THEY OUGHTA REPLACE AUTO-REPLACE

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

Talk about creating headlines!

In late June, the conservative American Family Association shot itself in the collective foot by relying on technology to "clean up" stories on its Web site, OneNewsNow. Instead of simply republishing the Associated Press news feed in its original format, the Web wizards behind ONN first run an automated word filter to nice up the language so it more closely conforms to AFA values and terminology preferences. Apparently, they've never heard of a nifty little practice we in the news biz call "proofreading."

Had they done a final read-through before posting a recent sports article, they wouldn't have had to tidy up the mess made by their own overzealous clean-up efforts. By using auto-replace to enforce its policy of substituting the word "gay" with a more clinical term, AFA/ONN wound up running a story under the headline, "Homosexual eases into 100 final at Olympic trials."

That would be quite a victory — an unabashedly out, loud and proud athlete representing his country in the Olympics ... except the auto-replaced "gay" in question is the runner's last name. As in world-class sprinter Tyson Gay.

OOPS.

In the wake of this glaring goof and the ensuing embarrassment, the AFA has corrected all of its online articles referring to "Tyson Homosexual." But no amount of correcting can fix such a flagrant faux pas 'cause you just can't undo stupid.

Imagine if this practice was implemented in the entertainment world. We'd be listening to the old-school soul of Marvin Homosexual and the gritty blues of John Lee Prostitute. We'd watch James Bond canoodling with Octokitty and bad guys getting head-kicked by martial arts master Jean-Claude Van Darnit. And I don't even wanna think about how auto-replace would deal with the name Dick Van Dyke.

AFA/ONN's blunder is an example of "the clbuttic effect," in which obscenity-filtering software goes all wonky in its quest to find every occurrence of a word deemed offensive and swap it out for a more acceptable synonym. As the anecdote goes, one anti-profanity system substituted "butt" for each instance of a common, one-syllable euphemism that rhymes with "brass." Unfortunately, the software couldn't distinguish between this three-letter word by itself and when it occurred as part of a larger word — hence, "classic" became "clbuttic." As a result, somewhere in the heartland of America is a sweet, very confused little old lady who still can't figure out why John Hinckley tried to "buttbuttinate" President Reagan!

That's why I'm glad my editor doesn't rely solely on technology to catch any errors I might make in my columns. If something as atrocious as the Tyson Gay gaffe were to make it into print, I'd be pretty embarrbutted.

KEEPIN' IT REAL ... EIGHTIES STYLE

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

With leggings, wraparound shades and man-perms on the comeback, it makes sense that a show starring two of the biggest teen idols of the 1980s is a hit with the 18-49 demographic. "The Two Coreys" features longtime friends Feldman and Haim, once among Hollywood’s fastest-living, hardest-partying young actors. Older, wiser and with smaller hair, the lost-but-now-found boys are sharing a house and their deepest secrets with millions of reality television junkies.

Why stop with the Coreys? Why not make "A&E" stand for "All Eighties" – as in "All-Eighties-All-Reality-All-The-Time"? The decade is a glorious junkyard littered with pop-culture castoffs, has-beens, never-weres and long-forgotten-abouts … they’d never run out of subjects! I don’t know about you, but I’d definitely spend an hour catching up on what John Oates’ mustache has been doing since 1987!

I’m not the only one who’d tune in. An email survey of respected experts (translation: friends who spent the 80s like I did: on their couches) revealed that not only are folks nostalgic for the era when everyone was "Footloose" and girls just wanted to have fun, they’ve got some pretty intriguing ideas as well:

"Get the cast of 'The Cosby Show' back together. I think they all left hating each other, so that could be some good TV. Cosby and Lisa Bonet could finally have it out. Rudy, all grown up, could have a show-mance with her TV brother." – Sandy Newman, 42, Miamisburg.

"I'd like to see the original cast of 'The Facts of Life' on something akin to 'Survivor.' Tootie would kick some serious butt, but Natalie would win 'cause that girl, she just knew how to play sides. Plus, wouldn't it be fun to see Blair have to go without a blow dryer?" – Tonija Allman, 36, Palmdale Calif.

"Cyndi Lauper. She seems so (bleeping) cheerful all the time. I'd like to see her (ticked) off and yelling – with rainbow hair, assuming it hasn't all fallen out. I'd like to see her be rude to people who recognized her in the supermarket – or weep with gratitude." – Kim Rawley, “old enough to remember the 80s,” Palmdale, Calif.

"Whatever happened to that little girl from 'Small Wonder'? I watched the show and it ain’t no small wonder her career went into the crapper." – Sal Chavez, 36, Hawthorne, Calif.

"I would love a reality show with Axl Rose – that’s a volatile character! Remember when Axl and Tommy Hilfiger duked it out a few years ago? They could set up a rematch, a UFC cage match. It could be a charity fundraiser; the money could go to the Axl’s Kids Fund, an organization that assists has-been metal singers who need to get a life!" – DJ Tim Dylan, Mix 107.7’s (WMMX) “Saturday Night Mix” live from Julia’s Nite Club, Centerville.

Personally, I think Corey Feldman, who co-produces "The Two Coreys," should track down his fellow "Goonies" for a reality reunion. If nothing else, it’d be worth it to see 34-year-old Chunk do the "Truffle Shuffle."

CELEBRATING THE HOLIDAY WITH A BANG

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

It was 232 years ago today that John Hancock put pen to parchment and proclaimed, “There! I reckon that near-sighted rascal King George won’t have any trouble seeing THAT!” From that momentous occasion on July 4, 1776, Independence Day has evolved into a nationwide celebration marked by patriotism and parades, food and festivities, and of course, fireworks.

Before you get your party on, there’s an important rule everyone should keep in mind: Safety is Job One. So remember: It’s a grill, not a bonfire. Use sunscreen. No horseplay in the pool. And most importantly, “fat pants” are a must at any backyard barbecue. Having a button fly off your overstretched Levi’s at warp-speed is not only embarrassing, but someone could lose an eye. There’s nothing like a disfiguring wardrobe malfunction to kill the mood of a family gathering.

But seriously, folks, let’s try to take the number of Fourth of July injuries down to a record low this year. Have fun, be safe, sane and sensible, and thank your lucky stars (and stripes) that these decidedly dangerous fireworks and aerial displays are not available in any stores:

* Yankee Doodle Dandruff

* Couch-on-Fire, Hidden Dragon

* Ramen Candles

* Kanye's Inferno

* Harry Potter and the Chamber of Second-Degree Burns

* Recurring Hot Flashes

* Flaming Mustard Gas – Available in Dijon or Grey Poupon

* Suppository Snakes

* Spiro-Pyro-Graph

* "Hey, Y'all ... Watch This!" The Build-It-Yourself Missile Kit

* Scars and Stripes Forever

* Nuclear Winter Wonderland

* Grampa's Old-Fashioned Cigarettes ‘n’ Oxygen Tent

* Fire-n-brimstone-crackers

* Retina Detachers

* Pop-a-razzi!

* Wheel of Misfortune

* Weapons of Rather Unimpressive Destruction

* The Four Fountains of the Apocalypse

* The Laser Gazer – It’s a light show and eye surgery all in one!

* Nostril Flares

* Grenade Roulette – Is it live or is it a dud? Only time will tell!

* Compton Crossfire

* The Naomi Campbell Public Meltdown

* Hasbro’s Exploding Lite-Brite™

* Microwave ‘n’ Tinfoil Economy-Pak

* Whiskey Bottle Rockets

* Elvis Presley’s Hunka-Hunka Burnin’ Lava

* Blistered Arm-ageddon

* Scented smoke bombs – Aromas include Savory Sulfur, Chokecherry and Dismember-mint

* Manhole Manglers

* The Sky-Tanic – Complete with Leonardo DiCaprio action figure!

* Taser-Dodge

* The Zit-Geyser

* Pin the Fuse on the Donkey

* Amber Waves of Pain

* The ThighMaster™ Friction Sparkler Show

* Traffic Cone Volcano

* The Star-Spangled Tanner – Emits intense UV rays that give you that St. Tropez tan in 10 seconds or less! (Warning: Do not watch display for more than 10 seconds.)

* The Black Widowmaker

* Disco Fireball

* Flying Finger Flambé

* The Spirit of Seventy Bics – Comes with eight-track tape of "Free Bird"!

CLOSE THE BUFFET, I'M ALL FED UP!

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

The time has come in this GO! writer's life
When she must define what's "too much,"
And so, dear readers, I bring you this week
Some subjects I'll no longer touch:

Naughty pictures of countless young starlets,
Spreading the 'net like a virus;
Showing in public what's best kept in private;
The most recent is young Miley Cyrus!

Playing grown-up, she posed nearly topless
Back in April for Vanity Fair.
Also making the rounds are some sleepover photos
Showing Miley in underwear.

She's Hannah Montana, not Hannah Nicole!
Sure, she made a bad judgment call.
Comparatively speaking, it could be much worse –
Some stars wear no undies at all!

Enough of this stuff!Young stars in the buff!
I'm sick of the hubbub and horror!
Next thing you know, there'll be a peep show
Of Dora the Explorer!

Britney Spears will no longer be gracing this page;
I've grown weary of all her inanity.
No more jokes about K-Fed or Sean P. or Jayden;
No more potshots at her insanity.

Giving Britney attention's like giving rewards
To a toddler who keeps throwing fits.
Let's put her in time-out and simply ignore her
Maybe then she’ll re-gather her wits.

Tom Cruise is another one stirring up headlines
Some say he's a religious nut.
That's his business, I say, and so as of this day,
I am keeping my eyes wide shut!

Cruise and his family now are off-limits
Even though daughter Suri's real cute;
Should I break my word and share gossip I’ve heard,
May Lord Xenu render me mute!

And let's not forget 'bout a redhead named Lindsay,
Whose every last movement is media fare;
The latest reports say she's dating a woman
Hey, it ain't me, so why should I care?

Now Lindsay's whole family is riding her coattails,
Mom and sibs have a reality show, man!
I hope it gets cancelled – and soon – 'cos I'm tired
Of living la vida Lohan!

I, for one, will be glad when Angie and Brad
Have enough kids to start a new nation;
'Cos then maybe they'll buy their own island –
In a far-off, top-secret location!

Amy Winehouse, I'm not touching that one,
Not in print – or with sterilized tongs!
And the same goes for Ms. Paris Hilton,
Whose scandals will outlive her songs.

And last, but not least, we have Ashlee and Jess;
I'm bored with their affairs of the heart.
The only Simpsons who'll get my attention
Are named Homer and Lisa and Bart!

YO-HO-HO, A PIRATE’S LIFE FOR ME!

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

Having recently rejoined the world of full-time employment after what I like to call an “involuntary extended hiatus,” I’ve decided that “work” is a four-letter word – and not just literally. According to Roget’s Thesaurus, work also is known as drudgery, grind, slave, strain, struggle, and other words meaning “no fun.” If it was fun, it’d be called “playtime.”

I have two college degrees, a decent résumé, and many scintillating, star-studded stories, some of them unprintable even in the tawdriest of tabloids. But thanks to our limping economy, I was out of work for about the time it takes to have a baby – or three babies, if your surname’s Jolie or Pitt. It took 37 nail-biting weeks of scanning job ads till my eyes were swirling sockets of pain to find employment that didn’t require swallowing evidence if apprehended or uttering, “Please pull around to the second window.”

As I went on interview after interview, family and friends advised me, “Just be yourself.” If that’s all it takes, why am I not getting paid to sit around in my jammies, watching “Law & Order” marathons and mainlining pure, uncut caffeine?

My sabbatical afforded time for deep introspection that led to a powerful revelation: I don’t want a job, I just want paychecks. Or more specifically, doubloons and pieces of eight. That’s right, dear readers … I want to be a pirate. So maybe this epiphany came during a “Pirates of the Caribbean” marathon and maybe I was under the influence of couple or 12 cans of Mountain Dew, but it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.

Besides, I’m stuck with this parrot I bought on a whim, so I have no choice but to buckle my swash and hit the high seas, looting and pillaging in the tradition of my forebears – among them, Errol Flynn’s Capt. Blood; Robert Newton’s Long John Silver; Capt. Hook (in both animated and Dustin Hoffman form); and of course, Johnny Depp’s rogue with a heart of tarnished gold, Jack Sparrow.

Sure, there are drawbacks to being a pirate – scurvy has sent many a marauder to Davy Jones’ Locker (that’s “six feet under” to ye landlubbers) and they have hideously bad teeth, but that just proves they don’t worry about whether their employer offers dental coverage. Health, hygiene and halitosis issues aside, I can think of several arguments in favor of being a pirate:

* All-expenses paid traveling.

* Wenches galore!

* The loot? Tax-free.

* No shoes, no shirt, no problem!

* Keith Richards as Jack Sparrow’s dad proves pirates can outlive pretty much anything.

* You can say things that sound dirty but really aren’t, e.g., poop deck, booty and “Hoist the Jolly Roger!”

* Yo-ho-ho, many bottles of rum!

* Pirates are a happy bunch, always singing and dancing with perfect choreography. Don’t believe me? Rent “The Pirates of Penzance.”

Last but not least, when someone asks, “Where’s your buccaneers?” it’s fun to reply, “Arrrgh, matey, they’re under me buckin’ hat!”

RADIO-SURFING ON A BAD TITLE WAVE

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

So I was puttering down I-75, doing the one-finger radio punch when my FM dial landed on what sounded like your typical pop tale: Girl meets Prince Charming after a lifetime of kissing frogs. The story was headed toward the predictable happily-ever-after. Or so I thought.

“You cut me open and I keep bleeding.” Wait. What the deuce is this chick singing about? A surgical mishap? Eventually, the chorus revealed the source of the hemorrhage, as well as the name of the song, “Bleeding Love.” This launched a disturbing mental slideshow that caused me to swerve – and the driver in the next lane to blast his horn while mouthing colorful invectives against my gender and driving ability (and quite possibly, my mother).

Thanks to Leona Lewis, I’ll never look at Cupid as anything other than an archer with bad aim.

Mainstream pop ain’t exactly Shakespeare, but even by Top 40 standards, “Bleeding Love” is pretty heinous. But like I said, it’s not the worst title I’ve heard. I award that honor to Fairport Convention’s “Sir B. McKenzie's Daughter's Lament For The 77th Mounted Lancer's Retreat From The Straits Of Loch Knombe, In The Year Of Our Lord 1727, On The Occasion Of The Announcement Of Her Marriage To The Laird Of Kinleakie.” I swear I didn’t make that up; it set the Guinness world record for longest song name in 1970.

Dishonorable mention also goes to “Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict,” from Pink Floyd’s 1969 album, “Ummagumma.” It’s worth mentioning that this “song” is five minutes of animal noises, microphone-slapping and a rant by a gibbering pseudo-Scotsman. (History lesson moment: The Picts were indigenous to what is now Scotland).

Back then, musicians had a valid excuse for far-out titles: They were higher than Kilimanjaro. Nowadays, song titles are punch lines to in-jokes meant only for the cool kids. How else to explain “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage” and “London Beckoned Songs About Money Written by Machines,” the latter of which I suspect resulted from playing Mad Libs® after too much absinthe. These tunes are the handiwork of Panic At The Disco, who recently dropped the “!” after “Panic” … I’m guessing they don’t want to seem pretentious.

Another repeat offender: Fallout Boy, with "Tell That Mick He Just Made My List of Things to Do Today" and "I'm Like A Lawyer With The Way I'm Always Trying To Get You Off (Me & You).” I get the feeling these guys are aiming for “clever, cheeky monkeys,” but instead arrive at “wannabe-hipster hair gel junkies.”

It’s time we got back to the days when song titles made sense. You just can’t beat classics like “They May Put Me in Prison, But They Can’t Stop My Face From Breakin’ Out” and “There Ain’t Enough Room in my Fruit of the Looms to Hold All My Lovin’ for You.”

TODAY’S “FAMOUS” FOLKS WILL LIVE IN INFAMY

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
(AKA THE NOTORIOUS B.M.P.)

I was reading an article that referred to actor Matthew Broderick as “the less famous half of a couple,” the other half being his wife, “Sex and the City” star Sarah Jessica Parker. My first thought: “Less famous? Based on what?” My next thought: Perhaps the writer was raised by wolves and never heard of a little film Broderick did called “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” (After all, wolves don’t watch much TV.)

It’s undeniable that “Sex and the City” was wildly popular during its six-year run and remains so in reruns, but I’ll go out on a limb and say “Ferris Bueller” – still making millions in DVD rentals – has been viewed by a broader audience. It’s a safe bet that many of the folks renting “Ferris Bueller” have never watched a single episode of “S&TC” (being forced by wives or girlfriends doesn’t count). I think it’s also safe to say that a large percentage of “S&TC” viewers have indeed seen “Ferris Bueller.”

Broderick’s body of work is as varied and voluminous as SJP’s – they’ve both done movies, television and Broadway, they’ve both produced and directed. So what makes him any less famous? This led me to ponder the question: What exactly is fame, anyway?

The Random House Unabridged Dictionary (2006 edition), defines “famous” as “having a widespread reputation, usually of a favorable nature,” but many of today’s so-called stars defy that definition. Steve-O of “Jackass” is known for stunts like swallowing and regurgitating live goldfish and stapling his boy-parts to his thigh. Having an audience of millions witness such acts certainly will earn one a reputation – and a trip to the booby hatch – but not so much a favorable one.

What does it mean to be famous? Is it defined by how many people recognize your face? How many times your name is Googled on a given day? How many people are aware of your accomplishments? If that’s the case, all it takes is one, “Don’t tase me, bro!” to make you as famous as that tall, bearded guy who said, “Four score and seven years ago.”

I asked a couple of friends in California – the world’s leading manufacturer of fame – for their definitions of the word. “Fame is whether you can sell tabloids,” says Kim. “It has nothing to do with merit, talent, or affability. If they're wearing your face on T-shirts in Third World countries, you're über-famous.” According to Sal, “Fame is becoming well-known and remembered for something, no matter what you did.”

Ah, there’s the rub. What often passes for fame these days would more aptly be called notoriety or infamy. Used to be people became famous for accomplishing something worthwhile and infamous for doing something bad (or downright stupid); nowadays, the line between the two has blurred almost to invisibility. Sadly, it’s no longer important what you’re known for, as long as you’re known. But fortunately for those of us with higher standards, this brand of fame is no guarantee, baby, we’ll remember their names.