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By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
RECOVERING URKEL-HOLIC
It’s a pretty good indication that a celebrity’s career has hit the skids when: a) Their name is follows the words VH1: Behind the Music; b) They’re on a 3 a.m. infomercial pimping stepladders for dogs and products with names like Stink-B-Gon; c) They’re constantly mistaken for Gary Coleman, even though they’re female. And Caucasian.
Well, Jaleel White – better known as "Steve Urkel" – isn’t a faded rock star, hasn’t hit the infomercial circuit, and is too tall to be mistaken for Gary Coleman. So where is he? When a star falls out of the public eye, speculations start flying, the usual options being "rehab," "mall security guard" or "dead."
In White’s case, the final option is reputed to be his final destination. The most popular nerd of the last decade allegedly has gone on to that great big Geek Convention in the sky, according to a story currently traveling the email circuit: "Following the cancellation of Family Matters in 1997, friends claim White became obsessed with the character and grew despondent … neighbor and friend Bradley Spencer alerted police after hearing what he described as ‘a loud bang’ coming from White's Los Angeles apartment," the story reports.
"Authorities state that upon entering the home they discovered a young African-American male with an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Also found was a note, which read simply, ‘Did I do that?’ – a popular catchphrase from the show."
Now hold on, Urkelmaniacs, don’t get your high-water britches in a knot! The story is a hoax – a poorly executed one, at that. For one thing, Family Matters ended in 1998, not 1997. Had the "writer" done a little homework (It’s called fact-checking, nimrod. Look into it.), he/she would know that White recently finished two upcoming films – no easy feat if you’re dead. Unless you’re starring in a remake of Weekend at Bernie’s.
If he’s now a member of the corpse corps, how to explain the blog White maintains for NBA.com? I’ve heard of ghostwriters, but never in the literal sense!
We haven’t seen much of His Urkelness in the last eight years – during which he graduated from UCLA’s film school – but he’s been working quite steadily, including producing/starring in a short-lived UPN sitcom and providing the voice of Sonic the Hedgehog.
Gossip grapevines also report spotting White a couple weeks ago partying with the bunnies at the Playboy Mansion. Eat your heart out, Arnold Horshack!
Fabrications about the demise of young celebrities are nothing new. There was the now-legendary "Paul (McCartney) is Dead" hullabaloo of the late ’60s, and just last year, Napoleon Dynamite star Jon Heder shook hands with the Grim Reaper either during a car accident or a cocaine overdose, depending on the source. When asked if he was aware of the hoax, Heder told a reporter, "Yeah, and apparently it's not true." His film alter ego would have said it better: "Ugh! Freakin’ idiot!"
By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
AKA "B. DIDDY"
Why Diddy do it … again?
His mother gave him a perfectly nice name, but apparently, Sean John Combs just doesn’t carry enough street cred. I could see if he’d been born, say, Marshall Mathers – Eminem was wise to veer away from a name that screams, "I’m the kid who smells like cat food and sits in the back of the class eating paste."
But I reckon "Sean" is not a handle befitting the über-cool of a hip-hop and fashion impresario. A man like Mr. Combs needs to "maintain his sexy," as he proclaims in his infomercial for ProActiv acne solution. And so, Sean Combs was compelled to fell back on his high school nickname, Puffy. Which is a fine name if you’re: a) A big, bad wolf threatening three little pigs with your amazing lung power; b) Sporting one helluva circa-1973 Jackson Five afro; or c) A woman in the throes of PMS.
Puffy gave way to Puff Daddy – heaven forbid we confuse him with the other members of the Puff family – Puff Mama, Puff Granny and Puff Cousin-Once-Removed. Just when we’d gotten used to that moniker, he pulled the fast-change again in 2003, dubbing himself P. Diddy.
Then, deciding he "needed to simplify things," he 86’ed the P. and became plain ol’ Diddy – "One word. Five letters. Period." Like Oprah, Sting or Usher. Except I don’t have to wonder what Oprah, Sting and Usher will be answering to next week.
"Nobody knew what to call me," Diddy said last August. "People were uncomfortable when I'd meet them for the first time … they'd ask me what they should call me."
Call me crazy, but could that be because … oh, I don’t know … you keep changing your name?!
Now, after less than a year of Diddy-hood, he’s gone and done it again. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my dubious pleasure to introduce you to … The Puff. Yeah, I know. This is … The Ridiculous.
The Puff – or as I like to call him, "The Artist Formerly Known As Puffy Formerly Known as Puff Daddy Formerly Known as P. Diddy Formerly Known as Diddy," is reincarnating as such an exponential rate that soon, he’ll have more personalities than Sybil.
Next thing ya know, he’ll re-christen himself as P. Diddle Diddle and introduce us to his latest protégé, The Cat and the Fiddle. Being of an entrepreneurial bent, he could market a nutritious chocolate drink and rename himself Cocoa Puff. Those who prefer their beverages in just-add-water form could enjoy a similar libation sold by Powder Puff! Personally, I’m looking forward to the day he does a stint on Sesame Street as Puff, the Magic Rapper.
It’s anybody’s guess as to what The Puff will be calling himself by the time this goes to print, but I have a suggestion. One word, two letters. Just drop "The," as well as the two f’s and you have the perfect name: P.U. ‘Cos frankly, Mr. Puffy Puff Diddy Daddy, all this name-changing business STINKS.
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
Anarchy in the playroom! God save the Beanie Babies! Never Mind the Barbies … Here’s the Sex Pistols!
Whether you view them as punk revolutionaries, a masterwork of sensationalism or the greatest scam on Earth, the Sex Pistols undeniably carved their own distinctive niche in the rock’n’roll landscape. Now they’re making their mark in the toy industry.
You can relive the days of mile-high mohawks and strategically placed safety pins with Medicom’s 30th anniversary commemorative Sex Pistols Kubrick figurines. The Japanese toy maker has given the Pistols the cute treatment, creating a limited-edition, four-piece set that goes for 42 to 60 bucks a pop at sites including http://www.funkyzilla.com and www.sweatyfrog.com.
Kubricks, by the way, are block-figure collectibles, generally 2½ to 3 inches tall. Each figure starts from the same basic blocky body, and different heads, body attachment and paint jobs are used to recreate any character. There are Kubricks of music groups, companies and organizations, as well as anime, television and movie characters – Star Wars is on its sixth series of collectibles.
What better way to memorialize to a band created by hype and hawked like the pre-fabricated product that it was? Besides, nothing says "rebel" like cuddling your very own Sid Vicious doll.
If you’re not a fan or toy collector, buy ‘em for the kids. Throw in a set of Sesame Street Kubricks and voila – Celebrity Death Match! Oscar the Grouch would give Johnny Rotten a run for his money, plus they have the same hairstyle. Or display them on your desk to show your coworkers there’s still an iota of the anti-establishment maverick you used to be, before you were forced to bow down to The Man in order to make a decent living.
Obviously, celebrity dolls are not a new concept, but for the most part, they don’t do anything. What if they truly reflected the personalities and behaviors of the people they represent? It would give a whole new meaning to "action figure." I can see it now: An 11-inch replica of Tom Cruise with turbo-action, spring-loaded feet – perfect for spontaneous couch-jumping! Or a model of Naomi Campbell – wind her arm up and watch her throw a telephone! Buy one and get the phone-chucking Russell Crowe figure at half-price!
Just imagine these dolls arriving fresh off the assembly line:
* Michael Jackson, King of Pop figure: Grows progressively whiter with age! Accessories include penny loafers, one glittery glove, red pleather zipper jacket and an assortment of attachable noses. Veiled children dolls sold separately.
* The Jolie-Pitt Clan: Mommy Angelina and Daddy Brad form their own little United Nations with babies Maddox, Zahara and Shiloh! Comes with: Extra car seats, as family is likely to expand. Pro: They’re awfully purty to look at. Con: You’ll soon get tired of looking at them.
* The Britney, Sean P. and Baby-to-Be Makes Three Playset: Hear lifelike Britney chirp, "Oops, I dropped him again!" and "It was the nanny’s fault, y’all!" Comes with collapsible high chair.
The set would not include a Kevin Federline doll, as it would make sales plummet even lower than his so-bad-you-gotta-laugh single, PopoZão.
By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
While many singers avoid cosmetic facial surgery because it might irreversibly alter their voices, Ashlee Simpson is rumored to have gone under the knife anyway. Recent pictures of her sans the small bump that made her nose distinctive suggest the rumors are nothing to sneeze at.
She's also gone back to her natural blonde. I will concede that she's significantly cuter than she was a year or two ago, when she looked frighteningly like the love child of Gomer Pyle and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. However, the changes in her appearance have led me to a rather disturbing suspicion: Ashlee Simpson is gradually morphing into her sister Jessica.
At the rate she’s Jessifying, she may have to modify the chorus of her hit, Boyfriend, to: Hey, how long till the music drowns you out?/Don’t put words up in my mouth/I didn’t steal your boyfriend … just your face.
I’m tellin’ ya, all she needs is an ex-boy band husband and she will have completely assumed her elder sib's identity. She's starting to look more like Jessica than Jessica does! Come to think of it, when's the last time anyone’s seen Jess in public? Hmm.
Initially, Ashlee denied the nose-job rumors, despite "before" and "after" photographic evidence to the contrary. The difference is as plain as ... well, the nose on her face. Later, she laughed off the speculation by stating, "Everybody's already saying it, so I just don't talk about it. I'm like, OK, whatever. It doesn't bother me."
Hey, maybe she, like, totally got, like, a nose job because her much-publicized acid reflux or whatever was, like, eating away at her septum. (And causing spontaneous outbursts of lip-synching on live television.)
I honestly believe Ashlee's goal is to become totally Jessified, then surpass her sister on the Ladder of Sexy. In April, she boasted that she's ''hotter" than Jessica, telling Scotland's Daily Record: "I'm taller than … and my legs are longer … I got lucky because my chest size isn't completely massive."
Ah, but, my dear, the very reason you have attained The Hotness is because you look like your sister now. Tsk, tsk. Don't bite the face that feeds you, Ash.
Sadly, it's not difficult to be hotter than Simpson the Elder at the moment. Make no mistake– I think Big Sis trumps Li'l Sis in both the looks and talent departments. (Yes, I mentioned Jessica Simpson and talent in the same sentence. Sue me.) But since her breakup with Nick Lachey, she's been looking a little ... well ... let's just say she's a black wig away from being mistaken for the old Ashlee.
But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's not Jessica whose place Ashlee is trying to take. If you close one eye and squint with the other, she does bear an uncanny resemblance to Kirk Douglas. Or maybe she's impersonating Paris Hilton.
If that's the case, all she has to do is replace her brain with a small crayon drawing of a brain.
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, and that’s also true of its title. For example, fiction author Francesca Lia Block makes the bestseller lists with such horrifically titled tomes as Necklace of Kisses and Psyche in a Dress.
That same philosophy can be applied to albums. Take, for instance, Fiona Apple’s critically
acclaimed 2001 release. Make no mistake -- I love me some Fiona. But my favorite sullen girl must’ve been off her meds when she came up with When The Pawn Hits The Conflicts He Thinks Like A King What He Knows Throws The Blows When He Goes To The Fight And He'll Win The Whole Thing 'Fore He Enters The Ring There's No Body To Batter When Your Mind Is Your Might So When You Go Solo, You Hold Your Own Hand And Remember That Depth Is The Greatest Of Heights And If You Know Where You Stand, Then You Know Where To Land And If You Fall It Won't Matter, Cuz You'll Know That You're Right.
Thankfully, this is commonly abbreviated to When the Pawn – I passed out from lack of oxygen while requesting it at the music store.
When album titles are good, they’re very, very good – e.g., Exile On Main Street by The Rolling Stones and Funkadelic’s One Nation Under a Groove. But when they’re bad, they’re horrid – like Sum 41’s Does This Look Infected? (No confirmation to the rumor that this was Sum singer Deryck Whibley follow-up question after asking for Avril Lavigne’s cloven hoof in marriage.)
I could write a series of columns listing some of the most wrongheaded album titles. (And depending on the severity of my writers’ block this month, I just might.) Here are some inductees in my personal Album Title Hall of Shame:
* Limp Bizkit: Chocolate Starfish & the Hot Dog-Flavored Water – The meaning of this title isn’t printable in a family newspaper. Let’s just say Fred Durst deserves a punch in the "bizkit" for such pretentious idiocy.
* REO Speedwagon: The Earth, A Small Man, His Dog and a Chicken – By the same band who gave us You Can Tune a Piano, But You Can't Tuna Fish, this title sounds like it should be followed by " … walk into a bar."
* Butch Yelton and Upbound: Swing That Gospel Axe – He will, he will … smite you!
* Robyn Archer: Mrs. Bottle's Absolutely Blurtingly Beautiful World-Beating Burp – I wonder if Archer’s next album will be Mr. Fletcher’s Positively Fabulously Fantastic Flame-Fanning Flatulence?
* The Peanut Butter Conspiracy: Is Spreading – The columnist. Is gagging.
* Circulus: The Lick on the Tip Of an Envelope Yet to be Sent – For this, Circulus gets the Foot in the Butt of a Kick Soon to Be Delivered.
* The Ministers Quartet: Let Me Touch Him – Not even with a 10-foot pole.
* Alanis Morrisette: Under Rug Swept – Talks like Yoda, Alanis does.
* Freddie Gage: All My Friends Are Dead – No, Freddie, they’re just really, really frightened by this title and they’ve entered the Witness Protection Program.
* Billy Ray Cyrus: Some Gave All – And clearly, Cyrus shouldn’t have.
By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
Radio is going to the dogs.
Well, that’s been obvious for years, particularly since a corporate monster whose name rhymes with "sheer flannel" stomped across the U.S. like King Kong on a steroid bender, devouring more than 1,000 stations along the way.
In this instance, radio has literally capitulated to the canine crowd – in the form of Internet broadcasting. The recently-launched DogRadioThailand.com features barking deejays playing vocal and instrumental music 24/7, reports the Bangkok Post.
Anupan Boonchuen, director of a dog grooming school, started DogRadioThailand because he believes listening to music has an effect on canine behavior. "I've noticed that dogs often respond to music. Some wag their tails. Some lift their heads while lying on the floor."
Not much different from my response when a Michael Bolton song comes on. Of course, I’m only lifting my head to gain momentum as I violently drive it back down against the cold, hard linoleum.
"We found that when we turned on music the dogs' mood improved," Boonchuen said. "They were more obedient and let us trim their hair easily."
Again – not much different from my reaction when I hear James Blunt caterwauling You’re Beautiful. I, too, become obedient. And by "obedient," I mean "brain-dead and drooling."
Ten human students from the school have been hired as deejays. Boonchuen said one of the main qualifications for the job included "must be good at barking." I’m guessing another requirement is "must lose anything even remotely resembling dignity."
The programming on DogRadioThailand.com will be primarily Thai pop music. I’d like to see this expand to include Western pop, which is a hit among the human population of many foreign countries. I envision a multi-genre play list catering to canines from all walks of life. For the old dogs, there’d be classics by The Beagles (featuring Paw McCartney), The Rolling Bones, Barky Manilow and Steppenwoof. Music-loving pups can shake their tails to the likes of Collie Clarkson, Garf Brooks and of course, Snoop Dogg and Bow Wow.
Eventually, the station’s offerings will include segments during which the disc jockey will talk and canine listeners will be encouraged to respond.
"At 9 a.m., we may have a dog greeting show, in which we'll repeat ‘sawasdee’ (‘hello’) over and over," Boonchuen said. "In some houses, the dog may lift both paws in response. In some houses, the dog may lift only one paw. It depends on how the dog was trained."
If DogRadioThailand catches on, it could lead to a whole new industry aimed specifically at man’s best friend. Imagine the first just-for-dogs sportscast:
"Here’s Jim Kibbleson-Bitts with the WWK9 sports news."
"Thank you, Steve. In yesterday’s go-fetch tournament, the Dayton Dobermans took a bite out of the Middletown Mastiffs, and Barkley the basset hound received a special award for being such a good boy."
One question – will the weather reporter be required to avoid offending the audience by saying, "It’s raining cats and humans"?
By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
Madonna did it. So did Jamie Lee Curtis. And Bill Cosby and John Travolta and Jay Leno, among others.
No, the answer isn't "starred in some incredibly lousy movies." Well, yeah … they did, but that's beside the point, which is: They've all written children's books. For some reason, celebrities feel uniquely qualified to write books for an audience that largely has no idea who they are. With a few exceptions, these literary forays are as horrible as, say, Leonard Part 6. Or Battlefield Earth. Or Shanghai Surprise. Take your pick; they all suck like a Hoover.
Madonna jumped on the bandwagon a couple years ago with the explanation, "I'm starting to read to my son, but I couldn't believe how vapid and vacant and empty all the stories were. There's, like, no lessons. There's, like, no books about anything." (That’s, like, profound.)
Other scribes for the sandbox set include Sting, Jerry Seinfeld, John Lithgow, Talking Head David Byrne, Katie Couric, footballing brothers Tiki and Ronde Barber, ex-president Jimmy Carter, Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, Prince Charles and Whoopi Goldberg. Ally Sheedy was 12 when she penned She Was Nice to Mice, which, incidentally, is much better than most of the claptrap scrawled by grown-up celebs.
Eighties songstress Kylie Minogue (Remember Locomotion? I’m still trying to forget it.) is among the latest stars to publish a kids’ book, The Showgirl Princess, due out in September by Puffin Publishing. According to a press release company, the picture book is geared toward "little girls who dream of dressing up and going onstage" as – what else? – showgirl princesses.
Right. Just the sort of aspirations we want to encourage in the women of tomorrow.
Even rogue rapper 50 Cent has taken his "get rich or die tryin’" credo to the publishing world with a book in which he draws on his past experiences to teach children lessons about life. ("See Jack run. See Jack run from the 5-0. Run, Jack, run!")
I can only imagine the lessons to be learned from the eloquent Mr. Half-Dollar. I can see it now -- stacked somewhere between Beverly Cleary and J.K. Rowling, will be such classics as:
* The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf and Got Smacked Down for Bein’ a Snitch
* Malice in Wonderland
* The Lord of the Bling
* The Crackhouse at Pooh Corner
* Goldilocks and the Three Pimps
* Little Red, Ridin' in Tha Hood
* The Chronic of Narnia
* Hush, Little Baby, or So Help Me, I’ll Give You Somethin’ to Cry About
* Harry Potter and the Chamber of Bullets
* The Gingerbread Man: Original Gangsta
* The Adventures of Sherlock Homeboy
* Little Bo Peep THIS
* Georgie Porgie: Playa of the Year
* Car-Jack and Jill
* Curious George Learns to Mind his Own *$&% Business
Thanks, but no, Fiddy. I'll stick to Dr. Seuss. On second thought, I MIGHT pay 50 cents for your books. But you're gonna owe me change.
By BELINDA M. PASCHAL
