The human race has always embraced living on the edge, whether that means bravely staring down a hurricane that promises "certain death" and summing it all up with a "Pfft…Ain't nothin' we ain't seen before" (high-five, my Texan brethren!); tempting fate by activating a machine that will, best-case scenario, create a couple of tiny, Earth-swallowing black holes, or worst-case, provide entry for the ancient armies of the Planet Nibiru to come back and "do battle with God;" or seriously considering electing a vice president who views the Iraq War as a divine mission handed down from on-high–and who would even support picking a fight with Russia if they looked at us crossways–all because they "tell it like it is" (even when it isn't) and–bonus!–has a history-making vagina. Hooray for dangerously unqualified vaginas! And unearned cockiness! Put them together and we're all fucked. Anyway, we freely admit that science and politics aren't really our bag around here; we're far more interested in amusing ourselves to death than actually facing our impending doom on any sort of substantive level. With that in mind, let's switch on the Friday Buzzkills collider and smash some relatively insignificant, yet no less worrisome protons.
– Speaking of dangerously unqualified, news broke this week that Lauren Conrad–The Hills star, tabloid fixture, and living argument for just surrendering to our Nibiruan overlords and embracing humanity's future as colon cleaners to our ascended betters right fucking now–has decided it's high time she stops being famous for doing absolutely nothing and starts being known for being a horrible writer. This week Conrad inked a three-book deal with Harper Collins to begin work on a young adult fiction series called L.A. Candy, the "behind-the scenes story of a young girl who moves to L.A. and unexpectedly becomes the star of a reality television show." (Where does she get her ideas?) Hear that, all you floundering F. Scotts whining, "Print is dead!" and "Nobody reads anymore"? Judging by this–and the fact that Tori Spelling's memoir is topping the New York Times bestseller list–our love affair with the written word is still burning like a herpes sore, thanks very much. You're just jealous you didn't think of being born into wealth so you could one day use your status to manipulate your way into a publishing deal first. And after all, we're living in the age of the overshare; clearly the only "characters" we want to read about (besides wizards and androgynous vampires, apparently) are thinly fictionalized versions of ourselves, except with better hair and clothes and lots more money. Time to wise up and say goodbye to the Great American Novel and embrace the Great American Navel-Gaze. (P.S. Those spreadsheets aren't going to update themselves. Close this window and get back to work.)
– These days, the entrepreneurial spirit is being passed around the socialite set like a Greek shipping heir, and this week it was also caught swapping spit and horrible, horrible ideas with former O.C. star and current sworn-enemy-of-lupus Mischa Barton as she announced her intentions to put her questionable aesthetics to good use crafting "designer headbands." Barton will join forces with noted designer Stacey Lapidus, bringing her considerable experience modeling this season's stupidest accessory to creating her own "bejeweled and feather-adorned" versions that will range anywhere from $40 to $200. Take that, hippies! We've stolen your precious protest music and turned it into watered-down indie-folk; we've taken your easy riders and turned them into staunch Republicans; and now we've taken your anti-fashion statements, Bedazzled the bejeezus out of them, and put them on the forehead of every spoiled rich girl on the planet. Time to put on your Crosby, Stills, & Nash records, and have yourself a good cry.
– It's too bad Gary Coleman doesn't have any clout in the fashion industry; let's face it, the guy could certainly use a break these days, and there's always enough bottom-feeders in the world of pop culture who would gladly snap up a "Gary Coleman Signature Canadian Tuxedo With Matching Crocs" just for conversation's sake. Unfortunately, the guy who will never, ever appear in a news story more than two sentences away from the words "Diff'rent Strokes" keeps living out his Job-like existence without any relief in sight, taking degrading cameo work wherever he can find it and popping up in embarrassing news stories, like this week's report that he ran over a man with his truck outside a Utah bowling alley, allegedly because he was angry at being photographed. Both Coleman and the victim of the accident, Colt Rushton, have declined to speak with police thus far–presumably, Colton's just waiting for the opportunity to let Judge Judy settle it (something Coleman probably wouldn't object to, if this is any indication)–but with or without a conviction, isn't Coleman already in prison, condemned to a lifetime of being Gary Coleman? Oh…Think that's being a tad hyperbolic? Gaze ye upon the despairing face of the dead man walking (and laughing unnervingly):
– Many black-as-sackcloth moons ago, we laughed at Gary Coleman's attempt to offload his Saturn sad-mobile (with complimentary autograph!), but this week we've been forced to put that into perspective against another, far ickier auction: New Jersey businessman Henry Vacarro placed Michael Jackson's size-28 Calvin Klein briefs up for bid on eBay with a reserve price of $1 million earlier this week, part of a grab-bag of embarrassing items he obtained in a bankruptcy case that reportedly also included a half-used bottle of skin bleaching cream and a handwritten note explaining why he wanted an annulment from Lisa Marie Presley. The underwear–gathered as evidence in 2003 as part of the unsuccessful child-molestation lawsuit against Jackson–allegedly comes still-wrapped in an evidence bag sealed with police tape, and presumably contain enough Jackson DNA to clone an entire army of little Kings of Pop, provided you can find a willing surrogate. Of course, considering eBay's strict policy against selling used underwear, we're betting that this is one of those "Wacko Jacko" stories that got circulated without anyone bothering to question its veracity…But seriously, how fucked up does your image have to be that not one of your publicists bothers to step forward and deny something like this? Why is Friday Buzzkills doing your work for you, Team Jackson?
– Granted, as skeletons in your closet go, having some New Jersey mook claim to be selling off your DNA-streaked underwear is shrugged off fairly easily–especially compared to this other skin-crawling secret having to do with one of the other kings of pop: Philip Norman's forthcoming biography John Lennon: The Life makes the unseemly accusation that Lennon fantasized about having sex with his mother–and in fact came pretty damn close, according to an audio diary (reportedly recorded a year before his death) which a friend of Norman's leaked to the press to counter the outrage of Beatles fans. On the tape–which you can listen to by clicking here–Lennon is heard to say:
"I was just remembering the time I had my hand on my mother's tit in 1 Blomfield Road. It was when I was about 14. I took a day off school, I was always doing that and hanging out in her house. We were lying on the bed and I was thinking 'I wonder if I should do anything else?' It was a strange moment, because I actually had the hots for some rather lower class female who lived on the other side of the road…I always think that I should have done it. Presuming she would have allowed it."
Kind of puts a whole new spin on the lyrics, "Mother, you had me / But I never had you," no?