I can’t even begin to dissect the awesomeness of this picture. All the elements together blow my mind.
Category: Celebrities
Starring In Our Own Late Late Show
I always liked this image from one of my Hollywood golden years picture books. An interesting snippet from their lives. But it also seemed sad, since Humphrey Bogart only lived a few more years.
Esophageal cancer ultimately claimed him, and he only weighed 80 pounds (36 kg) when he died on January 14, 1957. The things cancer can do to a body. That’s another thing I don’t get. I guess he was right when he said, “Things are never so bad they can’t be made worse.”
I suppose that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, though.
“Look, Bogey! I see a pack of unfiltered Chesterfields that you haven’t smoked yet!”
And what happened to eight glasses of water a day?
Live and let live, I guess. We all have our vices and our downfall. His widow, Lauren Bacall once said, “You can’t start worrying about what’s going to happen. You get spastic enough worrying about what’s happening now.” Amen.
Schnozzola And The Elongated Appendage
I was Googling strabismus (don’t ask), which reminded me of proboscis, which reminded me (or–as my son says–remembered me) of proboscis monkeys, which are the bomb. If you haven’t seen them before, consider your life full now. If they seem familiar, they might bear a resemblance to a sepia photo of an ancestor from the Old Country.
I always want to pronounce it “probiscus,” but I think that’s because I grew up in Hippietown, where the city council mandated all hip restaurants serve hibiscus tea. I love me some hibiscus tea.
This fella looks like Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two:
Now I’m not going to go all National Geographic on you and load you up with stats and preach how proBOScis monkeys are endangered, how they are the primate world’s most prolific swimmers, or how silly they can be when hitting the water with a belly flop SPLAT. Pinky swear.
I just want you to recognize their uniqueness. This guy has swagger.
At first, this looks like an ad for Reach toothbrushes or dental hygiene, but I think he’s just chewing a stick. All in a day’s work.
Now pretend I’m Oprah Winfrey, narrating the Discovery Channel’s “Life” series, giving you the 411 on all animals as if she created them herself, like she’s some Miss Know-It-All Omniscient Oprah, Queen of All That Is And Will Be. Sorry. Now here goes in my alto Winfrey voice: The males use their bulbous, pendulous noses to attract females. If that seems far-fetched, consider Lyle Lovett and Julia Roberts. (I still love you, Lyle.)
Or the most obvious comparison, Jimmy Durante. If you don’t know who Jimmy Durante is, do yourself a favor and Google him.
He’s actually not THAT scary. And he did manage to wed two wives, so the nose evidently was no deterrant.
This next shot makes me want to start a caption contest. Ever since Junior was born, it’s like I don’t even matter to you. Whatevs. I’m over it.
Well, I’m off to enjoy a tall glass of iced hibiscus tea now. Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are!
Crouching Cody, Hidden Dragon
“Another day on the river brings another opportunity for rescue.”
Well, it’s tit for tat night, and since the hub had to endure the Grammy Red Carpet on Sunday, I am gamely watching my second hour of Discovery Channel’s Dual Survivor. Crouching Cody is present and accounted for, but his former partner, Dave Canterbury, has vanished (due to an embellished resume), replaced with special ops Joe Teti, a younger model. Joe’s beard has less grey than Dave’s, and he wears a ball cap while Cody dons his same old purple do rag. From my perspective, Joe is the boy, and Cody is the girl.
I don’t care about survival or knives or knots. All I see is the patriot and the hippie. Joe is a bit of an eager beaver. He needs to pace himself. He also drank his urine twice in a row, and that’s a no-no. Cody builds the fires. Actually, Joe built a fire tonight with a battery and a gum wrapper on his second try. Yay, Joe! But it was Cody who pointed out that they couldn’t sleep in a baobob tree due to risk of contracting the bubonic plague. Duh, Joe.
If it were me, lost in the wilderness, I would just lay down and die and wait to float up to heaven. I’ve got nothing to prove. Let that hippo trample me. But if I had to be dually surviving with one of those guys, Joe seems the obvious choice. Cody rubs me the wrong way. It’s not just his Sequoia-sized thighs. Even his voice irritates me. And he looks like a steroided lesbian bodybuilder who you only have to look at to know her voice is crazy low. And what is up with all this squatting??
I can think of a handful of men with whom I’d rather be bludgeoned to death than stuck on a desert island: Kevin Smith, Quentin Tarantino, and Michael Moore, for starters. And Cody is not nearly repulsive enough to join the ranks of that trio. Not even close. It’s just a certain je ne sais quoi. I can’t put my finger on it.
Now I know full well that shoeless Cody could provide for me. I’m not against collecting rainwater and composting waste. He’s certainly proven he’s got skills. I imagine those bare feet can tread lightly and those butch arms can carry a big whittled stick. And, really, it should be kind of a turn-on to see him construct a bamboo spear to provide us with a fresh fish dinner, but then again, he’s wearing a handkerchief on his head, and tossing his long braids about. And don’t get me started on his Daisy Dukes.
Tonight I looked at Cody’s left hand and noted there wasn’t a ring. It must be hard to court a woman and start a family when you live off the grid, far from shopping centers and coffee shops.
Truth be told, I’d rather be stuck on that island with Myke Hawke (don’t say that one too quickly) of Discovery Channel’s defunct Man, Woman, Wild. Now that might be worth surviving.
The Levy Was Dry
I still don’t get this, either. R.I.P., you guys.
Kiss Me, Kate–After You Gargle
Yeah, yeah–I realize this ad is old. But it’s not old to me. I grabbed a stack of old In Styles while at the used bookstore yesterday and this shot in a 2010 issue made me stop. Not to collaborate and listen, but to wonder WTH? Are her clothes in the bag? Does her driver have a brush she can borrow? Is she fresh from some coke-fueled rambage with ex, Pete Doherty?
This demands a caption contest. I’ll start with the lamest one that dates me:
Raise your hand. Raise your hand. If you’re sure.
Now is ze time on Sprockets vhen ve dance!
Well, it’s day two of creepy album covers, and, oh, the things one discovers when perusing cover art! Today’s artist is a hammerhead shark/Andy Warhol named Heino. Again, musical ignorance has prevented me from being familiar with his extensive collection, which includes his 1980 hit, “Bier, Bier, Bier” (not to be confused with “Beers, Steers, and Queers”).
The best translations I could find for the title, Liebe mutter ein blumenstrauß der nie verwelkt, were, “Love mother a flower that never fades consuming,” and “Dear mother of one bouquet never.” I don’t get it. Is it Mother’s Day in Berlin?
And no, he’s not an albino, and no, he’s not Corey Hart. Heino suffers from exophthalmos due to Grave’s disease. But the Lord blessed him with a rich baritone, capable of belting out beer barrel polkas, so it all balanced out.
Once you really dig into the essence of Heino, you sense a cynophilic trend. He rather fancies poodles.
I mean, REALLY fancies them.
And German Shepherds (because he IS German, after all…)
Now that I look at it–this looks more like seeing-eye dogs leading him up the stairway to heaven. Clearly, he does not discriminate each time he visits the Humane Society.
And what is that badge in the hound’s mouth? A license to ill? The point is, the blonde Roy Orbison loves dogs. Even corn dogs!
Sorry–that’s not a corn dog; it’s a microphone.
After his stylist gave him a saucy Steve McQueen ‘do, he took it down to the farm and chilled with the animals. I believe this LP was later titled, “WARHORSE!!”
Months passed by, and when his mane grew into more of a Jean Seberg ‘do, he revisited his periwinkle farm friends.
As music and trends evolved, so did he. Here he is frisky and fresh from the leather bar, doing his Tae Bo jabs.
In case you’re wondering, tanless Heino is still going strong at 74, married to his third wife, with no trace of male pattern baldness in sight. And don’t even try to get your hands on that album; “das verbotene” means “the forbidden,” and Germans mean business.
In the words of Mike Myers’ Dieter himself, I say, “You have disturbed me almost to the point of insanity…There. I am insane now.”
Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina Coral. Your Eyeliner Will Run.
Just take a moment to really take in all that is Argentina Coral. That’s it. Deep breath. Before noon today, I had never heard of her, nor seen her. But now I have. Now we both have.
I hope she had an endorsement deal with Nike, because she painted Nike swooshes across her eyebrows and beyond the natural borders of a human eyelid. Just do it, Argentina! And while you’re at it, smear some Avon coral lipstick beyond the borders of your natural lipline. You cannot be contained. You cannot be “corraled.”
The name of this LP is Cante Gitano, which means Gypsy Singing. A looser translation might mean “emitting a fetid smell,” because her facial expression reveals something putrid this way comes, and it’s not just flamenco music.
Now I consider myself fairly musically-savvy, and I have seen enough of Stevie Nicks singing “Gypsy” to know that it entails white lace and prairie skirts, along with dizzy spinning in front of a mirror to catch one’s reflection, perhaps reassess one’s perm. But just to be sure, I rewatched the video. I was correct, but had failed to remember the ring-around-the-rosie scenes in a nymph-filled forest while it rained sequins and Tinkerbell dust. Nonetheless, this is not what Cante Gitano offers. Far from it.
Translated as only Google can, one of the songs says:
In this bar I first saw you, and without thinking I gave you my whole life. This offer bar with beer, amid sadness and pain. This bar opened our souls, and delicious phrases said. In this bar so many things happened, so I always come to this corner. Pour me a glass of rum and drink your beer with my heart, you are the steward of my love ..
(And if you don’t pour me a glass of rum, I will park my smoking hot body on the hood of your car like some exotic Tawny Kitaen and glare at you through your windshield as though I am Cher’s evil twin.) Case in point:
Hell hath no fury like Argentina scorned. But time passed, and it softened her. She traded her swoosh eyebrows for thin arcs, her turquoise blouse for a raincoat adorned with upside-down birds.
Alas, we all grow old.
Now fly like your inverted flamingos and go to that corner of your favorite bar and drink rum with the steward of your love and say delicious phrases. Sing “Amor Hablame Dulcemente,” and he will sing sweetly to you and your mole. And maybe, just maybe, he will buy you another cubic zirconia pinky ring for the other hand to deflect bullets like you are some sort of Latina Wonder Woman. Adios, Argentina. Adios.
I Want To Wear You Like An Animal
I pulled this ad out of my Vanity Fair magazine and set it on the coffee table for further inspection, as it seemed curious to me on several levels. My son walked by and asked why a scorned Taylor Swift was lying near the remote and tub of coconut oil, and I explained that Miss Swift, fickle as she may be, is nothing if not ladylike–nay, princesslike–and would not be caught dead in a bedazzed jungle cat motif.
This honor goes to Karlie Kloss, the Juicy Couture model for the Fall 2012 campaign. Now when I hear Juicy Couture, for some reason, the Brit’s voice pops into my head singing in her stilted robotic voice: I’m Mrs. Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous (You want a piece of me?) I’m Mrs. Oh-My-God, That Britney’s Shameless (You want a piece of me?). No, thank you, we do not (and apparently, neither does Jason Trawick). The point is, Juicy Couture brings to mind velour tracksuits.
So there we have a JC designer wedged between JLo and The (Green) Material Girl. Are these the best examples of juicy derrieres? One of them has an ample booty, and one of them has a boney booty, but neither of them can claim “juicy” anymore. Perhaps Madonna could suggest that her designer daughter, Lola, start a line of clothing for post-menopausal women, with a more accurate label. Something like “Wither Couture.”
with-er
- To dry up or shrivel from or as if from loss of moisture.
- To lose freshness; droop.
But back to Miss Kloss, the anti-withered. In fact, she’s not even legal to imbibe yet, at least not in the States. I’m no Anna Wintour, so I can’t tell you what they WANT this ad to say to the consumer. But I can tell you what a common woman between the age of Britney and Madonna sees when she looks at this ad.
- Either her teeth are clenched as part of her snarly little sneer, or she better hop on over to the orthodontist tout de suite regarding that underbite.
- Why is she wearing a dog collar? Those genuine diamelles look heavy and will smack her in the face the next time she bends down to adjust her stiletto.
- Is this bedhead or a mousse commercial or are we supposed to think she just had sex at the seaside pavilion in the background with a former pro-surfer-turned-hobo?
- That upturned eyebrow is laden with disdain. Don’t you peer at me through those nerdy girl glasses (do they even have lenses?). I think if we panned out of this shot, she’d have an empty gin bottle in her hand (minor in possession!), ready to smack us. This is all very Louisville-slugger-to-both-headlights, if you get my drift.
- Why is she wearing a presumably faux fur jacket at the beach? Is she cold from detox chills?
- What is up with the leopard/cheetah with palm trees sprouting out of his head? Animal cruelty alert! Just try to look into his clear blue eyes without turning away. That ferocious cat seems to understand the mysteries of the world. Or maybe he’s slowly choking to death in the deathgrip of that Charming Charlie’s choke collar. Either way, this is all reminding me of the feng shui woman yesterday who told me the best way to cure my insomnia was to rid the bedroom of animal prints, including animal print sheets (who has THOSE?) because they are too “energizing.” If Karlie did, in fact, pass out drunk on her jacket in that pavilion, the animal print seems to have done more enervating than energizing.
Animals, animals, animals! Where is Hal Linden when I need him?
And just in case you missed the animal references, here she is ON ALL FOURS in a leopard-print jumpsuit hoodie monstrosity, cavorting on the sand after she had her Gatorade to rehydrate. Who’s a happy girl now? Who’s a happy girl?
More than anything, this reminded me of my college roommate’s cat, Misery, when she was in heat, rump raised and ready to rumble. I think I’ll take my couture pulp-free this year, perhaps altogether juice-free. Lola, have you got any etchings done yet??
Seven Brides for Only One Brother
We’re about to get Biblical up in here.
Let’s get this straight. King Solomon starts out on the right track. He builds a temple, he moves the ark of the convenant to it, he dedicates it. Good, good, good. Then he starts accumulating riches and signing treaties right and left, and each time he puts his John Hancock down, a lesser king gives his daughter in marriage. Badda-bing, badda-boom, Solomon’s got a piping hot, fresh, new wife. Nevermind that Moses’ law said in plain Hebrew that a king shall not “multiply wives to himself.” Solomon was multiplying wives like nobody’s business.
God already told him that his wives would lead him astray and turn his heart to false gods, and son of a gun, if the Lord wasn’t right. So how is this man wise? 1 Kings 10 tells us that “the whole world sought audience with Solomon to hear the wisdom God had put in his heart.” Yet one chapter later, it states that Solomon loved many foreign women. Hold up. First off, nobody “loves many women,” foreign or not. At least not at the same time. That is not love. Even Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias could tell you that.
Just dealing with two lovers is hard enough. Ask Mary McGregor; she was torn between two lovers, feelin’ like a fool. Even she had the decency to know that “lovin’ you both is breakin’ all the rules.” You hear that, Solomon?
You either love Pharoah’s daughter or you don’t. If I were her, I would be all, “Don’t come in here, telling me you just married some Ammonite skank. I’m not trying to hear that. And don’t be defiling our kingdom with those nasty Edomites and Sidonians. If you so much as lay a hand on a Hittite, you’re never touching me again. I don’t care if you are a king. Israelite, please.” I would have told him to put everything he owns in a box to the left.
And then he’d be all, “Don’t hate the player; hate the game.” But the player tallied up 700 hundred wives and 300 hundred concubines. And really, what’s the difference? Wives get gold nameplates on their desks? Actually, concubines have lower social rank, which prevents them from marrying. So Pharoah’s daughter was right; it WAS slumming. But I’m sure all one thousand of them got along hunky dory. Just watch one episode of TLC’s “Sister Wives” and see how that plays out. Everyone wins with fundamentalist Mormons and polygamy!
Look how happy Ken and Barbie–I mean Kody and Meri–were back in the day. She had no idea what was coming. Although, to be honest, I can’t say that I could have resisted his Pepsodent smile myself. Three wives and seventeen children later, it hit him! “Oh, snap! This didn’t work out well for Solomon, and he was the wisest dude ever.”
God schooled Solomon in 1 Kings 11: “Since this is your attitude and you have not kept my covenant and my decrees, which I commanded you, I will most certainly tear the kingdom away from you and give it to one of your subordinates. Nevertheless, for the sake of David your father, I will not do it during your lifetime. I will tear it out of the hand of your son.” And he did.
So the lesson here is one man, one woman. Ideally, ’til death do you part. But WWMRD? I’ll tell you what Mickey Rooney would do. He would marry and divorce and marry and divorce until he racked up eight wives total (so far). Talk about a player! I realize everyone loved Andy Hardy, but this man is ONE INCH SHORTER than Dudley Moore. He must seriously have it going on. Five foot two!! And at 92, he’s bound to have shrunk. Discs degenerate, people.
God bless you, Mickey. Now let’s just do a quick run-through of the ladies you managed to get to say “yes” when you bent your knee, from most recent back to WWII (in which you served). Jan Chamberlin (m. 1978), Carolyn Hockett (m. 1969–1975), Marge Lane (m. 1966–1967), Carolyn Mitchell (m. 1958–1966), Elaine Devry (m. 1952–1958), Martha Vickers (m. 1949–1951), B. J. Baker (m. 1944–1949), Ava Gardner (m. 1942–1943). Well, at least he finally figured it out. He’s been with his current wife longer than the other seven wives combined. An old dog CAN learn new tricks.
He explained, “When I say I do,’ the Justice of the Peace replies, ‘I know, I know.’ I’m the only man in the world whose marriage license reads, ‘To Whom it May Concern.’ But to have been married eight times is not normal. That’s only halfway intelligent.” My point exactly.
Say You, Say Me, Say I’m Dorian Gray
“Lady.” One word, and my best friend’s mother went weak in the knees. School had just started in the fall of 1980. “I’m your knight in shining armor, and I love you.”
Did anyone watch The Gambler and Lionel Richie sing “Lady” as a duet last April on CBS at the MGM Hotel? Did you catch Kenny Rogers’ story about Richie writing the second verse to “Lady” on the toilet? Yes, it was destined for greatness. It was the first record of the 80s to chart on all four of Billboard’s singles charts, including the Hot 100, adult contemporary, country, and top black singles. Over thirty-two years have passed since it hit Number One, and time has taken its toll. At least, on Kenny.
Last October, he told Oprah’s BFF that his plastic surgeon was one of the world’s best, and that he had “the money to do it, and I had time off.” Look, we’re all vain. Men are not immune to the lure of cosmetic surgery. You’ve seen Mickey Rourke. You can’t escape Bruce Jenner nonstop on E!. And Barry Manilow’s cheeks look hard and puffy like papier mache. But Kenny defended, “The truth is that I don’t know what I would have looked like if I hadn’t done it.” Good point. Maybe a debonair Colonel Sanders?
Now just try and Google image “Lionel Richie before and after.” A funny thing happens. There are no matches! Do you know why? Because there is no such thing. Lionel Richie is almost godly in the way that he looks the same as he was, and is, and will be. He does not change. Well, that’ s not entirely true. His jawline and hair length have changed since his Commodores days, but not much else.
Now Kenny has eleven years on Lionel, so it only makes sense that he looks older than Lionel. But that doesn’t explain why time stands still for Lionel. Did he sell his soul to the same dark lord that Ralph Macchio and Rob Lowe did? The old adage “black don’t crack” will have to suffice. It clearly ain’t crackin’. The evidence is at hand.
I actually think he looks BETTER now than he did in ’86. And if he did get surgery, that doctor has skills. Either way, Lionel should be giddy. If it were me, I’d be dancing on the ceiling all night long.
Will It Fit In The Van?
It’s Riesling night with my friend, Lydia. My husband is at a meeting, so Lydia and I are drinking wine and watching an American Pickers marathon. Maybe we are odd because we don’t watch Real Housewives of Silicone Valley, but we prefer this History Channel gem. I enjoy finding and preserving objects that have a history, and Lydia likes Mike. That’s the bottom line.
Contrary to the rumor mill, Lydia and I never hear the beep of our gaydar go off on buddies Mike and Frank. First off, their grammar is atrocious. “Me and Frankie” this and “Me and Mikey” that. Mike also refers to Frank as that “little fat, hairy dude.” And what queen says things like “We’re kickin’ down that gravel road, man?'” That’s quite a leap from “Goodbye, yellow brick road.” I believe this self-proclaimed Laurel and Hardy are just buddies from eighth grade. I’m not going to get all black helicopter theory about them.
I understand Mike’s appeal. He has a nice head of hair, he’s lean, and looks good in a v-neck tee and leather jacket. He also has a wicked smile and seems genuinely giddy about certain big ticket items, although I wonder if he’s just jacked up on Red Bull. Lydia is divorced and single, so she is allowed to fantasize about spending time in the back of that Antique Archaeology van with Mike. Sometimes I even hear her say, “Lydia Wolfe” to herself, and that’s before the second glass. I remind her Mike has a girlfriend, but hope springs eternal.
It’s that rugged appeal, the desire to find the treasure in the filth, no matter how dirty he gets. “Down and dirty,” Lydia says, and her eyes light up. I tell her Frank is descending into identical filth, but she waves that option away. “Frank’s sweat is not the same caliber as Mike’s.” Whatever that means.
Mike has a unique turn of phrase. “It can be pretty sketch when you walk in someone’s door,” Mike says. Other things are “killer.” Is he from the Valley? Do they have surfers in Iowa? I also notice he peppers his speech with “Bam!” a la Cajun King Emeril Lagasse.
“Me and Frankie are all about the Brazilian. We are all about the bikini wax,” Mike says at the top of the California episode, and Lydia’s face falls. No worries, though, because soon they are getting spray-tanned, and Lydia’s eyes glaze over as she discovers Mike’s red Playboy tattoo above his left pec.
“Is that real?” she asks.
“Is any of this show real?” I counter.
And what about roller derby and burlesque star, Danielle? Personally, I’m not crazy about how all that ink distracts from such a pretty face. Yes, I realize I sound like a Golden Girl. I’m also not keen on her sassy back talk to her employers (though I’m not naive enough to believe it’s not scripted). Lydia says Danielle is not the least bit attractive, but let’s be honest. She doesn’t like her because of her accessibility to Mike.
So we’re watching them making picks right and left, item after item, big and small. We share a look that says, “No way that’s gonna fit in the van.” No way they’re going to just pile up fragile antiques on top of each other, and I doubt they wrap everything in newspaper before tossing it in. I’ve seen their brusque manner. So the eternal question is: why do they drive such a small van if they KNOW there is a chance that they might find some huge items? Especially if they’re hitting several places along the way, traveling through several states at a time? Do the producers have someone driving a U-Haul behind them, tucked out of sight?
I read an article at voices.yahoo.com that alleges that the producers of the show visit the picks long before Mike and Frank show up, and they determine in advance not only what will be picked, but at what price. Perhaps this is true, but that doesn’t discount the fact that there must have been times when the van did not offer enough room for what had been agreed upon. Items like a tractor, Cushman scooters, eight foot oil signs, a grist mill stone–these take up a lot of real estate.
And what about all the times they are turned away? Or when Mike announces they’re “gonna do a little door knockin’, a little free-range pickin’?” Is this fake as well? Or do the producers allow them some liberties? The goal of reality tv is to make people talk, right? Maybe they gotta create the drama if they can’t find it.
The site http://www.westcoasttruth.com asserts that Frank and Mike don’t even travel together, that all the dialogue is filmed on set locations. Lydia doesn’t care. All she knows is that Mike just said he has “an economic stimulus package in his pocket,” which puts her over the edge. Four glasses have given her the courage to declare she’s quitting her job tomorrow, buying a trailer, and going into the picking business (acrylic nails be damned!). Her theory is that she may meet Mike at some pickers’ conference, as though that exists. Talk about her grasp of reality.
I Don't Get It 