Space Invaders

Um, hello?

Um, hello?

In my last post I wondered what could I gripe about in paradise. Naturally, I found something. On my last day I was hanging out on Waikiki beach when a woman set her towel down right next to mine. As you can see from the picture, the proximity of her towel would have been pushing the limits of personal space invasion if she’d been a pal but it was just plain odd for a stranger. Granted, the beach was even more insanely crowded than it was when I lived there (which is why I used to drive a couple miles to another beach even though I lived just two blocks from Waikiki beach) but there was still a good 15 feet of space around me for her to use as her own. To make the situation even better, she then lit up a cigarette. In all fairness, she did ask if it was okay– after about the third puff.

It would be one thing if I were the asshole who plopped down right in her lap and then she started smoking but what kind of person does what she did? A Canadian, that’s who. How do I know she was Canadian? Because I made the mistake of taking off my headset for a quick dip in the water (very quick, with my eyes aimed at my bag the whole time since she was eight inches away from it) and when I returned she took the opportunity to chit chat. I can’t stand small talk with strangers, particularly Canadians because sooner or later they’ll say “about” in their funny little way and I’ll start giggling uncontrollably. I can’t help it, I just do.

As much as I wanted to ask her if she was completely oblivious about her inconsiderate behavior, she was an older lady watching her grandson play in the water and I’m a bit of a softie when it comes to old folks so I let it slide. Or maybe it was just because she was Canadian. It’s like they possess a weird power for avoiding conflict.

Cash For Trash

I thought I was done with Paris Hilton for awhile then along comes a story like this:

LOS ANGELES (AP) — An empty can of gourmet dog food taken from Paris Hilton’s trash fetched $305 in an eBay auction. The sellers were from the Web site HollywoodStarTrash.com, which also listed several other Hilton items for sale on eBay.

A used toothbrush sold for $305; two envelopes sent to her while she was in jail sold for $510; and a Coke can pulled from her trash went for $51.

It kind of scares me that there are people in this world with free access to the Internet who can spare $300 on an empty can of dog food.

WHY???? What’s the plan? Will they display it in their curio cabinet alongside their Fabergé egg collection? Turn it into a candy dish on their coffee table? Did they actually think that Paris Hilton herself allowed her delicate hands to touch a stinking can of dog food? And even if she did, WHO FUCKING CARES?

Obviously, plenty of morons do. Tomorrow I’m going to buy a map of the stars’ homes and some rubber gloves. I need a piece of this action.

Things That Make You Go…Hummer

I stumbled upon an interesting quote from Sharon Stone, though I can’t find the original source so I don’t know how much (if any of it) is accurate. But I spotted it on a couple legitimate news sites so I’ll dish too:

I was in the store the other day and I watched a young girl trying on clothes, showing her abdomen.

Right there, already weird.

Her mother was trying to talk to her about not being inappropriately alluring. I said, ‘Gee that would look much nicer with a camisole under.’ Her mother walked away, and I said to the girl, ‘I’d like to give you a two-minute conversation about sex.’

Sharon StoneThis is the part that particularly makes me question if any of this is true. I don’t care how whacked you are, you don’t offer some random teenager sex advice. Besides, what could she possibly cover in just two minutes? “He’s in, he’s out, he’s gone, you’re crying. Get the camisole.”

Young people talk to me about what to do if they’re being pressed for sex.

I think Stone misinterpreted what she heard, which was, “Don’t pressure me into talking about sex. And get out of my dressing room, crazy lady.” I don’t care if she is a big movie star, young people don’t voluntarily ask a 48-year-old stranger for advice on sex, they ask their friend who’s two years older and been around the bases once.

I tell them (what I believe): oral sex is a hundred times safer than vaginal or anal sex.

I don’t know if a hundred times is an accurate number, but you’d think an AIDS activist like herself might throw out another alternative, like, oh, “Use a condom” or even, “Wait.” But you have to hand it to Stone, between her lesbian antics in Basic Instinct 2 and her promotion of oral sex, she sure knows how to build up her male fan base.

If you’re in a situation where you cannot get out of sex, offer something else.

Offer something else? What, like Skittles? I can only think of one situation in which a person “cannot get out of sex” and I have a tough time imagining someone saying, “I’m really not into this whole rape thing… how does a nice rim job sound?”

Maybe this is all an April Fool’s prank against Stone and if it is, I feel bad for her. I think the box office sales for Basic Instinct 2 is enough cruelty for one weekend.

Don’t Touch Me

There’s a small scab of sorts under my eye right now and I’m not sure if it’s a skin problem or if I stabbed myself in my sleep again. In any case, it’s mostly healed but a little bit of flakiness remains. Well, yesterday I was hanging out with some friends and a girl I barely know says, “You have something on your face” and goes to reach for it! Naturally, I jerked my head back violently and said, “I can get it” but what I should have said is “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

This is not the first time I’ve had somebody attempt to remove something from my face without my permission and it baffles me every time. What makes someone think I’d rather have their nasty finger touching my face over whatever is already there? And why are they so anxious to touch it anyway? For all they know, that might not be a dab of ranch dressing or a stray eyelash on my cheek.

If a poisonous insect or an unattractive Republican is gnawing at my body, yes, I’d appreciate a quick assist in removing it. But if my life or pride are not in serious danger, just give me a heads up and let me figure out how to handle it.

Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, Britney Squeezing One Out

Britney Squeezes One OutSince my eyes have been permanently scarred by this image, I felt the evil need to force it upon others. In case it’s not clear, this is a statue of Britney Spears. Giving birth. On a bearskin rug. Doggy style.

The website for Capla Kesting Fine Art gallery in Brooklyn says:

Dedication of the life-sized statue celebrates the recent birth of Spears’ baby boy, Sean, and applauds her decision of placing family before career. “A superstar at Britney’s young age having a child is rare in today’s celebrity culture. This dedication honors Britney for the rarity of her choice and bravery of her decision,” said gallery co-director, Lincoln Capla.

Funny, nowhere does the tribute mention anything about the fact that Britney started dating the father while another woman was carrying his second child. She’s a real inspiration all right. The only bravery on Britney’s part is if she married him and had his baby without a prenuptial agreement.

Even though it’s called “Monument to Pro-Life” it looks more like “Monument to the Nasty in the Third Trimester.” The website features pictures of the statue from every angle except the back. I guess you have to pay the admission fee if you want to see that glorious vision. As icky as this is, we should be thankful the gallery didn’t opt for a different pro-life statue: Tom Cruise touching Katie Holmes’ fetus. On a bearskin rug. Doggy style.

Premature Jacked Elation

I had zero interest in the Olympic games until I heard about the gold medal peformance for stupidity. This newest entry to the “Agony of Defeat” reel occurred during the women’s snowboard cross finals. It plays out like a laughably unrealistic scene from a bad movie:

The race begins with four women vying for the three medals. At least they tell us those are women tearing down the mountain at warp speed but it’s hard to tell with the baggy clothes and helmets. Actually, even without the helmets it’s kind of hard to tell if some of them are really women.

About 10 seconds into the race, one contender literally flies off the screen into no man’s land and she’s never mentioned again. Moments later another boarder suddenly bounces off the course, taking out a huge protective net and the Syrian luge team with her. Conspiracy theories abound.

Two competitors are left. American Lindsey Jacobellis is so far ahead she’s in a different time zone and gets a bit cocky. I’m not exactly sure what happens next, maybe she’s text messaging “GOLD4USA!!” or maybe she’s enjoying an early victory bong hit. All I know for certain is that in an instant of stupidity, she’s tumbling in powder and the band cuts short its overhasty strains of “The Star Spangled Banner.” Lindsey manages to get back up quickly- just in time to see Switzerland’s Tanja Frieden cruise by at a snail’s pace and capture the gold. Apparently it’s not speed that wins the women’s snowboard cross finals, it’s a little self control.

An unbelievable display. A lifetime of hard work and sacrifices came down to one moment of grandstanding and a silver medal (I believe a Bosnian onlooker with a piece of plywood jumped in to take the bronze).

Lindsey Jacobellis blew her big shot. She’ll now embark on the endless talk show circuit where her actions will be analyzed and criticized and memorialized. She will become a household name and a permanent footnote in Olympic history. She will be the face of the slacker snowboarder. Meanwhile, the chick from Switzerland whose name I’ve already forgotten will have the gold.

On second thought, it was quite possibly the most brilliant stunt in Olympic history.

Drunk Paris Nights

(9-7-06: NEW BLOG ON PARIS’ ARREST click here)

I returned home last night to find several new headlines on my home page:

  • Suicide Bombings Kill 57 at Jordan Hotels
  • Two Suicide Bombers Kill 33 in Iraq
  • Feds Indict 2 in Missile-Smuggling Scheme
  • Hilton’s Hollywood Smash-Up

I’m somewhat ashamed to admit the first one I read was the Paris Hilton story (I guess you can take the girl out of US Magazine, but you can’t take US Magazine out of the girl).

I’m sure you all read this story of global importance, but to recap: America’s favorite debutante/amateur porn star was in a fender bender with her new Greek shipping heir boyfriend, Stavros (not to be confused with her old Greek shipping heir boyfriend, Paris. For those women interested in their own Greek shipping heir boyfriend [GSHB], be advised they are on backorder until Miss Hilton is officially joined in matrimony).

So the couple left a nightclub in the wee hours accompanied by Kimberly Stewart and some guy named Talan Torriero from an MTV reality show (apparently Paris was slumming it that night) and GSHB took the wheel of Paris’ $162,000 Bentley (ok, not completely slumming). She let him drive her Bentley?! I don’t even let guys drive my Honda. But I suppose if I had a GSHB I wouldn’t be too worried about him damaging it since he could easily replace my car with something fancier, like a Boeing 747. They were blocked on exit by the paparazzi because dammit, the world needs to know what Paris wore on a date with her new GSHB! Then GSHB decided to play bumper cars between a pedestrian and a commercial truck before making his escape (they were “eluding the paparazzi,” otherwise known as a “hit and run” to those of us not named Paris or Halle).

Here’s where the wonderful LAPD, protectors from all evil, joined the revelry. The cops caught up to the quartet, made their assessment:

No one was hurt.

(Sorry folks, no GSHB’s, hotel heiresses, daughters of aging rockers or MTV reality stars on the market just yet). And took action:

No citations were issued, no one was given a sobriety test and no incident report was filed. This despite (the non-driving) Torriero clearly being heard to say on the TMZ.com video, “I’m the only sober one.”

No sobriety test??!! I was once pulled over and subjected to a sobriety test simply because my car registration sticker was peeling slightly (granted, the fact that I was 18 and the cop spotted me leaving a 21-and-over bar might have had something to do with it, but still…). Even if the officer didn’t smell alcohol on GSHB’s breath, his mere presense in a car at 2:30 a.m. with little-miss-party-girl is just cause to be administered a sobriety test. If the pope was caught driving Miss Hilton at 2:30 a.m he should be given a drunk driving test, whether he smashes and dashes or not.

Were the cops in some sort of rush? Did they have to hurry over to the 7-11 to try and nab some guy buying beer for a minor?

Despite any impressions I may have given, I’m a fervent opponent of drinking and driving (though I do support heavy drinking at all other times). This is one of the reasons why the 7-11 incident last week bothered me so much. A handful of cops hid in the shadows to bust people for actions that hurt nobody, then a week later, officers from the same department completely disregarded a hit-and-run collision and a passenger’s claim that the driver was inebriated. THESE are real crimes. THESE are serious crimes. THESE are crimes that have cost me no less than seven friends’ lives. But the cops just let ‘em go on their merry way. The only rational explanation I can ascertain is that they were somehow hypnotized by all the shiny objects.

They should have thrown GSHB in jail. Heck, throw Paris in jail. It would be good publicity and they’d probably have scofflaws turning themselves in so they could spend a night with the rich and famous and sell their stories to The National Enquirer.

While LAPD Lieutenant Paul Vernon claims, “The department has initiated an administrative investigation to see if the officers violated any procedures or policies,” I fear they’ll get sidetracked by other major concerns, like illegal parking and jaywalking. If the officers do get reprimanded, it will probably just be a slap on the wrist by Miss Hilton herself- with the paparazzi in tow, of course.

Members Only

Last night I went dancing at a club on 80′s music night and noticed a hot guy. The attraction soon ended when I spotted him on the dance floor. Now, maybe I could forgive the fact that he danced the same way most 14-year-old boys danced back in the 80′s but then I made the horrific discovery he was wearing a turquoise Members Only jacket. I realize it’s shallow to judge somebody harshly because of their appearance. But come on- it was a Members Only jacket. And it was turquoise. How much depth is one mere mortal expected to have?

He approached me, which I had anticipated, because really hot guys always seem to want to talk to me about two minutes after I’ve noticed some glaring flaw in them- like they’re gay or married or wearing a turquoise Members Only jacket. He seemed very nice and I tried to convince myself the jacket wasn’t that bad, especially in comparison to the guy in the corner wearing the pink headband and break dancing. Didn’t work. I kept hoping he’d give me some sort of sign that the jacket was a joke, in which case I’d think he was the coolest guy ever. Nothing. His whole demeanor told me, “I’m used to hitting on girls in my hip Members Only jacket.”

Later he asked me for my phone number and all I could think about was what if I went out with him and he wore that jacket or, even worse, what if he decided to dress up in his parachute pants and skinny piano tie? I really don’t care what others think about me, but apparently I have a great deal of concern for what others think about the clothing style of my companions. I mean, certain really bad choices indicate some sort of mental deficiency, right? And that’s a perfectly legitimate reason to decline sharing my number, which I did.

I’m aware that my Seinfeldian pickiness will probably leave me old and alone but a woman has to have certain standards and there’s no way I’m letting a Members Only penis get near my public vagina.

Er, well, you know what I mean.