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.
As the New York Knicks tip off for opening Day, their former coach/president Isiah Thomas is once again in the news for all the wrong reasons. So maybe it's time to look back on one of the most captivating figures in recent sport history to see where it all went wrong, especially when his story embodies so many parallels to pop celebrities of today.
Raised on the streets of Chicago, this basketball Hall Of Farmer was blessed with such amazing athletic gifts that he was named one of the top 50 players of all time. But off the court, his life has become an inglorious trainwreck. O.J. Simpson might have a more gruesome story to tell, and Britney Spears will always be our favorite mental case, but after his recent, alleged "accidental overdose," Isiah is making a name for himself amongst those figures throwing a once-promising legacy down the toilet.
In the years since leaving the Detroit Pistons, where he won two world championships, Thomas found himself getting laid off by teams for a caustic management style, leaving a comfortable position in broadcasting to buy and subsequently bankrupt the Continental Basketball Association, and after a mildly successful stopover helming the Indiana Pacers, joined the New York Knicks, where he would reach his nadir of ineptitude.
I realize this is a sports-wide phenomenon, but it's particularly pronounced in baseball, a game (that for the record I love, hence my sadness over this recurring issue) still dominated by cornfed white jocks who are probably wondering when they'll receive their Major League varsity jacket and get pumped for the game by listening to nu-metal and Three Doors Down.
From Tampa Bay Ray/American League Championship Series MVP Matt Garza to Phillies starting pitcher Brett Myers and, most notably, the Phils' Jayson Werth (pictured above), the World Series is littered with soul patches, "edgy" goatees, chinstraps and all manner of facial accoutrement that says, "I'm a little bit date rape, he's a little bit modern rock." As for Werth, that particular fashion statement is usually better suited to a stripper's vagina, but I digress.
You may have heard that J. Lo and Marc Anthony decided to renew their vows ever so spontaneously and humbly at a super posh penthouse at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. If not, then you may want to schedule a visit with your pop culture otolaryngologist.
It's been four years since they had initially tied the old knot, so clearly, they were trying to trump the near-completion of President Bush's final presidential cycle. Because they're topical.
Now, I could easily roll my eyes at the general scenario and its "who cares?" component (well, for one, I obviously do), or the fact that they were in the position for such a vow-wow because their parents were watching the twins (last time I checked, most young parents I know are lucky to get one night out at a local diner in a year when they have newborns, nevermind a fling in Vegas). But I'm just disappointed at the small detail of Mets centerfielder Carlos Beltran and his wife having reportedly joined them in the excursion.
Carlos, my friend. As a diehard fan of your beleaguered Mets, you're not doing a whole lot to reinvigorate loyalty in the team by transforming into some poor man's version of an A-Rod-esque hobnobbing celebrity. We only put up with your periods of mediocrity because you were so humble and unassuming. And had a crazy looking mole. Now I'm starting to think the team should take a recent suggestion by another website and trade in your abilities for a super-phenom dubbed Carlos Voltron.
In my last post, I rhetorically inquired how I would bide my weekday morning time sans MTV's soon-to-be-defunctTRL. Well, much as NCDSUV writer Kevin Johnston has repeatedly expressed his naughty fascination with Sarah Palin's cross-pollination of power and sexuality, I too have my own unlikely MILF fixation. Thy name is Hannah Storm. And let me tell you, that's one Hurricane Hannah I wouldn't mind needing federal relief from.
Finally relieved from uptight duty on CBS' Early Show, Storm has blown through the previously docile, anchor-desk-constrained environs of ESPN's Sportscenter (a program which I just happened to habitually imbibe in tandem with my beloved TRL) like a tornado of mature sexuality and seasoned intelligence. The fact that I can't sully the innocence of our long-distance courtship via the immediate gratification of skimpy Maxim photoshoots and well-circulated nip-slip images only enhances her mystique. It's like being further endeared to a first date when you find out they don't have alter egos on seven different social networking websites.
So good riddance, TRL. Who needs Vanessa Minillo when I can be a 21st century Storm trooper? Besides, what else are my options? Dana Jacobson?
We told you so. A good few weeks ago in fact. Unlike Michael Phelps' Olympic opponents, everyone's finally catching up to speed and realizing pop-culture Michael Phelps kind of sucks. And was inevitable. Because he's 23 and cut like a statue and just achieved our greatest modern academic feat in front of millions while wearing a Speedo.
So lo and behold, he's been spotted feeling up Playboy bunnies and is now hosting SNL, complemented by his apparent favorite rapper, Lil Wayne. And America is visibly getting annoyed.
I guess at least he's embracing his fleeting mega-celebrity for all its indulgent spoils, rather than playing the innocent card and ultimately lashing out with a series of PR disasters (ehem, Britney). Unfortunately, Michael, by the time LiLo and Sam (not to be confused with Lilo & Stitch of course) decide to get married and someone pulls off a miracle comeback in the World Series, no one's gonna give a shit what's inside your Speedos or between your giant ears until 2012.
Tennis may have a reputation as the white-collar pretty boy of the sports world, but that doesn't mean the stands are filled with snobby diplomats. In fact, several celebs trekked out to Queens to peep game from champions Serena Williams and Roger Federer, who each pulled $1.5 million for their final victories. Everyone from funnymen Will Ferrell and Chevy Chase to cool chicks Natalie Portman and Charlize Theron followed the little yellow ball back and forth (and back and forth) this year. Crooners Tony Bennett, Harry Connick, Jr. and, uh, Rob Thomas also made appearances, while the ladies represented equally via luminaries like Aretha Franklin.
But perhaps the most awesome appearance (and most bewildering to longtime hip-hop fans) was Common supporting reported gal pal Serena Williams at her championship match versus Jelena Jankovic. The man has always been forthright about the type of women he digs (see the clip below), especially in song. Thicks broads, he lustin' them, so it really shouldn't shock fans that he fancies the stacked Serena. Plus, if he ever needs to borrow a dollar again, we bet she's got his back.
For all you fellow NCDSUV loyalists who enjoy both a good celebrity meltdown and the tossing around of the ol' pigskin, you were likely in a bit of shock after an ad for NFL.com during the Giants-Redskins game last night.
Playing prominently in the background as the commercial heralded the arrival of the '08 season was an ear-achingly reworked version of Morrissey's "Every Day Like Sunday." Obviously a suggestion of wishful thinking on behalf of football fans everywhere, it was also one of the most egregious examples yet of ad agencies hearing a song out of context and taking its hook as literally as possible.
What the fuck does “real food for real men” mean? You tell me, Mike Golic. I understand you just get paid to read the copy for the ridiculous ads promoting NutriSystem for Men. I’m not even in need of a weight-loss solution (I come in at a whopping 148, thank you very much), but given that everything from beer to shower gel has been marketed with the most reductive possible alpha male mindset, I’m a exasperated on behalf of my more portly gender compatriots.
I can appreciate that the Olympics offered a slightly non-odious platform for our latent patriotism, as well as an accessible outlet for sports fans who don't consume Sportscenter like it were life's blood. And I can obviously compute the improbability of Michael Phelps’ accomplishments. I also understand that, despite an eery resemblance to Eli Manning, ladies want to swim inside his Speedos. That said, I don’t really give a shit. Certainly not about the the Olympics, much less the cult of Michael Phelps. I have too much respect for both sport and celebrity to ride the bandwagon of Americans’ suddenly emergent interest in water- and other-non-pro competitions and our clamored christening of Phelps as the U.S.’ literal new Golden boy. It all felt a bit like the Summer Games equivalent of when MTV would anoint a long-reputed indie band as a “You It First” artist and millions would suddenly claim critical prescience.
We certainly need a hero as we mind the gap between President Bush and Obama/McCain. I’m just not sold on a 23-year-old kid who’s barely socialized with anyone but his middle-aged coach and an ocean of chlorine over the last eight years, and is quite transparently consumed with being Michael Phelps.
Yes, some of this is lacquered with a coat of envy, perhaps as thick as the shaving cream Phelps covers his entire anatomy with. But I would rather listen to several more weeks of conjecture over Brett Favre─who, along with his chosen profession, have at least earned our unquestioned interest after years of devoted headline-following─than waste another second indulging my feelings of Phelps-related inadequacy, or pretending his accomplishments aren’t muted by an innate lack of interest in what he does, and a presidential term-sized chasm between televised displays of his talent.
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