Godammit, I’m Mad!

Kate Hudson has pulled off a brilliant publicity stunt by pretending to be pregnant and then unveiling her body in a skimpy thong-style bikini. Her pristine white butt has appeared on every celebrity gossip site, photographed from every possible angle.

After weeks of parading around in big baggy dresses, she made sure that her butt would receive all the attention of an urgent breaking news story.

I will admit that her butt is beyond compare, except to the butt of a ten year old albino gymnast. Good for you, Kate! Now, if only your butt could act, you’d be making the big bucks like Reese Witherspoon!

I’m feeling a little guilty for being so negative and angry all the time, even though that is my calling, so let’s just relax and enjoy the timeless beauty of Joe Dallesandro. I once had a photo of him on my closet door.

Joe Dallesandro is mentioned by name in “Take a Walk on the Wild Side,” and he can be worshipped in several films by Andy Warhol and Paul Morrissey.

You can never, never have too much Joe Dallesandro in your life.

Why did god make Feist?  I know why he made Lindsay Lohan (so we can make fun of her) and Renee Zellweger (so we can all scream “eeoow!” when we see her making that face) and that guy in Maroon 5 (so we can go “Ugh, what a douche!”) and Mike Huckabee (so we can say, “Wow, loony tunes”) and Ann Coulter (so we can feel united by a common enemy). I even know why god made Hillary Swank (so we can think “She still looks like a man!”)

But Feist, what the hell? I think she might represent everything I hate about post-hip hipsterism, but I’m not even sure of that.  If I close my eyes, maybe she’ll go away.

The Grammy Awards show was all about Amy Winehouse, but here’s what else happened.

Frank Sinatra, who won’t stay dead, talked about the awards and then joined Alicia Keyes in a duet. Alicia looked gorgeous, even though her hairdo was crazy. That Rihanna girl pranced around with Morris Day and his band, who were probably too old for anyone to remember them except for their buddy Prince. Prince looked fabulous in a fitted red suit and dark sunglasses with diamante accents.

Some idiot introduced Tina Turner as the Queen of Soul. Girl! Everyone knows that’s Aretha’s title. Anyway, Tina looked a little scary in a silver lame jumpsuit but she still knew how to move. Beyonce joined her,  wearing a silver mini that highlighted her enormous legs. Her shorter blonde hair and new face were not enough to erase the My Pretty Pony effect.

I think John Mayer came out and accompanied someone on guitar, although I may be thinking of the David Letterman show. All you can think about when John Mayer appears is “Eeoow!” anyway.

Kanye sang his big hit and I know I wasn’t alone in thinking, what about your Mama? Sure enough, he had the word MAMA carved into his hair. I asked my teenager if he would do the same for me, were I to die before he accepted his Grammy award. He argued over some technicalities but I believe we have a deal.

Tom Hanks gave some award to the Beatles. Paul couldn’t be there, because he can’t just give Heather the money and call it a day. The always excruciating Cirque du Soleil performed a creepy routine to Day in the Life. If only that girl had fallen off the rope! Heather could have helped out with a new leg.

Aretha sang, accompanied by a gospel choir, a mountainous vision in a sea green dress. Be as fat as you want, Aretha, you are the Queen.

Two guys sang an aria or something, and the Foo Fighters had lank, greasy hair. Finally, the live by satellite performance by Amy Winehouse, in London. Amy looked gorgeous but very nervous. She rushed through two songs, screwing up a few times and wiggling her hips in obvious terror. Her desperation to prove herself was touching, just like her shock at winning the award. She sent out her thanks to “My Blake, incarcerated” and hugged her tiny haggard Mum.

Then the Album of the Year was mistakenly given to Herbie Hancock, who played the race card as he accepted the honor that rightly belonged to My Amy, not in rehab.

Larry Clark is a ‘polarizing’ figure, as they say about Hillary Clinton. You either deplore him for exploiting screwed up young people or admire him as a fearless artist with a unique vision.

After reading a piece in the LA Times this morning about Brad Renfro, I find myself feeling very angry at Larry Clark. In fact, I’m thinking, What a heartless motherfucker.

Clark recalls visiting Brad at his grandmother’s house just before the film “Bully” was set to go into production. Clark describes 18 year old Brad as looking “Horrible, bloated, he looked around 35.” Seeing the bloody tracks running down Brad’s arms, Clark remembers, “I just saw the whole movie going down the drain.”

Well, Larry, what can I say that you would understand?  Larry Clark went on to ‘kidnap’ Brad Renfro, forcing him to ‘kick’ his cocaine addiction in the car, on their way to the film set in Florida. For this, I imagine Larry wants a medal.

I’m pretty sure that if you have an injured horse, it would be not only immoral but illegal to put him in a race. Yet, a poor young drug addict can be propped up with a babysitter in order to perform his role in a movie, where money can be made. Brad Renfro was still a commodity to be squeezed for every last drop, even when everybody he worked with says he was clearly on the downward spiral of a  serious drug addict.

It’s not all Larry Clark’s fault. But since he’s made his career from the excesses of lost teenagers, I’m starting with him.

Have you watched the Tom Cruise recruiting video and wondered what the hell he’s talking about? Here is a glossary of Scientology terms to help decipher Tom’s important message.

I plan to incorporate some of these terms into my everyday conversations. Check out the following definition. I’ll bet you didn’t know that mental images have actual mass and exist in space! Uh-oh!

mental image pictures: three-dimensional pictures which are continuously made by the mind, moment by moment, containing color, sound and smell, as well as other perceptions. They also include the conclusions or speculations of the individual. Mental image pictures are composed of energy, have mass, exist in space and follow definite routines of behavior, the most interesting of which is the fact that they appear when somebody thinks of something.

I’ve always thought that Marion Jones was a goddess, and I don’t care that she took steroids. I can’t believe the outrage heaped upon her. What a morally backward society we are!

Why don’t all athletes just take steroids, like bodybuilders and football players? Marion Jones wanted to break the world record set by Flo Jo, another user of steroids. Venus and Serena look like they’re on steroids, and god bless ‘em, as far as I’m concerned.

Most women could be pumped with steroids and HGH and never have a fraction of Marion Jones’ ability.

Oprah was really mad at poor Marion, who has to leave a seven month old child to appease the need of some judge to make a cautionary tale out of her. Oprah’s steely gaze failed to prove that she’s a better woman than Marion, who she reprimanded for calling her “ma’am.”

I love you, Marion. You could have asked Oprah about Gail, but you were too classy for that shit. God bless you for your courage and dignity.

Jade Jagger is up to no good, and I feel it’s my duty to share the bad tidings.

First, she has launched her new line of jewelry and it’s surprisingly awful. Here is a “goldtone” skull necklace for $475. Is she nuts? Why would anyone pay that much for something they could get at the mall for ten bucks?

More impressive, and by that I mean more egregious, Jade Jagger has embarked on a real estate project in Manhattan, offering ‘luxury’ studio apartments in a building called The Jade.

The studio apartments go for $55,000 and look like futuristic prison facilities. The brains behind this project, developer Michael Shvo, explains the attraction of the venture: “People want to be Jade Jagger.”

Do you want to be Jade Jagger? This would involve being a haggard 35 year old mother of two, who is mostly known for her shallow lifestyle in Ibiza and, of course, her famous dad. She attends fashion shows and dates a rap artist. Her next major project will be a facelift.

I don’t know why, but I expected more from Jade Jagger. Mick and Bianca should have spawned something better than a faux designer of faux jewelry and faux apartments. Breeding isn’t everything, I guess. Look at Rumer Willis, for godsake.

This morning I saw the headline “Woman Says She Was Traumatized by Lohan” and my reaction was: Join the Club!

I too feel traumatized by Lindsay Lohan, and I’d like some compensation for my suffering.

I feel my blood pressure surge every time I see her vacuous smiling face. Why is that girl still smiling? Her awful blonde hair extensions, her ridiculous fedoras, her hippie scarves, her crappy costume jewelry, her jeans tucked into knee-boots, her sparkly lipgloss, and her stupid trademark peace sign…..I can’t stand it.

Make it stop! The emotional distress I’ve endured can’t really be quantified, but $150,000 might take the edge off.

The time is ripe for Oprah Studies, and an essay in The New Republic is a perfect synthesis of all the ways we might regard Oprah’s impact on our culture.

I was enjoying the essay until I came upon the dreaded ‘paradigm shift.’ There is no getting away from that damn paradigm shift: I was reading an article about Otis Redding the other day and boom, there it was.

That said (little smiley face thing!), it’s a great essay, filled with incisive observations. Here are a couple:

In TV terms, Oprah’s multiplication of herself into simultaneous actual, fictional, and didactic selves was on the order of Picasso inventing cubism.

For all the show’s seesawing between horror and inanity, and precisely because of its cunningly orchestrated subtext of racial catharses–a la the exchange with Julia Roberts–”The Oprah Winfrey Show” is a racial utopia based on the exchangeability of colorless human pain. There is something beautiful and profound about that.

Oprah! How can we ever grasp the reach of your influence? I know one way. The night I sat on my couch like an enormous slug at 2:00 AM and watched a repeat of Oprah’s ‘Bra’ show was a pivotal moment in the narrative of my lingerie.

Oprah and her expert berated everyone for wearing the wrong size bra, even allowing themselves to feel up the unwitting victims who had agreed to try on the new sizes.

The revelation was delivered like the sermon on the mount: You need to go smaller around the back and larger in the cup! Every volunteer found that this was so. It was a joyous experience for all concerned.

I went out and got a new bra, following the holy formula. Sure enough, my bra fits better and my boobs have never been happier. 

I will do anything Oprah wants, except vote for Barack Obama.