M’ stories
Tsk, tsk all you please–I think celebrity gossip is a buttload of fun to discuss. Gossiping itself is enjoyable through and through. There’s no way around that fact. So isn’t it better to gossip about those you don’t know versus those you do?
Darn tootin’.
Therefore, I feel it safe to say after viewing my second episode of "Breaking Bonaduce", about former child star turned freckled demon Danny Bonaduce, that the man isn’t really so much unhinged as he is a drama queen. I mean, "Hi, I’m going to do a reality show about my obsessive-compulsive-addictive personality starring me, my family, and my radio show, and air it on VH1." If you genuinely wanted help for such a cocktail of disorders, you would see the benefit of toning down the histrionics, not turning them up. Not televising the doctor’s visits. Not playing the part in a problem you don’t intend on eventually fixing, while your spouse sobs openly beside you on national cable television.
The man scares the poo out of me, though, I will say that. And not in a sexy way either. His sheer refusal to wear moisturizer or sunblock of any kind during any point in his life is loudly testified to in his mummified crimson visage.
Also scary in a much more indirect fashion served in a much more palpable veneer is "Laguna Beach". This is the reality show that follows a group of cute, well-to-do white kids who live in the coastal paradise of Laguna Beach, California, and is about absolutely, positively, straight up nothing. It’s also hideously addictive. Hideously.
They don’t got no jobs ’cause they rich, schoolgrounds are off limits for the cameras (or not titillating enough to nab the big ad revenue–take your pick), and there aren’t even any of those little one-person camera confessionals a la "The Real World" offered that you might gain some personal "insight" from the "characters" themselves as to what they are "thinking".
But in this way, "Laguna Beach" offers you an even truer fly-on-the-wall experience–under the airbrushed, edited auspices of MTV cameras–of this group of "real, live people".
And let’s face it–their lives have this bovine, utopian bliss factor to them that would be so, so nice to have. Personally, I don’t remember high school being a damn thing like that show. I mean, I wish I could’ve gone to big parties, had cool friends, and gotten hair extensions for the prom when I was little. Capped teeth and spray-on tans. I recall nothing of the sort.
We didn’t have that in the ’90s. The very hairsprayed, flanneled, color-curious, triangular-shpaed ’90s. That cruel gay attention to detail had yet to break big and go mainstream. Instead, you figured out your fashion style by following the right trend, not by finding the right fashion style to best fit your figure in. Boys sported aerodynamically-impossible ‘do courtesy of ozone-ravaging hairsprays. Clown-white foundation on the face cropped at a ruddy, sunscreen-free neck was a not uncommon sight among both girls and women. And a plague of denim swept the land, with women making their butts look even bigger by donning airtight, sky bright jeans, thereby transforming their asses into living, breathing, dual-headed blue dewdrop beasts, eyein’ ya from behind, lolling left and right down the path.
Ah, saying as such reminds me of high school. A list of attendees has been generated for the reunion. Some people have gotten married, and actually have new last names. Can you believe that? Who would want to marry those people?
Said I in my oft-perused profile on Classmates.com, "I think I’ll pass on the reunion. That way, you can all remain forever mentally Botox-ed in my mind as youthful seventeen-year-olds." No plumped out features, gone-to-hell body parts, or sagging what-have-you’s for me, no sir. Just an army of evil, evil little children, and some good ones, frozen alive in my mind’s eye of all things past, but sho’ as HAIL not forgotten.
Greens, collared.
