Blog Archives

Dear Celebs: There are Doings Afoot Edition

Sometimes me shouting at rich people for being too dumb, too pretty, very famous for doing very little, or not wanting to let me sex them isn’t enough.

There’s a lot of shit that goes down in Hollywood (well, actually the Valley, unless it’s Paramount. Or in Marina Del Ray /inside baseball) and much of it needs me to shout at it.

So today will be less gossip column stuff and more behind the scenes stuff.

Though, I’m sure at some point I’ll find a way to yell at an actress or model. Apparently women are into that.

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Dear George Takei,

There goes my hero/watch him as he goes/

You’re doing the Lord’s work.

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Dear Celebs: Dear Oscars

Did you guys know the Oscars are only like days away? Maybe weeks, I’m not sure, but definitely days away. It’s almost certainly not tomorrow. Probably.

It's the gay Super Bowl.

I know this because my day job is working the front desk at a gym in West Hollywood. We sadly have few celebrity regulars (I did see Starbuck AND Helo, but not on the same day), we do get a lot of agents, producers, assistants, and the like.

Am I going to use this post as a flimsy excuse to post pictures of beautiful movie stars? You bet your ass.

Guess what? They super care about the Oscars. Which means that as a bright and smiling employee of this gym, when I’m on the clock, I care about the Oscars. Off the clock I can go home and watch Roadhouse and Tombstone to my heart’s content, but at work I have a fully cultivated opinion on every category, and which dark horse might actually win.

I don’t care, but at the same time I don’t care how many individual units come in the boxes of water I have to order every week, but I retain that knowledge because it makes life easier.

For those of you not as lucky as me to be forced into caring, here is a quick and dirty primer on the Oscars so you have something to talk about with the people you don’t like at the water cooler, or your mother-in-law who never goes to the movies, or watches anything good on TV, and yet, subscribes to every celebrity gossip magazine on Earth.

Here's a picture of a dude. You're welcome, I guess.

And here’s where they rewarded ‘Crash.’ God, ‘Crash sucked outloud.

Note: I wrote this intending to comment on a few things here and there, and at some point just decided to predict winners. I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. If I did, I’d be churning out Adam Sandler goes to Hawaii scripts, and not trying to make hard sci-fi movies complete with mythology. I, in no way, understand how Hollywood works. — Matt
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I’m kinda rooting for AIDS somehow.

AIDS are bad. Africa is pretty unstable and just “Hotel Rwanda” everywhere (I really shouldn’t get that much enjoyment out of randomly yelling “Tsutsi rebels!” but I do). And we are a long way from ever fixing things there.

But don’t worry, little boy with a dying immune system, Khloe Kardashian is going to stop Twittering for you!

Yes, little boy, Twitter is very confusing, but it’s a very noble sacrifice. You see, these celebrities use Twitter to promote themselves and increase their digital influence. Some also make funny jokes, but it’s mostly to advertise their identities.

How does this help you, little girl with an arm missing? (Yes, AIDS can totally make you lose an arm through the power of sadness) The public are challenged to buy back their new gods’ online lives.

Little AIDS boy and girl, I have never rooted for your disease, but Elijah Wood is making me. Read the rest of this entry

Dear Celebs: Part Does It Really Matter at This Point

We’re going back to the well, but in my defense, it has been a while since I had to resort to this.

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Dear the Situation,

He has more money than I'll ever make. That's really depressing.

You’re making five million in the next two years? That’s not right. It’s just not. You’re going to have to give it back. People should be paid for working hard to contribute to society or displaying a talent people want to see.

You could easily be replaced by a Calvin Klein ad pasted to a planter and a dog that has not been neutered.

I know that this is largely not your fault. You were just duding it out, about to sign up for unemployment, saw a flyer for auditions to be on a MTV show, and thought you could kill an afternoon doing that. This is not wrong of you. Then it took off, and America fucking bought in, and again, not your fault. I don’t know what it is, or why it is, but your show is insanely popular largely due to America’s high consumption rate of utter garbage.

Yes, even the people who think they’re watching it ‘ironically.’ I watch Spartacus: Blood and Sand and Deadliest Warrior religiously, but I don’t try to defend it. It’s cultural junk food, and I owe up to that, however, all those shows involve people doing stuff.  Stunt men working to create fight scenes; writers are churning out dialogue; the science guys are zip tying science crap to broad swords’ the props people are filling gel torsos with fake guts and blood. Work is being done.

You are being paid 5 million dollars to do what you’d be doing even if the camera’s weren’t around. This is not a talent, and it’s not an anthropological study; the bug farmers in the jungles of New Guinea still farm bugs, there’s just video proof of it now.

Now I don’t want to ruin you, or see you broke. You seem like a genuine guy, but that guy just happens to be a meathead. So, you, me, and an accountant are going sit down, and figure out something that’s fair, because this five million shit? That dog just won’t hunt.

Yours,

Matt

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Comic Book Storytime: “Lady Gaga: Fame”

It is slightly appropriate that I first discovered Blue Water Comics’s line of comic books in a 7-Eleven. It didn’t strike me as anything too horrible; the publisher had previously made an issue about Hilary Clinton. “It’s just a series on famous babes”, I said to my recently purchased Coke Slushee. It wasn’t until now that I curiously browsed through the issue.

My god.

Don’t let the cover fool you; the contents inside contain such a horrendous mish-mash of ideas and confused sexual commentaries that it ONLY could fit inside a comic book about Lady Gaga. Or perhaps the insane scribblings of a closet sex predator who makes couch cushions out of vaginas.

Don’t believe me? If you enjoy metaphysical discussions between Baby Lady Gaga and a man in a schoolgirl’s body taking place in front of a giant Gaga groin, then read on.

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