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BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
Normally, I try to steer clear of the hot topics du jour and decomposing horses still being flogged, post-mortem. But my silence about the Jon and Kate debacle has gone on long enough. I think my sentiments would be expressed best when sung (in abbreviated form) to the tune of “American Pie,” with deepest apologies to Don McLean.
'Twas not so long ago
I can still remember
How the Gosselins used to make me smile
Residing in a modest house
Homemaker Kate and Jon, her spouse
And babies that went on for miles and miles
But as she toiled to raise her litter
Kate appeared to grow embittered
Jon seemed more aloof, yes
(Turns out he's just a doofus)
I can't recall the moment quite
When I knew divorce would be their plight
But I knew that I'd called it right
The day the marriage died
So bye-bye, to the Gosselin tribe
'Cos this season isn't pleasin'
No more can I abide
I can't watch your show or read the constant headlines
Sayin' Jon claims Kate does nothin' but whine
And Kate says Jon is out of his mind
While Kate's fans wave books to sign
And as Jon works on his clothing line
Does a nanny watch their eight?
The cash they rake in from their show
I hope they're saving up that dough
'Cos therapy's no doubt their children's fate!
Well, it's true that Kate's a control freak
And a germophobe who tends to shriek
If Jon were more laid-back
He would be comatose, in fact
Now he's a playboy bach’lor, he likes to flirt
Rides a bitchin’ bike and wears Ed Hardy shirts
But deep down, I'm sure it hurt
The day the marriage died
So now I'm sayin'
Bye-bye to the Gosselin tribe
Once your ratings were inflating
Now I'm watching them slide
Them good ol' fans are fallin' by the wayside
And waiting for your 15 minutes to die
For your 15 minutes to die
Wed for 10 years, two spent on this show
With perks that most people never know
'Cos stardom has its luxuries
First, a tummy tuck for post-natal Kate
Then some plugs for Jon-boy's balding pate
And a big Hawaii trip for free
Oh, and between hulas and luaus
The Gosselins renewed their vows
All at the network's cost
(Jon had his fingers crossed!)
So it seems this show has jumped the shark
Turn it off and put the gear in park
It's time this program fades to dark
And let the madness die
So I'm singin'
Bye-bye to the Gosselin tribe:
Mady, Cara, Hannah, Collin
Alexis, Leah, Aaden and Joel
I pray someday a normal life you will know
Once they pack up all the cameras and go
Pack up all the cameras and go!
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
In the past few weeks, one of Google’s top searches has been “Kelly Clarkson SELF Magazine” or some variation thereof, as fans and readers seek the skinny on the singer’s recent dramatic weight loss.
Examining Clarkson from head to toe on SELF’s September cover, they marvel at her newly svelte figure, which she must’ve attained overnight, since photos from earlier this month show a more buxom, curvy lass.
How’d she do it? Walking and Weight Watchers? Pilates and prune juice? Jogging and Jenny? Did she have that surgery where they reroute your stomach like I-75, only the traffic flows more smoothly and exits faster? None of the above.
The secret to Clarkson’s slenderness is SUCH a secret that she wasn’t even in on it. You see, the folks at SELF decided, in their quest for “the photo (that) is the truest we have ever put out there on the newsstand” – quoth editor-in-chief Lucy Danziger – that Clarkson would look her “truest” minus at least 20 pounds. So they downsized Rubenesque hips, tapered sturdy thighs and streamlined what some call “junk in the trunk” – heck, they all but altered her DNA – to the point that many readers didn’t recognize her.
This is an entertainment column, so I don’t want to get too heavy, but I can’t overlook the hypocrisy and irony in SELF’s “retouching” (as Danziger calls it) the physical appearance of a celebrity who spends part of the interview discussing body confidence. “When people talk about my weight, I'm like, ‘You seem to have a problem with it; I don't. I'm fine!’” Clarkson said.
It’s the singer’s self-assuredness that Danziger claims led SELF to revamp the photo. (Yeah, I don’t get it, either.) On TV talk shows and on her blog,* the editor lamely attempts to explain away the decision, stating, “We correct color and other aspects of the digital pictures … then publish the best version we can.” Apparently, “color” is SELF-speak for “dress size.”
Showing a flair for double-talk, Danziger writes that Clarkson “is happy in her own skin … (w)hether she is up or down in pounds is irrelevant.” (Except on the cover of SELF, that is.) Danziger also trumpets her own body confidence, but contradicts herself in the same paragraph with a story about once “retouching” a photo of herself because her hips looked too big. “I was heavier then,” she notes, adding that today, she would let the aforementioned photo run unaltered. Hmm. Very telling, indeed.
Danziger might be fooling herself, but she hasn’t conned the numerous readers from whom she’s received a heft of responses tipping the scales in Clarkson’s favor. The words “cancel” and “subscription” appear frequently, as do “I hope” and “you lose your job.”
Through thick and thin, one thing remains constant about Clarkson: Girlfriend’s got pipes – and not just when she’s singing. I’ve read enough interviews to know she’s not shy about addressing what others think of her physique. I’d be very interested to hear her weigh in on this matter.
* Read Danzinger's followup to the reader backlash here.
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
The centuries-old nursery rhymes we continue to teach kids had little relevance in our own lives, so imagine how cuckoo-bananas these fantastical verses must sound to today’s more world-savvy youngsters.
In an age when Old McDonald’s farm is in foreclosure, Little Boy Blue is blowing his horn on YouTube, and tuffets have been replaced by ergonomically designed game chairs with head rest speakers and built-in subwoofers, Simon ain’t so simple anymore.
The dish isn’t just running away with the spoon; it’s eloping to Vegas with a TV camera crew in tow. Rock-a-bye your baby in the treetop and you can expect a visit from Child Protective Services. Jack and Jill? They’re not walking up the hill to fetch a pail of water; they’re footing it because gas is too expensive!
During more innocent times, we blithely accepted such notions as a cow jumping over the moon, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie, and Peter Peter locking the missus away in a pumpkin shell. What else was a man who couldn’t keep a wife to do? But if the children in my life are any indication, modern-day munchkins don’t accept these concepts without question.
Mother Goose might have been spittin’ dope rhymes back in the day, but in 2009, her flow is tired – or as the whippersnappers say, “Weak sauce.”
It’s time for Mama G to kick some lyrics the shorties can understand. For instance, instead of asking Brother John if he’s sleeping, it’d be more timely to inquire: “What’s that beeping, what’s that beeping/John, my bro? John, my bro?/Is your iPhone ringing, is your iPhone ringing?/Let it go, let it go.” To voice mail, that is.
If nursery rhymes got with the times, children’s books might read something like this:
“No raining, no pouring/Oh, no - it's global warming!”
“Mary had a little lamb/Till Daddy lost his job/Now Lambie's on the table with/Some nice corn on the cob.”
“Georgie Porgie, puddin' and pie/Kissed the girls and made them cry/Now to his great embarrassment/He's charged with sexual harassment.”
“Jack Sprat could eat no fat/No deep-fried foods at all/Because his wife's concerned about/His bad cholesterol.”
“Little Jack Horner/Sat in a corner/Playing his brand-new Wii/He's sprained both his thumbs/His brain has gone numb/And his weight’s multiplied by three.”
“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick/You've got no insurance, so don't get sick!”
“To market, to market, to buy me some bling/Home again wearing a gold chain and ring.”
“There was a young woman who lived in a condo/She had many kids and a husband named Jon, so/She signed a big contract and next thing you know/It's ‘Lights, camera, action!’ Their own TV show!”
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
For someone who has voluntarily kept her DNA out of the gene pool, I watch a lot of kid-targeted television. It’s my not-so-guilty viewing pleasure and a source of bemusement for my friends who have young’uns and wistfully dream of someday discovering if other stations exist besides Disney and Nickelodeon.
Call me developmentally arrested, but I’ll watch four consecutive episodes of “iCarly,” and I’ll laugh loudly, shamelessly, and frequently. Call me a bored escapist who should get out more, but I’ll vehemently debate the social relevance of “SpongeBob SquarePants” (it has none). Call me a kid at heart, but I get a nostalgic thrill when I happen upon oldies but goodies like the “ZOOM” video I found in a thrift store, the revival of “Schoolhouse Rock” and a show I watched since its inception, “Sesame Street.”
I hadn’t visited “Da Street” in the three or so years since my twin nephew and niece outgrew the program, so I decided to catch up with my Sesame peeps. I saw several new kids on the block, as well as all the old homeys. Ernie and Bert – still kickin’ it bachelor-style; the Count – his same number-lovin’ self; and Cookie Monster was stuffing his gullet full of … fruits and vegetables?
I felt boondoggled, mind-boggled and hornswoggled, like I’d stepped into “Sesame Street: The Bizarro World Edition.” I’d always been confident in the knowledge that three things in life are certain: Death, taxes and the fact that “C is for cookie.” But my faith faltered upon hearing Cookie Monster’s new anthem, “Cookies Are a Sometimes Food.”
Being a seasoned newshound, I consulted the Internet to investigate this unsettling turn of events. I learned that the program’s producers, noting the national rise in childhood obesity, restructured the show to teach kids about exercise and healthy eating. I also found out I’m four years late discovering this, but that’s beside the point.
What kind of cockamamie world are we living in where a Cookie Monster munches on mangos instead of macaroons, tomatoes instead of Trefoils, squash instead of snickerdoodles, lentils instead of … well, you get the picture. It’s radicchio … er, ridiculous! What’s next, Oscar becoming a compulsive bather? Grover achieving calmness through yoga and Ritalin? If they want to create a Broccoli Beast or a Veggie Varmint, fine, but gimme back my cookie-chomping critter!
Certainly, I don’t take health matters lightly; I realize obesity is a problem in our nation … heck, it’s a problem in my mirror! But what harm is there in keeping Cookie Monster true to his name? Obviously, he’s suffered no ill effects from eating nothing but sweets the first 36 years of his life – he hasn’t aged a day, his fur has a healthy glow and he doesn’t have to worry about sugar rotting his teeth, for he has none!
I say they can the veggies, boot the fruit and let him eat Cakesters. After all, C isn’t for carrot, it’s for cookie. And that’s good enough for me.
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
With unemployment rising faster than Megan Fox’s hemlines and gas prices oscillating like Tila Tequila’s sexual preference, folks are canceling vacations and seeking cheaper alternatives. If your purse strings are tighter than Beyoncé’s weave, there’s a way to hit the highway without shifting the car out of park. It’s one of our most revered cinematic pastimes: The road trip movie.
For the cost of two, maybe three, gallons of gas, you can see the world without enduring traffic jams, flat tires, the eternal wait at baggage claim or Mommy’s Little Precious playing punt-the-passenger on the back of your seat. So pop some Orville Redenbacher’s, fire up the DVD player, and settle into that you-shaped groove in your sofa.
This list isn’t comprehensive by a mile because there are so many road trip classics, including “It Happened One Night,” “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World,” “Smokey and the Bandit,” and of course, “Easy Rider” – not a personal pick, but nonetheless a linchpin of the genre.
Even “The Wizard of Oz” is a road trip – bonus points because it’s on foot! More recent years have brought “Dumb and Dumber” – I’m not a fan, but many are; “Sideways,” which I haven’t seen but hope to; and “Road Trip,” which I’ll never see for two reasons: Tom. Green.
I’ve narrowed my choices down to a few favorites from the last three decades:
* “National Lampoon’s Vacation” (1983) – The quintessential road trip flick, featuring Chevy Chase at the height of his hilarity.
* “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure” (1985) – Tim Burton kicked off his directorial career with man-child Pee-wee’s search for his stolen bicycle, a trek that takes him to truck stops, biker bars, tourist traps and don’t forget – The Alamo.
* “Planes, Trains & Automobiles” (1987) – This screwball comedy manages to have heart and depth, thanks to funnymen Steve Martin and John Candy.
* “Thelma & Louise” (1991) – A chick flick that feels like a dude movie, except dudes wouldn’t hold hands and grin during their final trip. I won’t spoil it for the three cave-dwellers who haven’t seen it; let’s just say the last journey is a short one.
* “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” (1994) – Forget “To Wong Foo.” This Aussie trio makes those so-called drag queens look like … well, three guys in women’s clothing.
* “The Muppet Movie” (1997) – A froggie goes a-courtin’ stardom, as Kermit heads to Hollywood. I dare you not to get misty during “Rainbow Connection.”
* “The Straight Story” (1999) – An unconventional road tripper featuring one man, one riding mower and a six-week trip to make peace with his estranged brother. Even weirder: It’s a David Lynch film.
* “Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan” (2006) – Reporter come to U.S. for do movie-film about greatest country in world and hopefully make sexy time with Pamela Anderson. High five!
* “Little Miss Sunshine” (2006) – “National Lampoon’s Vacation” for the indie set, with a more dysfunctional family and a kiddie beauty pageant thrown in for extra laughs.
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
You can’t turn on the TV, radio or computer without being assaulted by celebrity endorsements. They scream at you from billboards, store displays and magazine stands. Celebrity branding’s nothing new, but have you ever wondered how stars decide which products to put their names on?
Did Paul Newman have a run-in with some rancid ranch dressing and decide he could do better? Was Suzanne Somers watching “Three’s Company” reruns and thought, “I dunno what I was thinking when I wore that side ponytail, but boy, my thighs looked great!” Perhaps Jimmy Dean was scarfing down a corndog when it struck him that meat on a stick would taste even better with a pancake wrapped around it.
Why do certain stars shill certain wares? Maybe it’s a career move or a publicity ploy. Maybe they truly love the product and want us to know how great it is. Certainly, some do it because they need the money, but many do it even though they don’t.
From Newman’s Own dressings and Somers’ ThighMaster to Jimmy Dean foods and the Foreman Grill, celebrity-stamped products have woven their way into the fabric of everyday life. Sometimes the endorsements make sense, like Michael Jordan for Nike. Athletes wear sneakers – simple enough. But sometimes it’s a stretch connecting the celebrity to the product, like Michael Jordan cologne. While I trust His Airness to tell me which kicks have the best traction, I’m more dubious about his knowledge of botanic chemistry. His cologne won’t make me 6’6” or give me mad b-ball skills, so I can only conclude it’ll make me smell like him. I’ve seen the guy in action and he sweats. A LOT. Thanks, but I can manufacture my own stink for free.
Of course, Mike’s not the only one to endorse a scent bearing his name. Fragrance fever has infected stars including Elizabeth Taylor, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Prince, Cher, J-Lo, Beyoncé, Michael Jackson, KISS, Mariah Carey, Hilary Duff, the Olsen twins, Joan Rivers, Paris Hilton, Derek Jeter and even fictional characters like Barbie, Spiderman, Austin Powers and Avril Lavigne, who describes her new Black Star perfume as “me in a bottle,” so you’ll need to buy a spit-shield before spritzing it on.
Why should I trust uncredentialed non-experts to tell me what to wear, eat or drive? If I want a healthy dessert, I’ll ask a nutritionist, not Sylvester Stallone, though I’m sure his high-protein pudding is quite delicious. Samsonite’s been making suitcases for almost a century, so why do I need Jessica Simpson’s new luggage? If you ask me, the girl has enough baggage already.
I do, however, have faith in Danny DeVito, who’s hawking something called Premium Limoncello, which is not a fine stringed instrument but an Italian liqueur. In fact, it’s what he’d been imbibing before appearing on “The View” in a rather juiced-up state. Any man with enough sense to tie one on before facing that flock of cackling hens is a man I can trust.
BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL
In honor of National Children’s Day, which takes place on Sunday, June 14, I’d like to give you parental types a little something to think about. The next time little Billy “discovers” science by putting a raw egg in the microwave or little Susie uses your $25 Color Fever™ lipstick to draw a hopscotch on the hardwood floor, take a deep breath, count to 10 and remind yourself it could be much, much worse. Then thank your lucky stars you’re not raising one of these terrifying tykes!
Henry Evans, "The Good Son"
Macaulay Culkin's Kevin McAllister had a sadistic streak in "Home Alone," but he was a rank amateur compared to Henry, whose idea of fun includes causing accidents by tossing a life-size dummy off an overpass, killing animals with a crossbow and picking off his younger siblings one by one. You’d think it wouldn’t take him trying to push her off a cliff for his oblivious mother to realize she's raising "Henry, Portrait of a Future Serial Killer."
Isaac, "Children of the Corn"
If you ever get a flat in Gatlin, Neb. (population: 968 and rapidly dwindling), don't bother calling AAA; roadside service isn’t much use in a town where most residents are too young to drive. Your best bet is to keep rolling on the rims till you hit the next town. Otherwise, creepy Isaac and his followers will take you directly to "He Who Walks Behind The Rows" – and I’m pretty sure he’s not a mechanic.
Reagan MacNeil, "The Exorcist"
At first, Reagan's acting out is thought to be the result of her parents' recent divorce. I mean, what kid HASN'T crashed Mom's dinner party by piddling on the carpet? When she starts gushing great green gouts of pea-soup vomit, it's obvious there's a darker force at work. To be fair, Reagan (Linda Blair) can't be blamed for her demonic behavior. After all, the devil made her do it.
The children, "Village of the Damned" (the 1960 original)
Rapidly aging blonds with blank expressions – no, not Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, but eerie, mutant spawn of inexplicable origin, capable of mind control that forces adults to do their bidding, including committing suicide. These towheaded terrors will make you think twice before telling “dumb blond” jokes.
Rhoda Penmark, "The Bad Seed"
Thanks to a brilliant portrayal by Patty McCormack of pure evil that's seldom been rivaled and never bettered, this pigtailed preteen set the bar for Hollywood hellspawn. If this murderous moppet has a moral compass, it's undoubtedly stuck on "south of Hades."
Damien Thorn, "The Omen"
He may look innocent, but there's something "off" about this kid. Maybe it's his aversion to churches. Or the way people have a curious habit of dying violently when he's around. One thing’s for sure: This is one instance in which “You’re just like your no-good father” is an appropriate admonishment!
