animated wax figure.
The Recording Academy has officially broken their backs in an attempt to reverse years of just criticism for The Grammys being a mundane, lily-white affair that primarily celebrated commercially viable but critically neutered bands. And the week of weird, which previously constituted a high-charting album by Guns 'N Fuckin' Roses, continues, as it has been announced that New Orleans' resident lunatic mastermind/frequent source of NCDSUV curiosity Lil Wayne leads this year's pack with eight nominations, including Album Of The Year, for Tha Carter III.
It's actually a bit difficult to process, and potentially puts the broadcast in a position to outhip the increasingly uninspiring MTV Video Music Awards. And I can't be the only person who may actually reserve this as an occasion to spend with their elder relatives, just to watch them kvetch about how our culture has gone to hell in a hip-hop basket, as they desperately cling to copies of their Melissa Manchester records.
Make sure to tune in (or perhaps Auto-Tune?) to next year's Grammys, when Deicide takes the stage for the opening performance and DJ Assault wins the Best Gospel trophy.
Welcome to one of NCDSUV's favorite daily features, where we acknowledge
another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if
it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the
blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for
their body of work.
Yesterday, we made it through hump day with a lil' slice of Da Baddest Bitch, aka Miami MC Trina. Today, we're
whipping up a complicated layer cake for a money-grubbin' Hollywood
polymath.
Alarm
clocks suffer great wrath for their mere function. Radio alarm clocks,
when they came along in the 1940s, were meant to ease the ire by waking
us with entertainment, tunes and information. But some of the songs
that have made their way onto mainstream radio, and stayed through 2008 (from the lyrically inappropriate to the demotivating or
unfortunately catchy) have restored our love of simpler reveille.
In
fact, we'd rather wake up to cold water in our faces, or worse, The Bob
& Tom Show's PG banter, than these songs again. Radio 2009: If
you're out there and listening to us, for once, make it good again.
Make it right.
10. Rihanna, "Disturbia"
Waking up in the wee, dark hours of the
morning to the thought of cereal: good. Waking up in the wee, dark
hours of the morning to the thought of a serial killer like the one
in Disturbia (for which this was a theme
song): bad. We love Rihanna generally, but not for making a commercial
for a Shia LaBoeuf horror flick into a hit song that won't go away.
9. Panic At The Disco, "Nine In The Afternoon"
First,
Panic!At!The!Disco! confused everyone by having a name loaded with
exclamation points, then suddenly not. Is that emo? Then, Panic At The
Disco confused us by making an amazing Radiohead song ("Karma
Police") sound like crap with live, melodramatic covers. In 2008, the
band unleashed some strange new time-telling system, making matters
worse. "Nine In The Afternoon" on the radio first thing just makes
people feel like they're running late.
8. Plain White T's, "Hey There Delilah"
WHY ARE YOU STILL ON AIR? Weren't you released in 2005?
7.
Ne-Yo, "Closer"
Besides sounding, in an uncredited way, like
"Maniac" by Michael Sembello from the Flashdance soundtrack, Ne-Yo's
"Closer" annoys as much as it rocks. It's too catchy. It's too slinky,
with way too relatable lyrics (about a guy, spellbound by the wrong
woman at the wrong time). And it's too impossible to sing along to it
unless your name happens to be Usher, Prince or Chris Brown.
6. Feist, "1234"
A proposal for the Barack Obama
administration: Make it illegal for mainstream radio stations to keep
airing songs that have been drilled into our heads by way of iPod
advertising. We'll vote yes. (Sorry Feist.)
The saga of Guns 'N Roses' Chinese Democracy went through three stages: conjecture and rumor, post-confirmation philosophizing on the album's significance and, finally, the brass tacks of Billboard-chart business and how the much-obsessed-over LP performed. Somewhat fascinatingly, its actual musical quality became almost incidental, particularly after 17 years of arbitrarily leaked portions of the eventual songs.
And alas, every Rose has its thorn, and for Axl, it was the two-headed prickly monster of Kanye West and Taylor Swift, who superseded the ginger-rowed riot-starter at No. 1 and 2, respectively.
However, Democracy still moved a remarkable 261, 200 copies, and in this writer/lifelong G 'N R obsessive's biased-yet-somewhat-researched opinion, proved an extraordinary redemption for the beleagured frontman.
May as well keep the Britney Spears train-a-rollin' while its coal furnace is blazin' memorable embers. In fact, it looks like the full-on marketing blitz that her team unfurled this week to surround her birthday and new record has had its subliminally desired effect, even on this generally manipulation-impervious blog of destruction.
Anyhow, Keven Federline may be the only individual more lecherous of Britney's success than us gossip scribes, as his Q & A with People mag hit stands this week, featuring a precious pic of Sean Preston and Jayden perched upon his stubbly lap. In the scintillating chat, K-Fed (and yes, it says much for our generation's cultural contribution that one of its luminaries will be looked back on as K-Fed... can you imagine if we referred to, say, Don Rickles as D-Rick?) talks about his disconnect from Britney during their dissolution and how his kids mean more than anything in life to him.
But anyone who's followed the histories of other troubled child-turned-sort-of-adult celebrities like Danny Bonaduce (or watched a moment of the unrelenting Celebrity Rehab) knows, fame is a magical rollercoaster rode with as many vomit-inducing downward trajectories as slow-building re-entries to the glorious peak. In other words, Britney's got decades of birthdays left to publicly exploit, and we've got a feeling some of them might turn out like this:
December 2, 2009 Fresh off a year-long tour in support of Circus, Britney announces that she met the love of her life while on the road, in the form of one her dancers, a buff baldy named Chris Judd. She quickly annuls the relationship and begins a torrid courtship with Ben Affleck, before marrying Marc Anthony and nearly sabotaging her career with a sub-Scarface biopic... OK, that story's too out there, even by the standards of Hollywood romance.
December 2, 2012 To commemorate the fact that one of her idols, Mariah Carey, was 31 at the time of her TRL meltdown, Britney decides to shock and befuddle the nation by appearing at the MTV Video Music Awards and making out with some old British lady who works out too much while slinging a giant python over a bikini-clad ensemble that looks like something out of Annette Funicello's lingerie collection. Nation thinks it looks familiar, but can't remember anything they saw on MTV beyond 15 minutes ago.
December 2, 2021 Reeling from the critical and commerical disappointment of her 10th record, Oops, I Did It Again, And This Time There's Really Little Apology, Because You Already Reprimanded Me On The Previous Occasion, Britney finally poses for Playboy to prove her vitality. Instead, proves empirically that she'd lost her virginity to Justin Timberlake, if not earlier, thanks to creases around her vagina that were decoded by forensic scientists like rings around the stump of a ficus.
Despite only being 16 and spending most of her life lacking in normal socialization or formal education, Miley Cyrus is apparently fluent in American culture's contradictory puritanical attitudes when it comes to sexuality. Must be from fellating that 20-year-old man kabob of hers (and yes, I'm entirely comfortable making a living writing about teenage girls and their "man kabobs").
Was I the only one who read the snippets from her UK interview (in which she suggested her notorious Vanity Fairphoto shoot with Annie Leibovitz was better received overseas because "the States are really conservative, and that she might even relocate to London) and thought, "Ya know, you're right pop padawan. The worldliness and perspective you've attained from travelling the globe in private jet planes and spending seven-hour stints in different cities' hotel penthouses not only imbues you with the authority to comment on societal uptightness and hypocrisy, but has helped me lose weight without having to eat Subway for each of my day's three meals anymore"?
Listen, you can make whatever argument you want, but we're not budging: Britney Spears' birthday isn't awesome by NCDSUV standards on the same level as Def Leppard bassist Rick Savage's.
However, the lolita pop tart-turned-pitiful trainwreck-cum-triumphantly resurrected poptart/trainwreck is the only celebrity that could somehow celebrate getting one year older during the same three-day span as releasing her new record, Circus, and airing her 90-minute MTV documentary, For The Record. Somehow, the walking marketing magnate has even managed to incorporate the day she fell out of her mother's vaginal canal into her promotional cavalcade.
Kind of amazing to imagine the last time an event as mundane as compounded bile being birthed from her anus was experienced without opportunistic eyes. Or paparazzi lenses.
Well, whatever the case, Ms. Spears, here's to a decade-plus before you even reach nutball du jour Mariah Carey's cuckoo years on this earth, and the subsequent guarantee of many more hypnotic psychological episodes to come.
Stay tuned tomorrow for a prophetic list of where Britney's career will be (and what level of crazy she'll have ascertained) on her next several birthdays.
Welcome to NCDSUV's newest daily feature, where we acknowledge another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for their body of work.
On Monday we ushered in the post-holiday week by blowing out Woody Allen's still blazing (and we're sure, quite virile) candles. Today, we're pouring some sugar on an aging (but we're sure, still quite virile) rocker heartthrob.
Forget being thankful for things like, oh, not having just had terrorists ravage your entire metropolitan city in India. No, in the mystical universe that is pop culture (which stops for no one and no human tragedy), we can look up at the heavens and offer our gratitude that on Sunday night, Britney Spears will bring the conspicuously rapid cycle of her public meltdown and subsequent redemption full circle with MTV's 90-minute documentary For The Record.
By sheer coincidence, Britney was willing to film the mini-flick for airing a mere two days before her Circus album hits shelves. But hey, when you're following up the release of Chinese Democracy, you gotta step up your game.
So as you finally emerge from your tryptophan coma and ready to re-enter the work week sans True Blood and Entourage to bring you back from the ledge, remember to thank Ms. Spears for her bravery in confronting her demons with all the candor and courage of a vintage Saddam Hussein press conference.
Or just step back and appreciate your friends, family, the roof over your head and the fact that you managed to evade being taken hostage by political vigilantes. Whichever.
The myopic hubris of the uber-rich can lead any generally
well-meaning soul down the slippery path of Schadenfreude, the kind that
produces eardrum-piercing cackles and pages of gleeful, vicious diatribes in
the blogosphere and New York magazine. Even if Enron's
Dennis Kozlowski hadn't essentially looted his company and his staff's
retirement accounts for hundreds of millions of bucks, the fact that he bought
a $6,000 gold-threaded shower curtain for his $18 million Manhattan pad
(furnished with $20 million worth of other bling) would have been enough to
make Mother Theresa curse a blue streak and hunker down into troll mode.
To be
fair, sometimes celebrities get taken to the cleaners by their handlers, but these
stars have earned our self-satisfied ire with their Kozlowskian pomposity,
profligate spending and truly asinine purchases.
9. Donald Trump
Between his gold-plated weddings, solid gold divorces,
dramatic scowls, Bonfire Of The Vanities aesthetic and
preposterous strawberry blonde bouffant-cum-combover (can't he afford plugs fer
Chrissake?), The Donald is already a walking target for pretty much anyone
with a pulse. The financial loop-de-loop on which he rides (most likely while
shrieking "Yeehaw!" and pumping his hairy little fist in the air) just adds to
his general Vulgarian at the Gate aura. In the '90s, the mogul ran into a $1
billion speed bump called the Taj Mahal in Vegas (he financed it with
high-interest junk bonds) and eventually had to declare business insolvency (he
owed $3.5 billion). And with $900 million in personal debt, he almost had to
declare (almost?! Ah, the wonders of capitalism) personal bankruptcy. Not prone
to introspection, the Donald did it again a year later, declaring bankruptcy
over the Trump Plaza Hotel. In 2005, he finally emerged from his financial
woes, but continued to bemuse and horrify with The
Apprentice and his own line of fragrances and bottled water. But
mostly the hair.
8. MC Hammer
Perhaps the MC's Hammer Pants, a disastrously poofy
Christo-esque nightmare that appears to be designed to camouflage on overflowing
pair of extra-absorbent Depends, should have been the first clue that we did
not in fact want to "touch this." Unfortunately for all parties concerned,
Hammer fever didn't stop sweeping the nation until every white-bred middle
school in suburban America was peppered with misguided youth doing the Hammer
Dance in their Hammer Pants down the hall between geography in English class.
But despite his wild success (with the lunchboxes, dolls and other embarrassing
accouterments that go hand-in-hand with pop culture stardom), the Hammer's lack
of subtlety overflowed into his wild spending habits.
Buying a $30 million crib with his $33 million fortune wasn't enough; the
Hammer knowingly maintained a $500,000 a month payroll for his 40-odd member
entourage. Before long, he was left with $13.7 million in unpaid debts. But
despite the public's waning interest in the 90's throwback, he's still haunting
the airwaves, maintains a frequently updated blog and appears in D-List mainstays like The Surreal Life.
7. Zsa Zsa Gabor
One would think that the cop- and bellboy-slapping,
nonagenarian, nine-times married (once to a Hilton; she's Paris' great aunt!)
ersatz princess and former beauty queen would be fairly adroit in the money
department, or at least have enough sense to surround herself with people who
are. Unfortunately, the Queen Of Outer Space's big mouth and
her current, greedy, much-younger husband have sent her to the poor house, or
at least Bel Air's version of the poor house. The trouble started in 1993 when she was
sued for libel by actress Elke Sommer. The duo exchanged slaps in the press with
Sommer implying that Gabor had a fat ass, to which Gabor replied that Sommer
was all washed up. The fight really heated up when Gabor's husband, Frederick
von Anhalt, claimed that Sommer described German men as pigs. Sommer sued. Gabor
lost the $3.3 million battle and was forced into bankruptcy. Gabor now lives in a
moldering manse in Bel Air, reportedly being held virtual prisoner by her
husband, who, incidentally, claimed to be the father of the late Anna Nicole
Smith's baby.
6. Anna Nicole Smith
Which brings us to another over-the-top blonde: the late,
great, insensate Anna Nicole Smith. The Playboy/Guess? model quickly became
a fixture in the 'bloids even before she married oil tycoon J. Howard
Marshall, who just happened to have more than six decades on her 26 years. (They met
at a strip club where she was "performing.") He died 13 months later in 1995,
and while they never lived together, she claimed half of Marshall's $1.6 billion estate, a demand his
son E. Pierce vehemently opposed. In one of the most highly publicized cases of
an extremely litigious decade, various courts produced decisions that went for
and against Smith. In 1996, she finally filed for bankruptcy after losing
a default judgment (to the tune of $830,000) for sexually harassing an
employee.
5. Raffaello Follieri
This washed-up, wannabe-Italian Stallion's precipitous
descent into the depths of scumsville from the giddy heights of Anne Hathaway-bedding
and Pope-schmoozing has been faster than Gabriel's descent into hell. Now,
instead of shacking up with Anne in a roomy $37,500-a- month Fifth Avenue rental outfitted
with about 3,500 square
feet of space in which to plot his next skeevy move, he's sharing a rat-infested,
excrement spattered windowless dorm outfitted with a (hopefully) lonely bed and 120
new roomies (he hasn't been able to cough up the $21 million bail). He also
reportedly been running a fever and doesn't want to eat the food, which to his
jaundiced eyes, appears to be spoiled. Aaaaaawwwww!
Say that headline 69 times fast. Anyway, if you weren't aware, any pop singer from the '80s with the name George has transformed into a giant, drug-addled pervy fuck-up in their middle-age. Let us not forget the repeated indiscretions of George Michael, who's suddenly got a rap sheet more pronounced than the five o'clock shadow that graces his visage.
And then there's George O'Dowd, aka Boy George, who went on trial today for allegedly beating and imprisoning a man who would come to the singer's house for naked photo shoots. Apparently because George felt his 20-something subject had been hacking into his e-mail account.
Not that it's "news" per se if Amy Winehouse lands in a hospital or has some drug-related incident, but it's certainly headline worthy on an insatiable site such as ours. So, yes indeed, the Auschwitz-chic singer was admitted to a London facility Sunday after having a bad reaction to some medication. Because, ya know, normal people who don't also coincidentally have heroin and crack issues are constantly getting sped off to the ER after their prescription aspirin went awry.
If you ask me, this inevitable cover-up for another recreational-substance spiral is all the fault of that no-good, poor-man's Pete Doherty sidekick of hers, who incidentally has been rumored to have dumped the dangerously 'do'd chanteuse in the days leading up to this hospital stay. Sounds like she should consider a... Civil suit against Mr. Blake Fielder. Eh, eh? See what I did there?
As even the least loyal NCDSUV content-craver is aware, we love us some daily features. And one of the more popular (at least amongst, well, us and the people who it commemorates) is the Awesome Celebrity Birthday Of The Day, which acknowledges another turn of the calendar for a member of Hollywood land, even if it's a celebrity who often goes overlooked by the rest of the blogosphere, and regardless of whether we have a huge affinity for their body of work.
And in ACBOTD's inaugural month, the candles have been smothered with saliva for everyone from Charles Martin Smith to Vanessa Angel. But even the continual erosion of their mortality isn't as awesome as the annual birthday bashes warranted for these five folks, and here's an advance cumpleanos feliz to all the upcoming b-day boys and girls this December.
5. Judy Tenuta (November 7) Age: 52 Why She's Sort Of Awesome: Because she sounds like Yoda after a bender and plays the accordion like it was her job. Oh, wait... Most Likely Celebrity Status 20 Birthdays From Now: If she's lucky, serenading Friar's Club Roasts for generational peers like ex-hubby Emo Phillips (could you have imagined that nerdy nutjob household?). But more likely is a solo dinner-theater residence at a seedy motel in Miami. All Apologies To: Jason London, Jeremy London, Christopher Knight, Morgan Spurlock
4. Tracy Scoggins (November 13) Age: 55 Why She's Sort Of Awesome: The tawny-haired Venus balances a love of book learnin' (at 3, she was the youngest American ever to apply for a library card) with an unstudied devotion to her craptastically executed craft. Luckily, even Scoggins' most inept, ponderous portrayals are generally canceled out by her other, more corporeal, assets. Girlfriend robotically sashayed her way through gaggles of cheesy drama series like Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years, Highlander: The Series and Dallas. She's best known for playing Captain Elizabeth Lochley on Babylon 5. <strong>Most Likely Celebrity Status 20 Birthdays From Now:</strong>At 75, let's hope she's safely bundled into a nice retirement home in Boca Raton, making the other women dream up Dynasty-worthy plots to cut her down to size and making a bunch of lonely old men very, very happy. All Apologies To: Jimmy Kimmel, Rachel Bilson, Chris Noth, Whoopi Goldberg
I know, I know: It's cold outside, you're dead broke and the holiday-shopping season six days away, and you forgot what it means to be funny after watching too many episodes of Frank TV.
Have no fear, however: The real-life foibles of celebrities are here. And thanks to everyone from Jean Claude Van Damme to Paris Hilton, the last several days have seen an abundant enough amount of Tinseltown tomfoolery to warm even the blackest of hardened hearts. So as always at this time (or maybe a bit earlier, depending on when our Sanka settles in), here's the top 5 things NCDSUV learned this week:
5. Where was Sean Stewart, son of Rod (doesn't have quite the same ring as Son Of Jor-El, does it?), when Rodney King was beaten mercilessly by LAPD in 1991? Oh, right, opening that week's unnecessary luxury gift as compensation for his dad touring the world and ensuring him a life of comfort and endless opportunity. So how exactly are their situations parallel enough to warrant co-participation in Celebrity Rehab?
4. Sinbad cut his fade-top 'do and stopped dressing like the retarded kid in your sixth grade math class. Talk about losing your sense of humor in your old age.
I've been the first person to exalt the twisted, if pioneeringly exploitative, virtues of VH1's Celebrity Rehab. However, I had an admittedly belated, entirely appropriate response to their most recent episode (which I caught in fittingly belated fashion during A.M. reruns), one likely to carry over to tonight's latest installment and permanently impede my objective attraction to Dr. Drew and his addiction-addled B-listers.
Model/human opiate closet Amber Smith was reveling in her license to be a epithet-sewing bitch during a group session, lamenting that she was always made to suppress her anger in real-life situations. They flashed to Rodney King, who flashed a supportive grin and made a quip to lighten the mood.
And then I thought, "Wait a second, this is Rodney Fucking King? What on earth about any of these peoples' private traumas parallels the grand, culturally shifting scale with which his moment of public downfall was played out?" Sure, I'd considered King's christening as a "celebrity" for the series a bit odd from the get-go. But as the participants' treatment has evolved, and they begin to connect in many ways, there's also an increasingly apparent separation between the police-abuse victim's perdicament and that of, say, Rod Stewart's kid.
Sure, she's hot. And yes, "I Kissed A Girl" had its infectious qualities. Until it became predictably overplayed as some kind of subtextless anthem for female teenage empowerment. And before Perry began fetishizing her own retro-burlesque image. And dating the singer from Gym Class Heroes.
Look, Ms. Perry, I was willing to give you a pass on your Christian-leaning, Matrix-produced, Alanis Morrisette/Incubus-inspired (ugh) past as a failed mid-2000s recording artist, because the redeemable prospects of your one-hit wonder status seemed a fair tradeoff on that kind of cognitive dissonance.
But if you're going to insist on putting out single after single of desperately edgy, faux-electro-pop and fashioning 2008 as the True Blue stage of your Madonna-like trajectory to world domination, then I have to call you out on your shit.
No, that headline isn't the name of the imagined Benji sequel that was to star Entourage's Vincent Chase. But according to the uber-reliableStar ragazine, Paris may need more than a New BFF, as she allegedly dumped her dumpy, crappy-tat-covered boyfriend of nine months, Good Charlotte's Benji Madden (it's like they had a relationship baby!).
My favorite part of the report is that they peg the gossip-column-toppling event to an actual date (for, ya know, journalistic accuracy), alleging it occurred this past Monday, November 17 as a result of Madden being controlling and a possible cheater. Mark that moment in history down in your Blackberry documents next to the Hindenburg disaster and JFK's assassination.
Paris can now, of course, resume doing what makes her a worthwhile cultural commodity in the first place: fucking mass quantities of dudes (and yes, chances are she was fairly easily convinced to call it a day as a worthy PR tradeoff). Meanwhile, Benji can attempt to regain his punk-rock integrity by, I don't know, buying a DeLorean on eBay and travelling back to a time when he and his Nicole Richie-romancing bro were known less for banging vapid debutantes and more for... um, making glorified emo for teenagers?
OK, here's a new contest for all you loyal NCDSUV passengers: Feel free to guestimate how long Kelly Osbourne's engagement/marriage to 18-year-old lip-piercing-lover Luke Worrall will last and e-mail them to nudecelebritydeathsuv@gmail.com (or leave them on the comments board below). Whoever winds up closest to when their would-be nuptials inevitably get called off will be awarded with the opportunity to write a guest post about Ozzy's perpetually misguided kin. (Come to think of it, this could dovetail quite nicely with a Death Pool revolving around her scraggly, Satanic pop.)
You'll have to pardon my skepticism, and perhaps I'm operating under a bit of naivete about how certain private announcements are made public these days (People magazine covers, right?), but doesn't the long-term sustenance of a union seem a bit doomed when the pair's adolescent half declares it official via Facebook?
If you followed this site during the Jennifer Hudson tragedy, then you'd know I have something of an issue with the CNN Headline News program Showbiz Tonight, which tends to cover mundane doings in the world of pop culture with the faux-seriousness of an actual news magazine befitting its parent network's moniker.
Most recently, my ire has been raised at two sources of continuing coverage: their relentless reporting on the Jennifer Aniston/Angelina Jolie public dust-up, otherwise known as "Uncoolgate," and their sympathetic segments about the Paula Abdul fan suicide, which occasionally remember to give cursory condolences to the actual family of the deceased.
But in the middle of this shitstorm of tabloid television masquerading as professional journalism is A.J. Hammer, a man who changed his given Semitic surname of Goldberg to adopt a Hollywood-approved moniker that makes him seem more like the protagonist of an '80s detective drama than a flesh-and-blood human being.
You may recall Mr. Hammer from his days as a VH1 VJ, counting down the best videos on the '90s modern-rock landscape, or as a host/correspondent on the E! channel and Court TV, where he hypnotized viewers with his chiseled jaw (presumably a source of inspiration for his ludicrous last name) into a state of concern about various famous-folk chicanery.
There's nothing I love more than sitting around with my morning latte, a copy of my prized Ayn Rand autobiography to my left and my gossip-perusing laptop to my right. And as I poured over the backstory behind Atlas Shrugged while enjoying another steamy sip o' Starbucks, I was simultaneously appalling at the news of someone hacking into the Miley Cyrus' YouTube account and suggesting she had been killed in a drunk-driving incident.
Of course, the news turned out to be false, and Cyrus even went so far as to post a photo on her Facebook revealing a green bra adorned with the words, "I'm stayin' alive like Frank Stallone" over its lacy exterior. OK, that also is less than truthful.
But what truly made me spill my caffeinated intoxicant across my thighs was the photo that accompanied the story on this particular site (if you didn't click the above link the first time, now might be a good moment to do so). It featured an alive-and-swell Cyrus on Nov. 10, at a Stephen Baldwin book signing, pointing to a Hannah Montana tattoo he inscribed into his arm on a dare.
