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.

STAGE-MOMMIE DEAREST

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

If you’ve ever wondered what ingredients go into creating a Lindsay Lohan or a Britney Spears, check out VH1’s “I Know My Kid’s A Star,” a weekly debacle that’s part talent search, part reality show and full-fledged televised child abuse.

Hosted by ex-“Partridge Family” kid Danny Bonaduce, the series gives 10 pre-teens and their parents the chance to see if they’ve got the right stuff to make it as a child star without becoming regular guests at Hotel Rehab. Each week, a parent-child team is deemed unready for Hollywood and sent home.

To many familiar with his sordid history, Bonaduce mentoring child stars might seem as incongruous as Paris Hilton performing brain surgery, but he actually offers valuable critiques and his own experiences give credence to the cautionary tales he shares.

The show operates under the guise of discovering America’s next “It” boy or girl, but clearly, it’s all about which stage mom can be the biggest, er, witch – a noun I’m tactfully employing in lieu of a more apropos rhyming word that starts with “b.”

Several of the mothers are already savvy at the showbiz game. There’s the B-movie actress who looks like a Whitesnake groupie capable of snorting a pint of Jack Daniels then eating the bottle. Everyone knows someone like her: brash, funny, occasionally crude – a blast at parties, but after 15 minutes, you’re gasping for the air she’s sucked out of the room. Though she means well, her big personality and bigger need for attention eclipses her kid’s limelight. It’s very telling that her daughter, a gorgeous Eliza Dushku in miniature, performs well only when Mom exits stage left.

There’s the ex-Broadway dancer who’d put any pimp to shame as she tries to sell Bonaduce and talent agent Marki Costello on her daughter’s talent – of which we rarely see a glimmer because the child’s always petrified after Mom’s cringe-worthy browbeatings. This poor kid makes Pavlov’s dogs look like free thinkers.

There’s the acting teacher mom, levelheaded and likeable, whose kid is not only a charmer, but hands-down the most talented of the bunch. Naturally, most of the other moms hate her; when they say, “Break a leg,” they mean it literally.

Some of the parents are newbies to the vicious shredding machine that is Hollywood, like the recently eliminated sweetheart of a mom – one of the few “normal” (translation: sane) ones – who agreed with Bonaduce that her meek, polite demeanor would probably hinder her daughter’s career.

Putting this volatile mix of personalities in one big house is clearly a ratings ploy; there’s far more high drama among the moms than onstage where the kids are auditioning. Watching some of these women interact with their kids is more excruciating than slowly peeling off a week-old scab:

“If we get sent home, you’d better not cry!”

“It’s not ‘Romper Room.’ We’re not here to friggin’ play.”

"I’m a single mom. You have to get rich and famous so you can buy me that dream house!”

Blecch … perhaps a better name for the show would be “I Know My Kid’s A Future Tabloid Cover.”

HEROES’ POWERS BECOMING LESS SUPER

Photo: Amazon.com/Geneon [Pioneer] Studios

Illustrations: Captain Planet Foundation, Inc. (http://www.turner.com/planet)

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

A recent game of rock-paper-scissors left me on the losing end of a debate with a friend about what movie to watch. My pick was “Little Miss Sunshine,” but rock crushed scissors, so I was forced to sit through “X-Men,” the first installment of the big-screen trilogy based on the Marvel comic series about a team of superheroes with special powers.

Fortunately, I’m blessed with a special power of my own: The ability to superimpose a movie I really want to watch over the one I’m currently viewing with great disinterest. Magneto as a foul-mouthed grandpa who dies en route to his granddaughter Rogue’s participation in the Little Miss Mutant beauty pageant? Now that’s entertainment!

Though I zoned out during much of the flick, I did learn one thing from “X-Men”: A lot of superheroes have really, really lame powers. Take Jubilee, for instance. She can shoot fireworks from her hands. That’s a mighty neat party trick to unveil at the Fourth of July company picnic, but being full of sparkly goodness won’t make any self-respecting villain quake with fear: “I will now mesmerize you with pretty colors long enough for someone with real powers to show up, MWAHAHAHA!”

Still, Jubilee can thank her lucky, twinkling stars that she’s a walking Roman candle instead of a fountain of touchy-feely emotions like Ma-Ti of the ‘90s cartoon “Captain Planet and the Planeteers.” The youngest of the environment-conscious quintet kept company with Gi, who could control any water source, as well as Kwame, Linka and Wheeler, who boasted the powers of Earth, Wind and Fire (though their costumes weren’t nearly as cool as the R&B band’s).

With the aforementioned elements already spoken for, all that was left for Ma-Ti was the power of Heart. In other words, he’s very, very caring. Don’t get me wrong – I’m all about peace, love and understanding, but empathy ain’t never stopped a speeding bullet. If I were a superhuman fighter of evil, I’d punch my creator’s head down his neck-hole for arming me with “Heart” as a battle weapon. But at least I’d care enough to ask if he was OK afterward.

If this trend toward watered-down superpowers continues, cartoon crusaders could one day be reduced to such dubious “talents” as:

* The power to make dust bunnies multiply.

* The strength to withstand the "curiously strong" tingle of Altoids.

* The ability to steal candy from a baby.

* The endurance to chuck more wood than a woodchuck would if a woodchuck could chuck wood.

* The fortitude to eat just one Lay's potato chip.

* The ability to explode at will … but only once.

* The power to eat ice cream quickly without getting brain freeze.

* The ability to interpret interpretive dance.

* The skill to cut sandwiches into perfectly symmetrical halves.

* The power to get annoying songs stuck in enemies' heads.

When this new breed of hero arrives, I’ll be the first to sign up, since this column has revealed I possess a lethal superpower: The ability to kill time.

WHEN TV WORLDS COLLIDE

Photo: Dayton Daily News

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

Come and listen to a story ‘bout a man named Jed, a poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed. Then one day, he was shootin’ at some food, when Brandon Walsh stepped in and said, “Hold your fire, dude!”

What? That’s not the way the song goes, you say? Well, that’s how it goes in my head – a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there – where cornpone meets caviar, jalopies park beside Jags, and Ellie Mae dates Dylan McKay.

Imagine if the Clampetts had loaded up their truck and moved to Beverly (Hills, that is), circa 1993, and found themselves in the midst of a teen soap opera that addressed topical issues like alcoholism, domestic violence, gay rights, drug abuse and AIDS. Not exactly the stuff of comedy, but Jed and his kinfolk would change that in no time. “My boy’s takin’ Brenda Walsh to that there fancy shindig over to the high school! Wee doggies!”

Welcome to “Beverly Hillbillies 90210.” Cue banjo music.

Think about it: Granny and Andrea lounging beside the “cee-ment pond” … Ellie Mae in a catfight with Brenda … Mrs. Walsh putting the moves on Jethro … Ellie Mae in a catfight with Kelly … Miss Hathaway putting the moves on David Silver … Ellie Mae in a catfight with Donna.

Considering the lack of originality on TV these days, I think it’s a pretty good idea. If one show can spin off from another, why can’t two shows spin INTO each other? You’d get twice the entertainment in half the viewing time!

If you like your comedy mixed with something harder than teen drama, stay tuned for Freddie Prinze Jr.’s prime-time debut as a fast-talking barrio boy who joins the agents of the United Network Command for Law Enforcement to combat evil and crabby old auto garage owners. “Chico and the Man from U.N.C.L.E.” is must-see TV!

Isaiah Washington battled accusations of homophobia toward former “Grey’s Anatomy” co-star T.R. Knight, but the actors put their differences aside – or rather, use them to their advantage – in the first secret agent adventure series to feature a gay-hetero buddy pairing. Don’t miss “Queer I-Spy for the Straight Guy” … every episode features a car chase and a makeover!

During a trip to New York with Dorothy and Blanche to attend Sophia’s funeral, Rose Nylund is so taken with the Big Apple that she decides to stay. With her new home comes a new job as the personal assistant to the editor of an ultra-hip fashion magazine. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll fall in love with “Ugly Betty White.”

While we’re at it, why not merge TV shows with movies? Coming soon to a pay-per-view-channel near you: “Malcolm X in the Middle,” “The Rocky Balboa and Bullwinkle Show,” “Married … with Children of the Corn” …

I’ve got a million of ‘em, folks. But it’s time for me to pause for a word from my sponsor, so … y’all come back now, ya hear?