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 slowly removed the proper-color candle from the bomb that had been detonated inside Richard Dean Anderson, akaMacGyver's, birthday cake. And today we go juuuuust a bit outside the box for our latest honoree.
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 Friday's birthday candles went "Schwing!" for exotic Wayne's World hottie Tia Carrere, today we hesitantly say "Surprise!" to a slightly terrifying soccer thug-turned-unlikely Hollywood star.
Ah, the innocent days of 2008. When recession, war and high-profile celebrity deaths became the glue to bond us together like societal Siamese siblings. But now it's 2009, a whole new era, a whole new ballgame. And not just for Washington, who will call Barack Obama their overlord, or the New York Yankees, who will take the field with C.C. Sabathia and Mark Texeira and still manage to lose the pennant to smaller-budgeted organizations.
It is the final stand for celebrity land in a decade that has alternately enthralled and repulsed us. It is a time for Hollywood to make its mark on culture and the planet at large, and really give 'em the good stuff we all cream for in the tabloids.
And we got off to an intermittently intriguing start, thanks largely to the birth of what could have been the First Granddaughter-in-waiting, and a certain wayward actress' parent who may love his share of his daughter's spotlight more than the woman herself. So without any pregnant pauses, here's the top 5 things NCDSUV learned this week.
4. Paul McCartney may have had to navigate Heather Mills' body sexually despite her prosthetic leg, but at least he didn't have to stick around till midnight to ritualistically spray-tan the thing.
Isn't the word recklessly kind if ironic when applied to driving incidents, given how easily it would be to plop a "w" in front of it? Well, maybe not ironic, but there's something kind of funny about it. You get what I'm siizzzaying.
Anyhow, just when we were mid-yawn over the information surrounding Matt Dillon's relatively goody-two-shoes speeding arrest, ex-NBA great/current basketball analyst Charles Barkley comes along and gets caught driving while intoxicated in Arizona early this morning. Apparently, the former Suns/76ers great was civil and polite, and this would rank as a first offense. And he always prided himself on not being a role model anyway. But unfortunately, he's also been an outspoken voice of late about racially motivated hirings and firings in sports.
And while I for one can separate a night of pre-New Year's Eve good times and momentary indiscretion from the legitimacy of his personal politics, one has to wonder if this will affect his credibility as any kind of moral arbiter. Oh, Chuck, you are quite the conundrum.
For those uninitiated with the possibly government-hired, male-brainwashing juggernaut of world domination that is ESPN, one of their legacy anchors is Chris Berman. You know, the beefy, somewhat-balding guy with the slightly raspy, burling baritone who makes a living off of groan-inducing puns (and if anyone loves a worthy play on words, it's us) like "Jake 'Daylight Come And Me Want To' Delhomme" (his way of flattering Carolina Panthers QB Jake Delhomme).
Or when not contorting players names into outdates movie references, overcompensating for his lack of descriptive color football commentary with lots of high-squeaked, Batman-worthy onomotopeia emissions ("Whooop!"), and supplanting his dearth of authoritative baseball insight by charming us with patentedly stuttered home runs calls ("B-b-b-b-b-b-ack-ack-ack-ack, gone!").
It's all wrapped up in the mumbo jumbo of parole possibilities and concurrent/consecutive sentences, but O.J. Simpson has been sentenced to at least 15 years with a few other open sentences and consecutive minors for armed robbery and kidnapping convictions in the double digits.
Judge Jackie Glass was harsh with Simpson before the sentencing, expressing frustration over Simpson's lack of remorse, while assuring he and co-defendant Clarence Stewart that neither of their prison terms would be guided by retribution for previous incidents.
That being said, Ronald Goldman's parents were in the courtroom. And as O.J. nearly broke down in tears and gave a piece of testimony prior to his attorney's closing comments, and rotated his eyes for cameras that captured the demise of his existence as he knows it during Glass' sentencing, I couldn't help but think (and no doubt was not alone): Fuck you, you questionably acquitted, probable murderer asshole, and have fun rotting in your shitty cell.
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.
Yesterday, we got bodyslammed with birthday awesomeness by WWE "Glamazon Beth Phoenix," today we honor a man who continues to thrive despite taking second-place to midgets and William Shatner and being weelchair-bound for most of the last two decades.
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 Friday we whipped out the Ecto-Plasm birthday pudding for
cerebral Ghostbuster Harold Ramis because bustin'
makes us feel good. Today, we're strapping on our party hats for a
woman for whom bustin' is a lifestyle.
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.
Yesterday, we blew out the candles for the great sailor-cum-comic Sinbad, but today we put the icing on the cake for one of the 20th century's finest athletes-turned-broadcasters-turned-husband of Mrs. Huxtable.
To invoke the spirit of old MAD-mag style intros, my situation can best be described of late as being in a strange city with no job and little-to-no-responsibilities, so I’ve decided to open my mind to stimulation of all sorts. This includes watching a lot of basic cable, which fortunately has always had a home here on NCDSUV. And with that I bring you five prevailing questions that occurred to me during CMT's latest reality phenomenon, Hulk Hogan's Celebrity Championship Wrestling:
5. After a very promising career in music and film (hey, he was in four of the six Rocky movies), why must a talented individual like Frank Stallone subject himself to this kind of humiliation?
4. Does anyone remember Hulk Hogan’s Rock ‘n’ Wrestling cartoon? Even as a youngster I thought that shit was fake, 'cause every time the animated Hulkster fought some jobber in the ring he never bothered to take off the championship belt!
3. Is the viewing public so beaten down and battered from years of exposes and declarations of “sports entertainment” that they’ll accept losers who barely qualify as “celebrities” play fighting, if only because it kills a few hours during their visit to Universal Studios Florida? The aesthetic reeks of American Gladiators chic, the “wrestlers” don’t really bother to sell any of the moves, and there’s no sense of excitement that comes from watching the real pros engage in high-flying theatrics or bloody beatdowns.
