Celebrities – Page 16 – I Don't Get It

4th Annual Readers’ Poll April 1988

Today we delve into the bowels of one of my former teen mag subscriptions, “Star Hits,” for the 4th Annual Readers’ Poll Results. The cover reveals the top stars of April 1988. Check out who’s included in the Most Promising New Acts.

Curiosity must have serious killed the cat.

Duran Squared’s own John Taylor topped the list of most desirables, with those pouty lips and bedroom eyes.

Don't worry; Johnny Rotten was not desirable in the least; he was #2 for "Hairdo From Hell." — Don’t worry; Johnny Rotten was not desirable in the least; he was #2 for “Hairdo From Hell.”

George Michael’s video was voted the 4th best video of 1987. As it turned out, the limelit half of Wham! (Bam, thank you, Sir, may I have another?) actually did NOT want pretty Asian model’s sex. Not remotely. Not even in a filthy public restroom with e-coli-covered stalls.

Maybe George should be the one blindfolded.

The lyrics should have given us a clue:

There’s things that you guess and things that you know
There’s boys that you can trust and girls that you don’t

Girls are untrustworthy, huh? Perhaps that should have been included on the Bummer of the Year. Michael Jackson’s comeback was determined to be the biggest bummer. And Iran/Contra was number four??

But the most interesting reads are what the stars themselves chose. Siouxsie Sioux’s most desirable pick was Yul Brynner. The King and I? At least she didn’t have the nerve to list herself, as Andy Fletcher did.

And note the difference in ~~tone~~ maturity level between the choices of former GoGo’s singer Belinda Carlisle and the Beastie Boys (R.I.P. MCA).

Who knew Belinda was so mad about Fred Astaire, and so rocked by the PTL scandal?(R.I.P. Tammy Faye Bakker.) And The Beastie Boys chose Sssss-Samantha Fox as the BEST female singer? Is that because she sang from her diaphragm so well? I won’t hate on her; naughty girls need love, too.

Truck Stop Weary, Numero Quatro

Sayre, OK 1988 from Marc Wise’s “Truck Stop”

Hands down, this is the guy. This is the guy you want leaning intimately into you, inviting you to be in cahoots with him, to share the secrets he’s learned on the road.

Forgive me. I was premature in my assumption. THIS is the guy.

Yes, the one with the mutton chops, driving his Rebel Flag-decked out Bandit up to California. Is he sucking a Lemonhead? Is he dipping Skoal? He’s a man of mystery. I just feel a strong sense of… Gary Sandy surrounding him. Yes, that’s it. He must be related to Gary Sandy. You know, Andy Travis from WKRP?

Whoa. Is it hot in here? I’m feeling faint, and it’s not a touch of Johnny Fever. Believe me. Okay, time to refocus. Surely, there’s some trucker in this book who can compete with an aging sitcom star.

Um. No. That is NOT the ticket. Perhaps this young fella?

His head says Yankee, but his body says Confederacy. Who has time for a cocksure whippersnapper with an identity complex? Not me. I haven’t got time for the pain. Okay, let’s spin the wheel. Surely there’s SOMEONE.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH! Make it stop!

Teen Dreamy

I didn’t watch The Hardy Boys, but I listened to my Shaun Cassidy Born Late album until the vinyl wore thin. And “Teen Dream” was my favorite song. He sang about a “generation younger than rock ‘n’ roll,” which meant a generation born after 1955, which seemed HELLA old, since that was like my parent’s age. Ick. These were the people still weeping about Elvis falling dead on his toilet a few months ago. Why couldn’t they just listen to all of Shaun’s awesome songs and cheer up? Even a first grader could see that clearly.

I was going to marry Shaun Cassidy. That’s all there was to it. When you’re pre-pubescent, it’s the pretty boys, the non-threatening (read: effeminate) ones that do you in. And Shaun had everything; big doe eyes, smooth, feathered hair (not altogether unlike the hair of my best friend, who was a female), and a lovely vocal range, enabling him to hit the Teen Dream lyric “hurri-CANE” with skill. And you just know that if you were dating, and there was a misunderstanding, he would look into your eyes and hold your hands and you would discuss your feelings and never let the sun go down on your anger. Shaun Cassidy would never go all Chris Brown on you.

And if that wasn’t enough, watch how he brings his elbow down all butch at the end of the song. Work that stage, Hardy Boy!

Horseplay

So Not Feeling 22

She’s on TV right this second, dancing in her new video, singing, “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22.” And that’s great because she is 22. She doesn’t seem to DATE 22, but whatevs. It’s a free country.

Now, I’m not 22, so I don’t feel remotely 22. But here’s the thing I don’t get: I don’t feel the age that I am. I feel more like quadruple 22. Like a good solid 88. What’s up with that? It’s like middle age plus interest.

Now if I were 22, I might spin around dizzily and gloat about it as well. I graduated college at 22, so yay–one dream accomplished. Has it benefited me in any way? Well, that’s another post. I own a video of me at 22, tanned and fit, doing front handsprings in a blue gingham bikini on the back lawn of a lake house. So, yeah, 22 was pretty freaking great. Nicole Brown Simpson didn’t fare so well that year, but sometimes life sucks.

Taylor starts the song with these words:

It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters
And make fun of our exes, uh uh uh uh
It feels like a perfect night for breakfast at midnight
To fall in love with strangers

Yeah, not so much for me. I have some reading glasses so that I can read the size 4 font on the Advil bottle, but I don’t possess any horn rim glasses, so I’m out on the hipster thing. And exes? Exes are something you bury deep in the recesses of the past, raised like Lazarus at the sound of arena rock songs, then quickly repressed again. Highway run… And breakfast at midnight? Well, that’s a good possibility, due to a decade of insomnia. But it won’t be eggs. Gotta watch my cholesterol. Hello, shredded wheat. And mercy, girl, don’t fall in love with strangers. Keep your knees together or you’ll find TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE.

In the chorus, she sings, Everything will be alright if we just keep dancing like we’re 22. I did a lot of dancing at 22, but it wasn’t to pop country, Miss Swift. In fact, Shania Twain hadn’t even been invented yet. Back then, they showed videos on MTV. It was a very Gin Blossoms and Warren G time in history. When Tom Petty came on the radio, singing the verse, “Oh, my my, oh, hell, yes, honey, put on that party dress,” it was a joy. Pure joy. But you can’t dance to Mary Jane’s Last Dance. There was also a hit called Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm. No lie. That was depressing. Can’t dance to that. And then there was this weird totally instrumental song that sounded like monks or something called Return to Innocence by Enigma. Can’t even sing to that. And lastly, the omnipresent little Lisa Loeb and all her nine stories, with her cat’s eye glasses, staring into the camera, singing Stay. Poutable, but not danceable.

So forgive me if I can’t dance like I’m 22. Or 32. But I have degenerative discs now, including torn and bulging ones. So I don’t know about you, but I should probably just sit this one out. Maybe in the new plush recliner. With a glass of moscato in my hand. Yes, that sounds like a plan.

Manly Mane O’ Glory

Three months into blogging, clearly there is plenty that I don’t get. My inability to grasp things may allow endless blogging fodder for years to come. Here’s one such item: The site http://www.menwholooklikekennyrogers.com/ has existed since I was in my TWENTIES. It was a hoot back then, if for nothing more than the sheer volume of men who actually did resemble Kenny Rogers. Please tell me how this site can remain up for soooo long, and yet there is no site yet devoted to Barry Gibb’s glorious lionesque mane?

If you don’t know who Barry Gibb is, I forgive you. I do resent, however, having to explain that he was the eldest of the three Brothers Gibb, which consisted of his twin brothers, Robin & Maurice, now both deceased. They peaked with the disco soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, gracing the cover in tight white suits. Say what you will about disco (R.I.P.), but they sold a crapload of records, over 220 million. That’s more books than any of us can hope to publish. Combined. And they wrote all their own songs, as well as hits by other artists, including “Grease” and “Islands In The Stream.” No kidding.

But it’s not their tight three part harmonies that deserve a website; it’s the tresses of the elder brother. Barry’s hair was glorious from the get-go. Even in the late 60s, he was rocking Elvis sideburns with style (and a white suit).

Like Samson and his strength, so, too, was Barry’s sexiness connected to his lovely locks. Here he is all Farrah Fawcett, minus the Mexican blanket.

Is it any wonder children purchased these lunchboxes in droves?

Note the halo effect, as though he were the archangel Barry. Perhaps that’s just the heat generated from his Saturday Night Fever.

And just when you thought he couldn’t feather it anymore–BAM!–superultrafeathered. In combination with the brooding bedtime eyes, gold chain, and chest hair, you can almost imagine the puddles of testosterone seeping out of his pores.

And this? This is how Grizzly Adams saw himself in dreams.

Here we see the Bee Gees with younger brother, Andy, a solo artist in his own right, also deceased. Even with Andy’s good looks, his hair was still no match for the wild and woolly Barry Gibb. You can see it in Barry’s stance; he knows he is the alpha Gibb.

You know, this pic has got me wondering–if men receive their hair pattern gene from their maternal grandfather, how could one brother be bald and one brother be blessed with a thickness and volume of crown otherwise unknown to man? Don’t they all have the same maternal grandfather? I am vexed.

Time has thinned his mane and turned it silver, but a trace of its glory exists. Not enough for me to add it to this fine collection of pictures, but you get the point. You had a good run, Barry. Longer than most of us could ever dream of. And that’s no Jive Talkin’.

Smells Like Orville Redenbacher

At one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, the bathroom soap leaves something to be desired. Each time I wash my hands before eating, the smell emanating from my fingers makes me not want to reach for the chips and salsa. It’s like I need another soap to wash the smell of that one off. I have never understood this concept. Why would any eatery offer a soap that smells to high heaven, that reeks of Texaco restroom (which is the scent of cherry poop), that does everything to quell one’s hunger at a restaurant? Isn’t the point to increase one’s appetite? To that end, I have discovered this today. I think this would do well to increase the sales of not only appetizers, but buttered popcorn Jelly Bellies at the Walgreen’s down the road, once one departs said restaurant.

If I’d just scrubbed with that, I’d be sniffing my knuckles right and left. While we’re on the topic, I’ll share this trivia tidbit: El Senor Redenbacher died in his condo jacuzzi, after suffering a heart attack and subsequently drowning. Did you know that?

So maybe popcorn’s not your bag, baby. Perhaps you don’t want to smell like a cinema lobby. Well, sophisticated gentleman, this might be for you.

Mmmm. Forget Axe For Men; let me smell some merlot on his palms. And BTW, I hate the UB40 song Red Red Wine. I just feel like I need to put that out there, so that you know this pic is in no way an endorsement for such a wretched song, but more an endorsement of alcoholism.

And remember, The Mayo Clinic advises you to rub your hands vigorously for at least 20 seconds while washing, no matter how long the line of impatient patrons standing behind you. If we all work together, we can fight germs and bacteria.

So You Think You Want A Boob Job?

What ARE those? Isn’t Tori Spelling a millionaire several times over? Can’t she afford a nice rack? What was wrong with her old one?

And Victoria Beckham, it’s bad enough that your smile’s been broken for twenty years, but what sort of atrocity is this? You look like the rough draft of Madame Tussaud’s wax version of Kate Gosling.

I mean, don’t these women have access to the BEST of the BEST? What kind of botched job would I wind up with, if THEIR doctors are the best in their field?

Really, Jewel? That’s not very bohemian and down to earth of you. I thought you lived on a ranch with your cowboy husband; you don’t have to subscribe to the L.A. ideal. Honestly.

Oh, Tara Reid. I have no words.

My advice to starlets: don’t do it. But if you must, you must increase your bust, go small, like Cameron Diaz.

You’ll thank yourself when you’re 55.

Tranny Shoes: A Likely Story

I did some more investigating about Einstein (to go with today’s earlier post), and discovered this site, ireport.cnn.com/docs, where Ron Rothman explains, “Some of you might be aware of the relationship between the great scientist, Albert Einstein and my grandfather, David Rothman…Some of you are aware of their initial meeting and how Einstein came into the store looking for ‘Sundials,’ in his thick German accent really asking for sandals. My Grandfather mistook his asking for sundials and took him out to the back yard to show him the only sundial he had, his. Upon realizing his mistake, they proceeded to go back to the store where Einstein bought a pair of sandals that my grandfather had on the shelf…

“As Einstein came in asking for the shoes and after the misunderstanding about what he wanted, he was taken into the store to find that the only pair left which would fit was a woman’s size 11. Between the combination of Einstein’s embarrassment about the sundial incident and my Grandfather’s enthusiasm to make a sale to the great scientist, Einstein bought these beach shoes with grace.”

Fine. Whatever. But how do you explain him reclining in these (do my eyes deceive me?) stilettos?

And, P.S. Einstein, you do not look remotely like Burt Reynolds did in the Cosmo centerfold.

Sitting Pretty

Hey, Einstein, why are you wearing ladies’ sandals? It’s the theory of RELATIVITY, not femininity.

And what about Marion Morrison, the butchest guy of all time? The virtual paragon of manhood? What is this get-up? No, I won’t mess with The Duke. After all, he said, “I don’t have to assert my virility. I think my career has shown that I’m not exactly a pantywaist.”

Okay, you two, you can keep your man cards. But it takes a REAL man to sit patiently through this.

I hope he had a steady hand…

Norma Jean Vs. Reginald Kenneth

Who Has Better Form?

Hebrew Hair

When I say “Jewfro,” you probably think of Seth Rogen, or his Judd Apatow film pal, Jonah Hill. And while some may say that the style consists of a mop of curls, I do not agree. On humid days when I complain of having an “afro,” it does not imply that I have perfectly smooth ringlets on my head. Au contraire, it means my hair is frizzed to high heaven, and neither John Frieda nor any other lying, scheming frizz-free, smoothing serum, crap-peddling con artist can fix it. Seth Rogen’s hair is not frizzy. It is an afro SHAPE made of cascading curls.

In the scheme of things, “jewfro” is a fairly recent term. It is not, however, a recent phenomenon. In fact, I contend that jewfros of the past were far superior to their modern-day counterparts, in part, because of their absolute frizziness. Think: Art Garfunkel. Hello, darkness, my old friend…

But his was not the first jewfro to which I was introduced. That honor goes to Juan Luis Pedro Felipo de Huevos Epstein on Welcome Back, Kotter. That’s him in the upper right. He was a Puerto Rican Jew with an era-appropriate coif.

I suppose technically I was introduced to Mr. Kotter’s jewfro at precisely the same time, but he was a teacher, and I identified with the students, even if they were male. Sadly, the actor who played Epstein, Robert Hegyes, passed away just over a year ago. If you ever want to hear a great theme song, this show had one. Welcome back, welcome back, welcome ba-a-ack.

I would be remiss not to mention the now-deceased “happy trees” PBS icon, Bob Ross. According to www.jewornotjew.com, Ross was not actually of Jewish descent, which means that what he sported was actually a “jewfaux.” But let’s not get legalistic.

Doesn’t he just make you want to smile? P.S. it was a perm.

This next little jewfro works well on Shia LaBeouf, who was Jewish enough to have a full-on Bar Mitzvah, yet he also was baptized. So there you go. No jewfaux here.

Here’s another shot of Shia with something that I can’t quite label. It’s not a ‘fro, but it is powerful. You can’t tame that thing. Let’s call it Black Mamba hair.

Seinfeld creator Larry David’s jewfro was something to behold. You can see that the receding had already begun its weary trek to the back of his dome. And he looks none too thrilled about it.

That really looks strange, doesn’t it? The Marx Brothers; the next generation.

It’s like Ashley Judd’s hairline, with all those little baby hairs. An odd sort of fringe. Not that I would mind trading faces with her for a few years…

I’m also reminded of Selma Blair and her curious hairline. Keep the bangs, girl. Keep the bangs.

Now Lenny Kravitz has Russian Jewish ancestors, but I wouldn’t call his look a jewfro. I would just call it a nice, tight hairdo. On a really fit man with a bandana and shades who is cooking shirtless.

http://www.tumblr.com: What were we talking about again?

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