They say August is the beginning of the dog days of summer. The time when everything slows down, too tired from the heat to do much of anything productive. Obviously, “they” have never met The Jay (down by the bay). I’m in the middle of a flurry of out-of-nowhere projects that have left me little time to write two-handed celebrity stupidity zingers. But fret not, as I have some big stuff lined up, both for TheJay.com and elsewhere. In the meantime, and with my promise not to bring up “those girls” set firmly in my mind, I thought it might be a good idea to take a step back and try something I’ve been avoiding for some time. A link post. Though I prefer writing long columns about inane pop culture, but without enough time to lovingly craft 2000 word opusi on the proper ways to hate Reese Witherspoon, pointing out some things on the net that I have enjoyed recently proves to be an easier conceit at the moment.

I may do this once a month (maybe on the 1st of every month, call it the Links of the Rent Day, or something MUCH funnier), or I may never do this again. But until my schedule clears, here’s hoping you enjoy some things that have caught my eye.

• Here’s Episode 8 of The Offseason Adventures of Michael Vick, from the damn funny guys over at Kissing Suzy Kolber.

• A great mashup of Lost, House and 24 from esteemed comedy writer (/legend) Ken Levine.

• GOONIES ACTION FIGURES!!!!

• If you can get to the Crazy 4 Cult art show, I highly reccomend it.

• Learn about wine and fight the Oak Monster over at Wine Library TV. Say hi to my boy Gary Vay-ner-chuck while you’re there.

• Televisionary has a great round-up of all the TV panel at Comic-Con.

• You can peep the first two episodes of the great new FX drama Damages (starring hottie Rose Byrne, Sam Malone and a man dressed up as Glenn Close), over at Yahoo TV. By the way, Frobisher is fan-tastic name for a villain. Can’t believe no one’s thought of that before.

• HARRY POTTER SPOILER ALERT!!! Do NOT click on this unless you have finished Deathly Hallows. J.K. Rowling gives us the scoop on all the questions left unanswered from the HP series. A great, thoroughly satisfying chat wrap (I was dying to know the fate of the Malfoys).

• If you aren’t reading Gilbert Arenas’s NBA Blog, you are missing out.

• My older brother first made me read this, and it might be the best present he’s ever given me (I don’t count all the free suplexes and figure-four leg locks he gave me from our old childhood wrestling days. Those weren’t gifts, they wonderful little moments in time that my shrink will use to put his kid through private school.). My favorite line from this piece: “I will treat the valet with contempt and make sure that he knows that I am superior to him in life! I will tell him to “Take it easy on the brakes, Champ”!”

• Ronnie Coleman is ridonkulously ripped. Watch his YouTube clips and cry from your punyness. He has the best catchphrase of all time: “Everyone wants to be a bodybuilder, no one wants to lift this heavy ass weight!” That’s a good motto for life in general.

• McSweeney’s, while more pretentious than a double chai latte, can still occasionally bring the funny. Here’s guest writer and VH1 clip show whore Michael Ian Black’s “Complete Idiot’s Guide To Meeting People More Famous Than You“.

• In what is probably my most anticipated moment from the new Fall TV Season, CBS has put up a Slap Bet Countdown! I can’t wait to see Marshall get his “premature slapulation” revenge by dropping slap number three on the Barnacle (aka “Swarley”). Hopefully Robin Sparkles will be on hand to sing a song for the occasion.

• R.I.P. Harvey Birdman

• Finally, if you haven’t purchased your copy of Monster Squad on DVD yet, then your just a flaming d-bag of suckitude, and I don’t want you bothering coming around here. We don’t take kindly to you non-Monster Squad owning folk. Until you’ve figured out a second way to kill a werewolf, click the red “X” in the corner and be gone.

Bangarang!

It’s just not funny anymore. And I’m sick of it.

I follow dumb celebrity behavior so closely that oftentimes I can’t see the forest for the celebritards. I begin to assume that the whole of Hollywood is caught up in the basest of actions, lowest of morals, and heights of ineptitude, both mentally and physically. I am now immune to obnoxious socialites, inane quotes, patronizing interviews, and dumbed-down entertainment. I have begun to hate the thing that I love.

But then I remember that that’s not the case. Sure, not everyone in Hollywood is a Rhode Scholar, but surely not everyone is an idiot, either (hell, Geena Davis is in Mensa and Dolph Lundgren has a PhD from M.I.T.!). I remember that some people still care about the craft of acting, the craft of filmmaking, and the craft of being a respectable human being. Most of all, I remember that the reason I feel this way is not due to the majority, it’s due to three people.

Britney, Paris and Lindsay.

The bad apples, the flat beer, the assy chicken McNuggets, or whatever bad food analogy you want to use, those three girls are the reason I hate Hollywood right now. It’s just them. And their inability to keep their crazy in check. Their remarkable way, and I do mean remarkable, to continually find new ways to screw up. To destroy lives others would kill for. To piss on their god given talent (for the one that actually has some). To hate themselves, so wholly and so publicly.

We used to just joke about it and let it slide. “Oh, there goes Paris driving drunk again! What a spoiled little girl! Another scary, yet hilarious, cry for help from Britney! Let’s ignore her and instead post pictures of her fatty thighs. BURN!” But you know what? It’s just not funny anymore. And it has got to stop.

If Lindsay Lohan was an athlete, they would have kicked her out of the league two seasons ago. If Paris were a student at a University she’d have been on double secret probation since the last millennium. If Britney were just an average girl, she’d be tragic. Even more so than she is now. But society would have taken care of the problem. Society would have treated the problem with respect. Society would not have put these lost girls back into harm’s way. And we should all be ashamed of ourselves that haven’t followed suit.

Every photographer that sells pictures of these girls coming out of clubs is contributing to their downfall. Every tabloid that popularizes them, while at the same time exploiting them, is contributing to the breakdown of their mental health. And every producer, executive or company that employs them is contributing to their never-ending means of acquiring that which destroys them.

Lindsay Lohan was arrested yesterday for drunk driving, possession of cocaine, and for chasing down her assistant who had resigned because she couldn’t handle Lindsay’s crazy lifestyle. This, while she was wearing an alcohol monitoring device put on after her last drunk driving and cocaine possession arrest earlier this year. And let’s not forget, she’s fresh out of her second stint in rehab since the Super Bowl.

Britney has been having a breakdown of Anna Nicole-like proportions since her divorce last fall, and she’s a mother of two. She’s shaved her head, been to rehab no less than 7 times, posted countless insane messages on her website, partied every night, flashed her vag and her tits, disowned her mother, ignored her children, dressed like a crazy person, and generally looks like more of a scumbag than her scumbag ex-husband. And again, she’s a 26 year-old mother of two.

And Paris, well… she’s Paris. She was back in the clubs twelve hours after getting out of jail. And she went on a vacation to Hawaii while on probation (a crazy big no no).

What do these girls need to do to get the help they so desperately need? Rehab is a joke to them. The justice system favors their celebrity and throws leniency at them to the point where the girl’s don’t see consequence to their actions (it took five driving mishaps before Paris saw jail time. I’d have been in jail after the second one.). Their friends and family are obviously no help. And the blog community reveres them because their wacky shenanigans drive up traffic (I know I’ve reaped the benefit of their misfortune). So where’s the recourse for their actions? Where can they go? Who will step up?

This goes beyond preferential treatment. People make mistakes and are forgiven. Hollywood loves to embrace those seeking redemption, provided they are worth the effort. If Lindsay didn’t show enormous potential, she’d have dropped off the face of the earth years ago. Just ask Jodie Sweeten, she’ll tell you what it’s like to be on the other side. But we’ve flown far past letting these girls off the hook in the service of marketable or worthwhile talent. Whatever abilities Lindsay has are negated by her reputation and public perception. I will never again buy her as an ingénue, as a professional or even as an innocent, likeable girl. Those parts are gone for her. And I don’t even buy her as the stripper she plays in her new movie. And why would I? I’ve seen her do worse a dozen times. I know the person she truly is because she’s fucked up so egregiously so many times that we are unable to ignore it.

I can watch Bruce Willis drunkenly curse at a basketball game and not think less of him. I can watch Victoria Beckham try to be funny and accessible on her reality show and not think poorly of her (case in point: she’s a celebritard who takes care of her kids, never gets arrested for drugs or alcohol and seems to be in a loving, stable relationship. That’s how you do celebridom!). I can even look at people like Matthew Broderick who killed a person with his car, or Halle Berry who performed a hit and run, or Winona Ryder who so famously shoplifted, and not decry their existence or continued career. They made mistakes, they apologized, they didn’t let that part of their behavior continue. They never glorified in their malfeasance. Paris and Lindsay seem to revel in their ability to do harm and get away with it. They seem to enjoy being this character they play (though I think the idea of them playing characters and it not being their true personality has long since been abandoned).

I’m just sick and tired of awarding popularity to these stupid girls. And I refuse to endure it any longer. If one of those girls was a friend of mine I would not being laughing at them, or pumping them up. One of my three best friends is a functioning alcoholic. She used to like to stay relatively sober for most of the year, than go completely balls out of her mind during the summers. She called it “her time to drink”. And I had to watch her destroy herself every time it got warm outside. One summer I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was tired of the bad behavior, tired of holding her hair back while she puked on her lawn, tired of walking in on her hooking up with some sleezy dude (on my bed!), and just tired of her being an all-around shitty friend. So I told her I was done; that when she decided to clean her shit up, she could come find me. And I walked away. It was the only way I could get through to her how much I felt her actions were hurting her. And we didn’t speak for a long while. Eventually she called and apologized, promised not to hit the drink so hard. And I forgave her.

That is until the behavior returned. And I promptly disowned her. I wasn’t going to show her that I tolerated her actions. We stopped being friends for more than a year. It was sad and lonely and awful. I missed my bestfriend. But she cared more about destroying herself than about herself or our friendship and I can’t abide by that. One day many moons later she was in town, we hung out, and it was nice. She was her old self again. She was in school. She had direction and purpose. She was past her recklessness. She was my friend again. If my cutting her out of my life helped in any way to prompt her life change, than it was worth it. Now we are as close as ever, and I even take her to wine tastings every now and again!

I hope these three famous lost girls have someone in their life that will treat them the same way. I hope they have something to push for and look forward to when they finally turn it all around. I hope one day they look back and are disgusted by how they acted. I hope they apologize for taking away the potential we saw in them, and for degrading the opportunity we afforded them.

I’ve past the point where I find this funny, so I’m not longer gonna allow it on this website. From this point forward I will no longer be writing about Britney Spears, Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan unless it specifically relates to their acting or singing work. I won’t make fun of their partying, their drug use, their alcohol dependency, their clothing (or lack thereof), their boytoys, their obvious insanity or anything else that is tragic about them. I’m just not going to do it. That’s my contribution to their recovery. It’s my contribution to the recovery of the belief that Hollywood has good people living and working within it. That all actors aren’t sad, drugged-up, party-whore burnouts.

My contribution to the hope that future generations of Celebritards learn that this type of attitude and behavior is, as Paris stated in her Barbara Walters interview, “no longer cute”. And to the hope that I never have to turn my humor website into a soapbox like this, ever again. I like to have fun and make fun here, and nothing about this story, or any of the hundreds of similar stories that have come out about these girls, is funny anymore.

Please check out this clip of Craig Ferguson talking about his feelings on the February Britney Spears head shaving trainwreck. I agree with what he says 100%, and it was this speech that prompted my questioning of how I write about celebrities, and the effect those choices have on me.

Bangarang!

“Nobody puts Xenu in the corner!”

Bangarang!

The most curious and wonderful thing happened to me last week. But first, a lead up…

My group and I decided to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on opening night at the Mann Chinese 6 (we chose the small theater instead of the giant Grauman’s because we wanted stadium seating). That day happened to be a phenomenally busy one for me. Eight hours of my day job that were abnormally packed, my lunch hour consisted of running around the Valley catching up on errands. After work I hit up a local wine tasting I had been meaning to try for some time ($1 Wednesdays at Vendome. It’s beyond worth it. I’m now a regular Wednesday resident. I walk in and they throw me a Cheers greeting. “JAAAAAY”.). So I raced from work to get to the wine tasting so I’d have enough time to taste, then grab dinner, and then hit the theater. I get to the wine tasting just fine, dig in to some great Chardonnay’s and try to plan my next move.

You see, I also needed to meet up with my best friend A-Train, who was delivering me my everyday shoes that I left in his car after we went white-water rafting for my birthday, a few days before (P.S. It was awesome. We even capsized in a class-three rapid. I was so Kevin Bacon in The River Wild. A-Train was my moronic sidekick, John C. Reilly.). So the situation was this: its 7:30, the movie starts at 8:30, I need to drive from North Hollywood over the hill to the heart of Hollywood, meet A-Train and grab my shoes, find dinner, eat, and meet my group at the theater. Also, I’m slightly buzzed form the awesome Vendome vino. I thrive on time constraints, so I wasn’t too worried. That is, until I got into Hollywood. I had forgotten that the ESPY Awards were being filmed at the Hollywood & Highlands complex that night (where the theater is located), and in response to the event, all access routes to the complex had been shut down. There was gridlock everywhere. I suddenly saw my chances of eating and getting my shoes back (a necessity as I’m trying to rehab a bum ankle and need the shoes for that end) going up in flames.

I struggled to get through the cabal of frustrated cars. Slowly but surely, and with enough time to find food and meet A-Train, I swooped into the complex, parked my Man-UV (it’s a Baby Blue Honda CRV and thus needs the testosterone qualifier), and was on my feet and mobile by 8:05pm. A-Train, however, was coming in from Westwood and was waylaid by the everyday traffic in West Hollywood and the added impact from the ESPY’s. Since roads were blocked off we had to try Plans B-Q to get him to a place where I could meet him. We set the location (a sidestreet that required a seven minute walk from the complex) and I waited for him to tell me he was close enough for me to set out. In the meantime, I tried to find food. All of the food places, though, were closed, closing or only accepting cash (I never carry around cash, because if I have it, I spend it). So I’m racing through the crowded complex, navigating through C-list athletes, skanks all skanked up to try and hook a C-list athlete and an above-normal amount of tourists, riled up at the prospect of snapping a digi pic of the LT of the Indy Colts (a quality sighting if there ever was one).

It’s now 8:15 and counting, I have no food and A-Train is still minutes away. Choosing on the fly to just suck it up and have a theater dinner (hot dog and a water now, toilet time and sit-ups later), I decided to race out to the meeting point so I’d have enough time to race back to the theater and not miss previews. A quick five-minute jog through the ESPY holding area (is that Jim Belush? Might have been. Didn’t care), and through the streets of H-Wood and I was at the meeting spot. A-Train rolled through minutes later, I yoinked my kicks and set feet to pavement. 8:27 and I’m finally in the lobby of the theater. My cell is blowing up, my friends wanting to know my ETA, but I ignore it and focus on willing the slow concession stand workers to fill the damn sodas faster so I can grab my unidentifiable meat in a bun, get to my seat and breathe for the first time in 90 minutes.

The worker finally sloths her way through the order of guy in front of me and I’m throwing my list at her before the guy is out of my way. She molasses her way to the hot dog window and procures me the awful item, snails over to the water area and gets confused by the size of the water bottle I asked for (that being “the one that will get you back here faster”), and then finally baby steps’ the credit card transaction. I’m free. I grab all of my gear (the shoes, the dog, the water, my dignity), pitch my ticket at the taker, find my group in the dark, sit down, say my hellos and apologies and begin hyper-speed eating my hot dog because 1) it smells like ass and I don’t want it to linger through the movie and ruin my groups experience, and 2) I’m so hyped up I don’t even realize I’m going this fast. Fourteen Harry Potter-ripoff trailers later (seriously, it looked like every studio in town puked up Chronicles of Narnia and slapped a title on it), I had blasted through my dog, stolen my buddy’s milk duds, hydrated and thankfully, stopped moving.

And that’s when it hit me. I was so busy getting through my life that I didn’t even remember what I was doing there in the first place. I was about to watch the new Harry Potter movie.

A feeling of such wonder and excitement passed through me. I couldn’t even sit still! Some movies you are excited to see (Oceans 13), others you cannot wait to see (Transformers), but then there are some that are so important to you, whether due to tradition or impact on your life, that it literally floors you when the reality hits that you are in the theater and the movie is about to start. I had that feeling with each of the Star Wars Prequels. I had it with the latest Die Hard. And I had it and then some with Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Butterflies in my stomach (which might have just been the hot dog performing a coup-de-tat on my intestines), a big ass smile on my face and two hours of wonder waiting in front of me. It doesn’t get much better than that.

And as a bonus, the movie just happened to be great. My least favorite of the books, but probably my second favorite movie (Azkaban is still the tits for me). Great interpersonal moments between Harry, Ron and Hermione ( I especially liked the understated way they handled Harry’s growing anger problems), amazing special effects in the climactic Ministry battle, and some quality hottie time with a near-of-age Emma Watson, the pre-approved Katie Leung (Cho Chang), and surprising gonna-be-off-the-hook hottie Bonnie Wright (Ginny Weasley). I had such low expectations because I disliked the book so much that I was floored how awesome the movie turned out to be. Other favorite things about the movie: the overhead shot of Harry and Dudley running through the wheat field, “I must not tell lies”, all the meaningful looks Ginny throws at Harry, Fred and George’s exit from Hogwarts, Voldemort on the train platform, the entirety of Gary Oldman and Alan Rickman, and of course, “LOOK AT ME!”

Walking out of the theater, I knew I was back in the Harry Potter fold, a place I hadn’t been since I finished the sixth-book (the best of the series) a year and a half ago. A place I remember so fondly. I needed to get my head back in the world fast, so I immediately went home and started reading Half Blood Prince, eager to refresh myself in time for Book 7. I scorched through the 643 pages in a matter of days, enjoying the book just as much now as I did the first time. I even got emotional in two places, 1) when Harry kisses Ginny after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup without him (I was like “Yeah boy! Get yours, Harry!”), and 2) when Snape dropped the Avada Kedavra on Dumbledore. I knew it was coming and yet I still teared up. Such is the emotional effect these characters have on me.

Like many millions of other people, Harry Potter holds a special place in my heart. I found the books by accident. I was a sophomore in college, the third book had just barely come out, and the series had not yet broken through to the mainstream. I had read a review in EW and was intrigued, but not having read the books I didn’t think much of it. I picked up the first book on a whim, cracked it open one night and blazed through it in a matter of hours. I was hooked, lined and sinkered. I immediately set my quest to find books 2 and 3. The local bookstores didn’t have them so I went to the campus library. Now, I’ve been looked down on before, but never in my life have I ever been condescended to quite so douchebaggily as when the clerk/pretentious English Lit Major tried to “help” me find Chamber of Secrets and Prisoner of Azkaban. Everyone else in the place needed to find a textbook or a crucial biography or science study. I was looking for a children’s book. And the guy didn’t let me forget it (“Can you please spell… Azkaban for me.”). I raced up and down the eight floors of the library, FINALLY finding one copy of part two in a remote area of the second floor. I felt like Indiana Jones reaching the idol in the beginning of Raiders. Now I just needed to avoid the flying arrows, big ass rolling boulder, and all the snobby library attendants and I’d be on the outside, safe to go read my “children’s book”. I made it out, and the effort was worth it.

I was hanging out with a lot of English Majors at the time and they never missed an opportunity to give me shit about my reading selection. “You’re reading a book about a boy wizard who plays sports on a broom? What was your high school GPA, again?” And I was like: “Whatever, you pale-faced dick. Go wipe your glasses and get back to reading your D.H. Lawrence and never getting any, while I read my kick ass magic book and bang my hottie girlfriend. And it’s not a broom it’s a Firebolt, bitch!” I took my flaming with my head held high, proud that I was reading a book series that made me happy. And I was vindicated a year later when the world woke up and went crazy for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

Nobody gave me shit anymore. Because they were all struggling to catch up. I was there opening day, sitting with a group of eight year-olds on the floor of a Santa Barbara Borders, all of us lapping up the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. It felt great to be amongst kids who were reading instead of playing video games. It felt great to be on the forefront of a pop culture event that I had found on my own before it all began (I felt the same way when I saw The Killers perform two months before “Somebody Told Me” broke and just knew that explode like a supernova, get overplayed and turn into crazy poseurs a year later.). And it felt great just to be reading something I liked, after being forced to read countless books I hated just to satisfy my UCSB general-ed requirements (though to be fair, the film books were a disappointment as well).

The great HP memories didn’t end there. Summer of 2004 found me hungrily (though eventually frustratingly) devouring Order of the Phoenix. The stand-out memory of my time reading that book was when I was staying at a beachfront hotel with my then-girlfriend to celebrate July 4th. She was asleep in bed, a place I should have been, but instead I was in the bathroom, quietly turning the pages, unable to join the beautiful naked girl in bed ten feet away, because I needed to see if Harry would at long last kiss Cho Chang. He did and I went back to bed. She asked me where I’d been and I lied and told her I wasn’t feeling well. You can’t always defend (or explain) the things you love.

Harry Potter also helped heal a fractured history with my older brother. We had our differences and objections for a variety of reasons, but with childhood long gone and both of us now adults and facing the real world, we were looking for ways to smooth things over. My brother started listening to the HP audio tapes, and eventually became a bigger Potter geek and me. We’ve had some great conversations over the years trying to decipher how the story will end. There’s not a lot we used to be able to talk about, 80’s WWF, white wine and The West Wing were pretty much the list, but Harry Potter gave us one more thing. And it was a big step on the road to our recovery as loving brothers (and we have a lot to talk about now).

The Harry Potter hits keep coming: my little brother dressed up as Harry for Halloween one year and looked totally awesome, I chose HP4 as my recommended Turkey Day Movie Choice back in 1995, I looked like the cool Uncle to my adolescent cousins when I matched their Harry-speak word for word. I even wrote a well-received ten-minute play about the release of Book 7 just last week. The crowd of geeks ate up the Potter love; my lead actress even told me that playing a Harry Potter fanatic was the most fun she’s ever had on stage. My love of Harry Potter gave her that moment.

And now I find myself on the eve of Book 7 Day, the last time I will ever wait for a new Harry Potter adventure (I think); the end of my long, happy journey is in sight. The anticipation of having the book in my hands, the excitement of turning the first page and stepping back into that wonderfully rich world, and the paranoia of worrying if I’ll read spoilers and ruin the experience, all these emotions are swimming through me, and my heart and mine are doing what they can to keep up. As a completist I’m glad I have been able to follow the story from start to finish. As a fan I’m both happy and sad to the see how it ends. And as a movie lover I can’t wait to see what Deathly Hollows will look like on-screen (not to mention Half-Blood Prince). But most of all I am thankful to have had Harry Potter in my life. To have been a part of this once-in-a generation cultural event. To have something so pure and enjoyable in common with so many people. To have something to look forward to at the movies. To have something to defend to the elitist book snobs. But mostly, just to have something good to read.

For those reasons and million more, I am proud to say I am a Harry Potter fan. I am thankful for Chris Columbus for casting Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Emma Watson, and for setting up the world so perfectly. I am thankful for Daniel Kloves and his deft touch in adapting the first four books. I am thankful for all the people involved in the making of the movies and the publishing of the books. And I am eternally thankful to J.K. Rowling for creating something so simple, yet profound. For always striving to make the books more eloquent. For never dumbing down the content when the mainstream picked up on it. For sticking to her principals and willing this entity into existence. For giving us all something to love.

And most of all, for giving us the boy who lived.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I have a book to read…

Bangarang!

In honor of Book 7 Day Eve, I give you what is quite possibly the greatest puppet show in the history of stringed up fabric (excluding Being John Malkovich, of course). I defy you not to watch this more than once. And I outright challenge you not to hum the Ticking Noise song for the rest of the day. Of all the things that are getting me excited for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, this is doing it the most.

Enjoy.

Bangarang!

Bangarang!

Peep the Simpsonized The Jay!

I think it’s a pretty awesome likeness. I dig being yellow, as it’s a nice break from being Casper-pale and/or Kool Aid red, depending on how much sun I got that week. The best part about being yellow is that if Biff Tannen ever challenged me to a fight, but I walked away and then he taunted me with “What are you, yellow?”, instead of getting all huffy like Marty McFly and end up getting chased on a makeshift skateboard through 1955-era Hilldale, I could just say “Yeah Biff, I am. What’s it to you?” then walk away like a bad ass. Some real color on my skin and moting the Tannen family? It’s a win-win situation.

Really, the only problem with the animation is that my Simpsons Avatar doesn’t have that certain, what’s the word… ah yes, “dickiness”, that my real visage exudes. Simpsonized Jay looks like a relatively harmless dude, probably works the boom mike for Kent Brockman, or pulls middle management in the HR department at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. He dates a nice burnt sienna-colored girl and has season tickets to the Sprinfield Atoms. People like him. Even Snake, Springfield’s resident criminal (and my favorite character) is like “Who ho, that dude is OK! No robbing that guy till after Christmas.”

Real Jay, however, has a look that says “Who brought the dick? Oh, that’s right, I did! I always do! IN YOUR FACE. You’ve just been pwned!” Which, incidentally, is the look I’m going for.

Either way, this is a sweet promotional gimmick by The Simpsons Movie (which you can check out HERE). I can’t wait to plug a picture of Reese Witherspoon into the Simpsonize Machine and see how fugly I can make her. I tell you, what with this latest development and Book 7 Day rapidly approaching, how can you not be enjoying life? A new Harry Potter book and defiling a defenseless Reese Witherspoon… and I thought my birthday was last week!

Bangarang!

Btw: If you send me your Simpsons Avatars, I’ll post them on the site in a big Simpsonized user pic post.

I’m now in the awkward life position of watching my childhood treasures get tampered with by ill-conceived big screen remakes. All the majesty and warmth I feel for the shows that got me through adolescence is being tainted by remakes that are tolerable to say the most and complete shitbags to say the least. I’m angry that new generations are viewing the remake as definitive, and not the classic TV show that it inspired it. Now I know what the baby boomers must feel like, watching Mark Wahlberg and Thandie Newton in that horrible Charade remake or Jude Law smarming his way through the Alfie redo.

Moreover, there’s an inherent problem to remaking or adapting TV shows from the 70’s and 80’s: the shows weren’t that good. And updating it for a modern audience just reinforces the fact that what I thought was great as a kid was actually total crap. I don’t want to be told I was stupid for liking a show about a cat-eating alien with a penis nose living with a suburban family. Or that just maybe Saved By The Bell wasn’t the best depiction of high school life ever committed to print.

Shows like Alf, He-Man, Transformers, et al were created by people on drugs. And drug shows don’t make any sense to anyone but stoners and little kids (which explains by the best cartoon on TV right now is about a sponge who lives in a pineapple at the bottom of the sea). A single 30-something guy who raises three chipmunks that record music and get into wacky hijinks? That’s one of the stupidest ideas I’ve ever heard, and yet I love Alvin and the Chipmunks. Do I think it needs a big screen remake? Not at all, and yet, here it comes.

I shiver at the memory of the legendary Raul Julia fighting Jean Claude Van Damme in Street Fighter: The Movie in his last screen performance. I shudder at the thought of Dennis Hopper sliming it up as King Koopa in the Super Mario Bros movie. And I loathe everything that is Garfield: The Movie, especially the inclusion of Bill Murray. Those movies suck because cartoons and video games never make sense! They were popular because they had fun toys that went along with the show, they weren’t paradigms of story construction. Why would I watch a horribly animated show about space cats fighting mummies if I couldn’t get the Thundercats Sword of Omens and swing it at my older brother? Producers are confused by what sold those ideas. It was the merchandise, not the concept.

Michael bay’s Transformers works because he turned the concept into pure spectacle. Independent of its ludicrous plot, the remake is a purely visceral experience; watching those robots duke it out in downtown LA, you could care less that you’re watching a remake of an 80’s cartoon about martian robots transforming into automotive vehicles. And like Bay’s Transformers, some remakes can work. With the right mix of camp, tradition, respect and originality, you can make a watchable remake of an 80’s property. But it’s not easy. The list is basically Masters of the Universe (cause Dolph Lundgren fucking rules), the first TMNT movie (with Corey Feldman voicing Donatello), Bay’s Transformers and that’s it. I have no desire to see that list attempt to be expanded by a Voltron, Thundercats, Ducktales, Smurfs, or Alvin and the Chipmunks movie. And yet, here we are.

I can’t begin to explain how wrong it is to make an Alvin and the Chipmunks live-action movie without my head exploding, and since there’s no trailer or production stills to look at, I’m going to focus my rage on the movie poster. So while I shake my head at the disintegration of my glorious Saturday morning cartoons-watching memories, here are ten things (and it could have been more) that are completely wrong about the poster for the inevitably shitty remake of Alvin and the Chipmunks, due out this Christmas.

1. Were gonna hold off for just a second on why the Chipmunks look like reject extras from one of Jamie Kennedy’s billion different stupid wigger movies, and ask why the eff Alvin in a hoodie? Is he supposed to be Eminem here? Is he gonna rap about slitting Jeanette’s throat and driving around L.A. with her in the front seat? Is he gonna date Brittany Murphy? I’m so confused. IIRC, Alvin was pretty OCD about his hat. It was his pride and joy, he never took it off. In fact, didn’t he yell about people to “NEVER… TOUCH… THE… CAP?” What’s he gonna say about the hoodie? “DON’T…PULL…MY…HOODIE…DOWN?” Lame change #463 of 1001 for the Alvin and the Shitmunks movie.

2. So wait, the Chipmunks are rappers now? How is that a good idea? It’s hard enough trying to sell the idea of three chipmunks speaking English, let alone having American Idol-quality singing voices, now you’re telling me that Jason Lee is gonna be an aspiring Hip-Hop producer who makes the Chipmunks into a furrier, PG-version of Naughty By Nature? Um… is cocaine making a comeback in writer’s rooms and someone didn’t tell me? Is that how the Geiko Cavemen got a sitcom deal?
   

3. If Alvin is the Eminem of the group, what does that make Simon and Theodore? Snoop and Dr. Dre? Cause it would be pretty awesome if Simon started getting mad high, throwing up gang signs and reppin’ the LBC.

4. For all the good Jason Lee did in his early career (Mallrats, Chasing Amy, Almost Famous, naming his kid Pilot Inspektor), he is now, for better or for worse, inherently tied to his role as Earl Hickey. I can’t watch Dogma anymore without wondering why he isn’t rocking the stache (of course I can’t watch Dogma much at all, cause it doesn’t hold up. Tell me again why Linda Fiorentino has a career? She’s like the homeless person’s Demi Moore.). Seeing him clean shaven, nudging into the poster frame, is completely ungainly. He’s the well-respected star of a hit sitcom, why is he fourth billed in a fucking Chipmunk movie? What did he do that got him demoted to the level of Breckin Meyer?

5. Where are Brittany and the Chipettes? Even though she was a haughty bitch, Brittany was pretty fly for a six inch cartoon rodent. As far as the list goes, it’s Brittany, the chick squirrel who falls in love with Arthur in Sword in the Stone, and Gadget the oblivious mechanic hottie from Chip ‘n Dale’s Rescue Rangers. If I was so inclined, I’d one up Richard Gere and pre-book OR 1 at UCLA Medical Center, if you know what I mean. I’m just saying, Brittany better be in this movie.

6. Not one interesting voice actor listed anywhere on the poster. At least Garfield had the attraction of wondering why a revitalized Lost in Translation-era Bill Murray was slumming it in a Jennifer Love Hewitt talking cat picture. That was akin to Orson Welles finishing his career playing Unicron in Transformers: The Movie. Except Bill also agreed to do the sequel! The guy makes one film a year and he chooses to voice a CGI cat in a flick NO ONE wanted to see. They must have backed up the Brinks truck and dumped a half ton of gold bullion and a bakers dozen worth of strippers from the Las Vegas Crazy Horse onto his front lawn. And he wonders why he didn’t get an Oscar nod for Broken Flowers.

7. The chipmunks themselves look way creepy. I’m not a fan of photo-realistic animation when it comes to animals. I like them to look a little cartoon-y. When you get near the point of life-like it becomes awkward to watch them talk and get into wacky shenanigans. Seeing an intentionally CGI Garfield is one thing, but the filmmakers are making it seem like the Chipmunks are supposed to look real. It’s a mistake. Alvin doesn’t so much look like a chipmunk as he does a really obnoxious Persian guy in a hoodie. Simon doesn’t look intelligent or nearly annoyed enough at Alvin. And Theodore looks like he’s holding a joint. Then again, if they’re making this a pot comedy, I might be for it. Samson Simpson, if I wasn’t a chipmunk, then why would I be wearing this hat?
   

8. Now that I’ve spent time thinking about the poster, the movie and the show, I cannot get the goddamn theme song out of my head. Alvin, Simon, Theodore! Do Do, Dodododo, Do Do, Dodododo! I may need to hit up the new Bravery single right quick, or else I’m libel to drill a hole in my head, Pi-style.

9. I can’t stress this enough, they’re in freaking FUBU gear! How is that a good idea? Why are kids gonna want to see this? Why are 20-something’s who grew up on this cartoon gonna appreciate the change? Unless Alvin fights a big fucking robot at the end of Act Three while Megan Fox rubs her abs in the background, I’m not interested.

10. You know how I want to spend the birthday of the dear lord baby Jesus? Not opening presents or spending time with my family. Not drinking some eggnog by a fire or shredding a mountain on my snowboard. It’s not seeing the new Aaron Sorkin movie with Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts. It’s not catching the National Treasure sequel featuring the unintentional comedy of Nic Cage’s attention whore toupee. And it’s definitely not seeing the new Wes Anderson movie that I’m sure to love so much I’ll own the Criterion Collection DVD of, four seconds after it comes out. It’s none of those things. I want to spend Christmas watching Jason Lee chase around four inch CGI rodents while they un-ironically rock chipmunk bling and spit some phat rhymes. Hoo boy, does that sound like good holiday times!

Can we please start (at least) considering leaving the 80’s alone? I’m all for the return of snap bracelets and new wave music, but maybe it’s for the best that we honor 80’s film and television by mocking it on VH1, and not disgrace it on a thirty foot silver screen.

Bangarang!

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In many ways celebrities are exactly like Transformers. They may walk through the day in their “civilian” form, but when the time comes they transform into all manner of characters (doctors, lawyers, cowboys, the pervert from Happiness played by Phillip Seymour Hoffman; which should not be confused with the pervert he played in Boogie Nights. Or Capote.). Their livelihood is predicated on the audience believing their transformation. And their ability to do so convincingly is what makes us love them. This is why the success of Michael Bay’s Transformers is not at all surprising. Audiences want to see transformation, whether in celebrity or robot form (it also helps that in robot form they blow a bunch of shit up and fight each other. Also, long lingering shots of Megan Fox’s abs doesn’t hurt.). We want to watch an epic spectacle of people overcoming obstacles, growing up in the face of adversity, finding love, becoming better people, and long lingering shots of Megan Fox’s abs. Transformers has all of those things, plus occasionally big fucking robots fight each other.

Watching the flick got me thinking about what I’d want to transform into. I doubt I’d pick a vehicle, just because I’m not that big a fan of cars, I have no interest to be around other cars (especially on a LA freeway), and I’m not exactly practical should the need arise to transform into my robot self and I got a car full of people (unless I wanted to crush the hell out of them, but then I’d have blood all over my paint job and that’s not cool. You cannot get blood off of leather, I’ve tried.). I’d rather be something cool like the Decepticon who transforms into the CD player. I’m completely invisible in a room, I don’t call attention to myself, I can choose not to play country music and when I want to do some nefarious shit, no one suspects the dinky Sony with the broken six-disc changer to transform into this bad ass little robot that can hack the planet Zero Cool-style. Or maybe I’d just transform into Dakota Fanning, so not only would I be a well-respected young actor with limitless potential, but I’d also be an infamous, exceedingly lethal Master Assassin. Also I’d be blonde, and that looks like fun.

Whenever I pull a J.D. from Scrubs and start daydreaming absurdist pop culture scenarios (like really, where would I hide all my body hair if I transformed into Dakota Fanning? Precocious child stars do not look like tiny manscaped clones of Robin Williams.), I like to extend my imagination into the realm of celebrity. As soon as I started picturing myself becoming the tiny star of Uptown Girls, I was flooded with thoughts about what celebrities might transform into, besides the characters they play on-screen.

Here’s what I came up with (categorized in proper Tranformers good vs. evil groups):

The Celebrity Autobots

• Owen Wilson transforms into a majestic Butterscotch Stallion.
• Matthew McConaughey transforms into a pair of smelly, well-worn board shorts.
• John Travolta transforms into a sexually ambiguous 747 with unreasonably thick hair and no ability to recognize quality screenplays.
• Paul Walker transforms into a less talented Keanu Reeves.
• Keanu Reeves transforms into Dr. Lancelot Ware, founder of Mensa.
• Nicole Kidman transforms into a smooth, contoured block of ice (but can still perform as a kick ass Moulin Rouge hooker, should the need arise).
• Jack Black transforms into the McDonald’s Grimace (and as we know, nothing can kill the Grimace).
• George Clooney transforms into a bulk-size tin of Dapper Dan Pomade (he doesn’t want Fop, he wants Dapper Dan. He’s a Dapper Dan man!).
• Demi Moore doesn’t transform as she’s always in her altered form, that of the Mighty Cougar.
• Julia Roberts transforms into a king-size box of Peppermint Chiclets.
• Sam Jackson transforms into an F-Bomb.

The Celebrity Decepticons

• Tom Cruise transforms into an anti-depressant (irony!).
• Lindsay Lohan transforms into a bottomless glass Red Bull & Vodka.
• Paris Hilton transforms right back into Paris Hilton (why would a Decepticon of her power and magnitude have a need to transform into anything else?).
• George Lucas transforms into an Avid Bay capable of malevolently manipulating your favorite movie scenes of all-time.
• Mel Gibson transforms into a giant, luscious pair of sugartits (that just so happen to hate Jews).
• Orlando Bloom transforms into a bowl of bland brown rice.
• Pamela Anderson transforms into a hyper-virulent strain of Herpes Simplex B.
• Sharon Stone transforms into Sharon Stone circa 1989.
• Steven Seagal transforms into a beached whale. Wait, strike that, he just looks like he transformed into a beached whale. My mistake.
• Dane Cook transforms into a bad joke.

Bangarang!

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It’s one thing when a celebrity releases a poor excuse for unruly behavior directly after the incident. People are asking questions and publicists want to give them white-washed answers. Often times those answers are stupid and nonsensical, written to cling to some inane image of purity. Those excuses are lame, they know and we know it, but we let it go because it is what it is. Hell, the real excuse almost 100% of the time is that they were drunk or high. And I still maintain that just saying that would be enough; it would be more relatable and forgiven then any fake excuse ever could.

But it’s quite another thing when a celebrity inexplicably comments on an incident that happened weeks or months ago, and gives an even stupider excuse for their actions. That’s just TomKat levels of publicity mismanagement. Yesterday, Britney Spears wrote a message on her website responding to the incident earlier this year where she attacked a paparazzo’s car with an umbrella. She never said anything at the time, and frankly we didn’t need her to. She had just shaved her head, was in-between bouts of rehab and it was just generally assumed she had jumped the couch. But apparently Britney felt it was necessary to “repair” her batshit craziness with an even more batshit crazy excuse.

Here’s what she said:

“I apologize to the pap for a stunt that was done 4 months ago regarding an umbrella. I was preparing my character for a roll in a movie where the husband never plays his part so they switch places accidentally. I take all my rolls very seriously and got a little carried away. Unfortunately I didn’t get the part.”

A good rule of thumb for any excuse is to never say anything that prompts additional questions. Another rule of thumb: don’t be an idiot. Both rules are violated pretty severely in Britney’s statement. She was preparing for a “roll” (sic, obviously)? One, no one pays her to act. Not now, not ever. Two, what role could she possibly have been preparing for? The Angelina Jolie role in Girl Interrupted 2: Celebritard Interrupted? Was she angling for a spot in the V For Vendetta sequel “U For Umbrella”? She hadn’t been attractive or creatively relevant for nearly four years (if she ever really was), and now she’s breaking into movies? I think she may have confused the phrase “preparing for a role in a movie” with “whatever the Klonozopan says is what I do”. Not to mention, when has it ever been a man’s role to repeatedly hit a stranger’s car with an umbrella? Is that a country western thing I’m not aware of?

Even if we go out on an extremely tenuous limb and believe she was preparing for a role, the plot of the movie is so ludicrously stupid, that even Bret Ratner was like “Yeah, me and this random club skank I’m harassing call shenanigans on that shit.” Didn’t they stop making “switching roles” movies in the 80’s when we all realized the consequence of cocaine use was Judge Reinhold? Methinks Britney couldn’t figure out how to get Freaky Friday out of the DVD player and it slowly warped her brain, Clockwork Orange-style.

“I was going through post-partum depression and could not get a handle on my mood. I’m working to correct this, and hope that my plight will serve as a boon for women who are privately suffering from this oppression to get the help they need to repair their lives. Thank you for your understanding, and I apologize again for harm or discomfort I may have caused”.

That’s my suggestion for what she should have said. It’s concise, to the point, gets you the next cover of People Magazine, Brooke Shields becomes your best friend, and now you can start getting some real sympathy. It works well for everyone and squashes that week of craziness for good. But I’m not a trained PR flack, so what do I know?

If this was her excuse, what were the ones thrown out? Because you know her people sat around a conference room throwing out ideas for how to “handle” this, and after the fourteenth Red Bull waterfall they pulled “preparing for a movie role” out of their asses and went to sushi to celebrate their genius. If I was a fly on the wall of that urgent meeting, here is what I bet some of the discarded excuses were:

• “Kevin triple-dog dared me to do it, and as you are all aware, the rules of “Dare” clearly state that the daree MUST perform the darer’s dare upon invocation of the triple-dog. So as you can clearly see, I had no choice.”

• “I was helping my sister Jamie-Lynn with a science experiment for her health class. We were studying the effects of craziness in an unstable Celebritard. As it stands, the results were inconclusive. But she did get a C+, best grade the Spears family has ever received.”

• “That’s not what you do with an umbrella? Huh. Well, what’s it for, then?”

• “I am actually a closet soccer hooligan. Liverpool had a match coming up against Sheffeld United and I needed to step up my hooliganism. You gotta stay sharp during Premiere League, cause those United fans are major tossers!”

• “It’s possible I’m not very bright. My doctors are looking into it. I’m hoping the results are positive.”

• “Lindsay, Paris and I were having a competition to see who could act the craziest without getting in trouble. I was losing and needed a quick score. The attack put me back in first, but Lindsay ended up winning when she crashed her car and passed out. Paris made a valiant attempt for a last-minute win with that whole jail thing, but you just can’t beat “useable amounts of cocaine” as a headline. Lindsay is like the Michael Jordan of competitive Celebritard stupidity.”

• “It wasn’t me, it was the one-armed man!”

• “I decided to switch roles models. Instead of Madonna, I am now following the merits and advice of renowned sane person, Courtney Love. Please allow for some inefficiency during this transitional period.”

• “I love lamp!”

• My loneliness is killing me, and I, I must confess I still believe (still believe). When I’m not with you I lose my mind, give me a sign, Hit me baby one more time!

Britney, next time, just make like Scott Glenn in Backdraft and let it go.

Bangarang!

Bangarang!

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How cool is that?

My current geek-in-residence, one Timothy “Evil” Schultz, stood in line for ten hours on Friday to get the iPhone (then spent the next 24 hours dealing with activation, just by the by). When I saw him, and it, on Saturday, I only had one question for him.

How does TheJay.com look on that beast?

As you can see, the answer is pretty balls awesome. The sunlight in the pic is a bit harsh, so let me assure you that the colors of the iPhone screen are as vibrant as any Pixar film and as crystal clear as a high end digital monitor. One of the cooler features of the phone is the ability to literally “pinch” or “pull” the screen to zoom in or out on something. So all bets are off on the relative downsides of checking the net on a cell phone. I was able to read one of my columns with ease (and I laughed my ass off, but then again, hey, narcissist!).

I watched a movie on it (Akira) and that looked great. I texted, took pics (of myself, natch) and made calls using only my index finger. I felt pretty all-powerful, which is a great sub-conscious feature. Even better than my feeling awesome, which is a pretty routine situation, obviously, is the coup de grace of iPhone convenience. That being Visual Voicemail. On the iPhone, when you have multiple voicemails, you can read a list of them and choose which one you want to listen to, as opposed to having to cycle through them. That my friends on a scale of 1 ot 10, is a 12.

If I didn’t hate Cingular with an intensity I didn’t think possible outside of Reese Witherspoon’s Cruel Intentions devil face, and wasn’t saving up for a high-end wine refrigerator, I would be all up on the iPhone like Britney Spears on parental restraining orders. As it is, I’ll just have to settle for knowing that TheJay.com not only reads brilliant on the iPhone, but looks brilliant as well. And that now I have one more device to sneakily tune to this website when I’m walking through the Apple store (twirls mustache). Well played… Apple.

Bangarang!

Today, I, and the rest of the world, or at least the Hollywood tabloidista, will honor the birth of one of the entertainment industry’s biggest and best coked out, rehab-shucking, talent-eroding, knife-wielding, weight dropping, boytoy banging, crazy as hell Celebritards since the Olsen twins turned eighteen. Yes, that’s right, batten down the hatches, order extra cases of Red Bull and Grey Goose, stay off the streets and hide your children, Lindsay Lohan turns 21 today. And we here at TheJay.com would like to celebrate this momentous occasion by bestowing 21 birthday wishes on our favorite former hottie who inexplicably dropped twenty pounds, took out her implants, died her hair blonde, started doing mass amounts of blow, showed up in a string of shitty movies, alienated the Disney crowd, put her imlants back in, when to rehab, crashed her car, went back into rehab, became tabloid fodder to the point where the paparazzi are bored of her and pretty much ruined any chance of becoming an all-time masturbatory redhead fantasy we all thought she would be, but instead ended up being considered sleazier than Paris Hilton (and Paris Hilton is a fucking convict!).

So on Lindsay Lohan’s (hopefully dry) 21st birthday, TheJay.com wishes…

1. That she switch from blow and vodka to wine. When you drink too much wine they call you sophisticated. When you drink too much hard liquor they call you Tara Reid. That’s a big difference.

2. That she (and let it be known, I’m aware how stupid this sounds) take a cue from Paris Hilton and realize playing dumb isn’t cute anymore. Fact is it was never cute on Lindsay. Or on Paris, not that it matters. The only person that can convincingly pull of “dumb as cute” is Kelly Bundy and she’s fictional.
   

3. That she agrees to become Jane Fonda’s padwan learner. Sure, the partnership may lead to Lindsay going to Iraq and shilling for Arabs (Fallujah Lohan?), but at least we’ll eventually get a Lindsay Lohan aerobics video out of the deal, which would be totally worth it. There’s comedy, there’s high comedy, and then there’s Lindsay Lohan in a leotard teaching overweight Heartland wives how to jazzercise. Plus, you know, she might also become a well-respected two-time Oscar winner. Which would be nice for her.

4. That someone reminds her Oscars are not won in a club, they’re won on a film set. And we’re not talking about the set of Just My Luck.

5. That she take it from Sean Combs and never let anyone call her La Lohan ever again. It didn’t work for Puff Daddy, it’s not gonna work for Linds. Don’t make Diddy shut down the studio!

6. That a slew of really hot boys tell her over and over again that pale chicks are cool. Nobody likes a blotchy fake tan. And pale became her quite well.

7. That she’d go back to red and stay that way. If it’s good enough for the Pretty Woman, it’s good enough for the Mean Girl.

8. That screen dad Dennis Quaid knocks some sense into her, In Good Company-style. He’s been through drugs, rehab and failed public relationships and he’s as popular now as he was twenty years ago. So take it from The Quaid, Lindsay, he is all-knowing; like that mutant tumor in Total Recall that wanted Arnold to “open [his] mind”.
   

9. That she at least consider, CONSIDER, marrying a suspicious A-list star who will turn her into a barely believable beard for a decade then release her from her blood oath (read: legally binding contract) so that she can turn into botoxed ice queen who marries a drug addicted musician but is still awesome because she makes crazy kick ass musicals with Renton from Trainspotting and horror flicks where they’re really the ghosts! And hey, I hear Hugh Jackman might be in the market.

10. That she recognizes the fact that no actress who has ever won an Academy Award has ever shown her snatch in public. Other than Helen Mirren, of course. Septuagenarian snizz is the new black.

11. That she take a note from Macaulay Culkin and divorce the hell out her no-good parents (and maybe even consider going on a North-style cross-country search for new ones. I know Brangelina are always on the look out for disadvantaged orphans.).

12. That she try to convince Rachel McAdams to do a Freaky Friday-style career switch, only when it works, she refuses to switch back. This works in everyone’s favor because who isn’t curious what a skanky Rachel McAdams would look like?

13. That Jodie Foster would slap her upside the head. Maybe some of her awesomeness would transfer to Lindsay through osmosis. Plus, there’s a small chance some of Jodie’s closet lesbianism would transfer as well. Holding knives to Vanessa Minnillo’s throat is one thing, but holding knives to her throat while sticking her tongue down the veejay’s throat is a whole other mind-blowing ballgame. Also, it might mean that Gina Gershon would be her friend, and that’s as fantastic a friendship for her as I can possibly imagine.
    

14. That someone sit her down and makes her watch Clueless again, a reminder that even beloved teen stars who don’t do crazy amounts of blow, bang skeezy C-list boytoys and put knives to boy bander girlfriends can end up without a career. Sure they may get to make an ill-advised romcom with a young Benicio Del Toro first, but eventually (read: 2-3 years) everyone will forget how insanely hot they were bungee-jumping off a bridge in LA and flipping off a cheating Stephen Dorff, and only remember the ten pounds they put on right before Crisco-ing themselves into a be-nippled rubber bat suit and “flirting” with the star of Vertical Limit. The audience goodwill only lasts for so long, is what I’m saying. And Mean Girls is now more than three years old.

15. That she consider going the Heather Graham route and start exclusively doing mediocre comedies (with the occasional erotic titty thriller starring the lesser Fiennes sibling, thrown in). At least Rollergirl has her dignity.

16. That she behead Hayden Panetierre, lest the Heroes-star take over Lindsay’s “hot young starlet with enormous talent potential and even more enormous Celebritard potential” turf. After all, as it goes in their world, there can be only one.

17. That she start sending Steven Spielberg a fruit basket every day until he takes her call, Ma-Sheen in Wall Street-style. And on that note…

18. That she dress up as a Japanese anime school girl and sleep with Quentin Tarantino. Or make Spike Jonze a mixtape. Or learn Spanish to impress Alfonso Cuaron. Or bring Peter Jackson a sandwich. Basically, that she do ANYTHING at all possible to improve the level of directors she’s been working with. I think being told how to emote by Emilio Estevez might have done the trick, but who knows?

19. That Ben Affleck teaches her to embrace the irony of their tenuous celebrity and regain the public love by being in on the joke. And he knows of what he speaks. After all, Affleck was the bomb in Phantoms, yo!
    

20. That she resurrect The Icecrotch, if only so that she can do epic, mythical battle with Dakota Fanning in an upcoming chapter of “The Stirring Tales of Master Assassin Dakota Fanning” (coming soon on TheJay.com)!

21. That she knows if all else fails, showing your tits never hurt. Just ask Halle Berry. Early career love, mid-career stall, spectacularly bad celebrity divorce, hit a guy with her car, was virtually unhireable, showed her tits, won on Oscar, became a top shelf Bond girl, now beloved by Oprah. Doesn’t that seem like the exact career track of Lindsay Lohan? I can’t wait to see her in ten years walking be-thonged onto a Caribbean beach in “The Spy Who Loved Firecrotch” while a lecherous Daniel Craig flexes his pecs and feigns interest.

Happy Birthday, Lindsay! Try to stay out of trouble.

Bangarang!

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(NOTE: This column was originally written in 2002, to commemorate the release of Star Wars Episode II - Attack of the Clones. In honor of the release of Live Free or Die Hard I am re-publishing it as a tribute to the man who started my love for waiting in line for movies. The man, the myth, the Bruno, Mr. Bruce Willis. I can’t wait to come full circle and stand in line for a Die Hard movie, one more time…)

The date had been embedded in my mind for months: July 4, 1990. On a Wednesday in the middle of an unusually hot summer, Die Hard 2: Die Harder would be released to the public. The first film, Die Hard, had quickly become a family favorite amongst me and my two brothers. We had seen the film countless times, reciting racy lines of dialogue and reenacting brutal violence at an age when we should have been playing baseball, not terrorist and hero cop. When the release date of the film was set, our house went into a collective frenzy. There was no doubt in our minds what we were going to do the night of July 4th. Forget barbeques or baseball games, if it did not entail Bruce Willis fighting terrorists, we were not interested.

The days leading up to the opening night were agonizingly slow. The commercials advertising the film only served to increase my frustration of not having seen the film. The day finally arrived, filled with joy and the feeling of vindication. My patience would finally be rewarded. Little did I know, trouble was brewing. My mother was called into a late evening meeting, we would not make the 7:30 p.m. showing. Ordinarily this would not be a problem since most films have multiple showings on any given night. Die Hard 2, however, was a longer film than most. My local cinema, the only one playing the film, was airing only two screenings, one at 7:30 and the other at 10:45 p.m. My mom arrived home at 8:30, and we commiserated on our misfortune. Being only nine years old, my strict bedtime of 9:30 p.m. would not be wavered, even by the rogue charms of Mr. Willis. I was well aware that the film would be playing in theaters for the duration of the summer and beyond, but my desire to experience the film “right now” was too overwhelming. Clever use of a guilt-trip sullied my mother’s defenses and soon we were off waiting in line for the late show.

It was my first experience seeing a movie that late; my eyes were wide with excitement and energy. The line extended around the back of the theater but no one felt inconvenienced; they all shared my deep rooted love for this film franchise. They let us in at 10:15, and I could barely contain myself. A nine-year old ball of energy, up way past his bedtime, waiting to see Bruce Willis save the world. The lights went down, and I was hooked.

Even at such a young age, I could feel the power of the opening night. At no other time is the energy as high, the audience as passionate, or the experience as genuine. My need to see movies on opening night became an obsession I have been feeding since that fateful Independence Day. My movie-going life was changed, and film’s place in my social life was forever altered. I blame it all on Bruce Willis.

The years passed, and the opening night experiences grew in number. Braveheart, summer of 1995. Watching the movie we all knew what was happening. The first night of the film’s release and we could all sense it. We were watching a Best Picture in the making, and no one else knew. Then, Apollo 13, just a few weeks later. The air-conditioning in the theater turned up so high, I felt as if I was the one trapped in space.

November 1, 1996. Throngs of pre-pubescent and newly adolescent teenagers pack an unsuspecting local movie theater, awaiting the release of the highly anticipated re-imagining of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I was fifteen, anxious, and surrounded by braces and Clearasil as far as the eye could see. The theater had underestimated the film’s appeal, and chose to screen the film in a theater two sizes too small. Teens were turned back at the door, openly crying at the thought of a Leonardo-less Friday night. As the 7:30 p.m. mark moved ever closer, the theater began to hum with the excitement. Six hundred adolescents giddy at the prospect of watching two hours of spastic, tragic Shakespeare. When Leonardo’s face first appeared on-screen relationships ended. Girls openly wept and their dates hid in their seats. This was not a film screening, it was hormonal torture.

On another end of the spectrum was the Friday late show of Michael Mann’s sprawling L.A. crime thriller, Heat. On an atypically scorching December evening, I decided to turn my opening night obsession into a sociological experiment. The Oxy pad crowd of Romeo and Juliet had taught me that certain sects of people would only attend certain movies at specific times. To this end, I decided to forego the usual mid-evening show, and instead see the final show of the night.

Returning to the conversations heard in my Die Hard line roots, I anticipated a crowd of film-loyalists; pretentious movie-lovers spouting home-made philosophies on the merits of Pulp Fiction as a new filmic-religion. What I got, however, was a collection of individuals so contrary to anything I had expected that all my theories immediately went out the window. Entering the densely packed theater, I first noticed a preponderance of leather. Everyone seemed to be wearing it in some form, be it the jacket, shirt or pants variety. They all seemed to be unusually large and bedecked with lengthy beards. It was then that I realized what type of audience I walked into. This was no crowd of kids. I had come to the late night trucker show, with access granted to only those who owned and operated a vehicle that could double for the malicious big-rig in Steven Spielberg’s Duel. The crowd reaction was unnatural: no catty comments thrown Pacino’s way, no standing ovations or audible gasps. The only sound you heard was the rustling of leather. I was a child amongst grizzled grown-ups. Two hours of crime drama could not go fast enough.

I began to examine the crowds that joined me in my opening night excursions, finding just as much joy and pain from who I watched, then what I watched. The unusually high number of people seated legs-crossed, near the back of the theater, for Boogie Nights. The crowd full of blown hankies and teary sobs for Carl Franklin’s One True Thing. And most famously, the crowd of somber adults, turned stone silent by the effect of Steven Spielberg’s masterpiece, Schindler’s List.

(more…)

As is tradition at TheJay.com, we’d like to take the time to honor and celebrate the birth of celebrity off-spring. And there’s no better way to do that then by supposing what some other big name celebrities might be saying to the proud, new parents. And by new parents I mean just Julia Roberts. Except of course when the paparazzi are around, then that also includes her charming civilian husband Danny Moder. Since the birth of Julia’s new baby boy Henry came in so under the wire that most people still haven’t realized it actually happened a week ago (hey, the Paris machine doesn’t stop for anything, least of all the third kid of an aging American Sweetheart. Unless the kid came out with three arms, or black, we’d rather hear what Paris is reading in jail. Her thoughts on the Harry Potter series are quite illuminating), we’re gonna follow suit with this post, seven days after the fact. This way we get to honor two traditions, the birth of a celebrity baby and procrastination!

So congratulations to Julia, Danny and baby Henry from all of us here at TheJay.com! May you’re poorly-named twins not maim you in your sleep for giving the new kid such an easy moniker. Mazel Tov!

On to the celebrity well-wishes…

George Clooney: Julia, don’t take it personal that we left you out of the new Ocean’s movie because you were rabidly annoying in the las- I mean, because you were so pregnant. We just didn’t want to bother you in your time of glowing motherhood. Also, you never let me bring whores on set. And you know that’s what I need to begin my creative process. And with Pitt warming up to Angelina every morning, I needed something equally as… creative in my trailer. You understand, right?

Phinnaeus Roberts: Henry? Fucking Henry? You saddled with me a name Shakespeare would have junked and the new kid gets HENRY??!! I am so smearing peanut butter on the plasma screen.

Brad Pitt: Don’t believe a word of what George said. I’m the reason we dropped you and made Ellen Barkin the only chick on set. Angie made me sign a contract saying I’d only work with women who look like dudes. I argued hard to include you on that list, but you just never win when faced with the choice of not getting to have sex with Angelina Jolie. I’m sorry. And congratulations. I hope you’re enjoying all your three of your beautiful Caucasian, totally belonging to you by blood kids. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take the black one to pre-school before I go to the set. I’m shooting a love scene with Rhea Perlman today. (sighs) … totally worth it!

Eric Roberts: Congratulations, sis! I’m so proud of you. You are going to be as wonderful a Mother as you have been a Sister. Um… so now that I kissed your ass, can you like, get me work? I have a pretty big house payment due at the end of the month and Emma won’t give me a bigger allowance.

Richard Gere: Julia, about your new baby boy. It corners like it’s on rails.

Matthew Perry: Could my television show BE any more cancelled! So yeah, congrats on the third kid. Sorry it never worked out between us. What with you being the biggest movie star in the world at the time and me being on a show people actually liked, you’d think it would have worked. Course Brad and Jennifer disproved that theory. Whoa, just think, if we had gotten together, there’s a chance I’d be banging Angelina Jolie and starring in stuff people don’t find soul-crushingly pretentious, and you’d be mirthlessly dating Vince Vaughn. Life, huh? Could it BE any more random!

Sandra Bullock: I just don’t understand. We’re equally lovable on-screen performers. I’m arguably more attractive. I made just as cloying a Hugh Grant romcom. So why aren’t I an incredibly beloved Oscar winner who gets to make movies with George and Brad? How come I’m stuck making mediocre thrillers with the idiot from Nip/Tuck, while you’re having Sunday brunch with freaking Oprah?! I don’t get it! Is it because I did movies with three of your ex boyfriends? I’m sorry. Please don’t sick Dakota on me!

Clive Owen: You gave birth. That’s the spirit. Congrats. Congrats for your bravery. Now fuck off and die, you fucked up slag! Love to the twins.

Catherine Zeta-Jones: Darling, how are you! And the baby, so precious! Oh, what it must have been like to conceive with such a strapping young man. And with so many abdominal muscles! Michael hasn’t had those since the 70’s. When I was eight. (start tearing up) I apologize, Julie bird, I’ve just had a rough go of it lately. Spielberg won’t take my calls, Soderbergh refused to put me in Ocean’s Thirteen. I mean, Ellen Barkin instead of us! You’re pregnant and bitchy, but me? I’m GORGEOUS and bitchy! Now I have to go promote this god awful movie I made with Aaron stupid Eckhart! And the girl in the movie isn’t even Dakota Fanning. This is my penance for agreeing to do the Zorro sequel.

Hazel Roberts: Henry? You named him Henry? That’s such an easy name! Why again am I Hazel? Why did I get some stupid witch name and the new boy gets an All-American one? I am so making you a grandmother when I turn 12.

Emma Roberts: Congratulations, Auntie Julia. I just wanted to remind you of our deal. You keep these little rats out of my limelight and I’ll keep my no good idiot father out of yours. I gotta go, press tour for my new smash non-hit Nancy Drew! See you at Thanksgiving!

Dakota Fanning: Is she bothering you, Aunt Julia? Would you like me to take care of her? Lord knows I want to. Nancy Drew should have been mine! MINE! I need to shoot someone RIGHT NOW! Dammit, where did I put my uzi?

Keifer Sutherland: Julia, I came to see the baby. (Pulls a gun.) WHERE’S THE BABY???? You have five seconds to tell me where the baby is or I will shoot your civilian husband in his non-famous leg. TELL ME WHERE HE IS!!!!! 5! 4! (cocks gun) 3! 2! Oh wait, there he is. Didn’t see him there in the crib. Very cute, Jules!

Rachel McAdams: I’ve been noticing that all the other would be Next Julia’s tend to make movies with your former male co-stars or boyfriends. Since I’m the real heir to the throne I’m not going to fall into the same trap (Dermot Mulroney doesn’t count, because, well, please. It’s Dermot Mulroney.). That being said, if you go near my Ryan, even for a cameo in something, I will kill your first born daughter. I am not playing around. I secretly ruined Sandra Bullock’s career and I can do the same to you. I’m Canadian and I am not afraid of Dakota Fanning.

Danny Moder: Hi, honey! It’s me, Danny, your husband! Just wanted to see when I could swing by and take a look at my new son. So, uh, call me or have your publicist call me if you prefer, and just let me know when the paparazzi are there so I can show up with someone cute. And I promise to color match you this time. I know now how important that is to you. Oh, on a related note, that burn mark you gave me when you lit an US Magazine and threw it at my head, finally went away. It only took two skin graphs. So yeah, good news for everyone!

Bangarang!

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It’s a time of reflection for those in the unauthorized celebrity picture business. With Paris now firmly behind bars for the duration of June, Lindsay drying up in a posh suite somewhere in Malibu, Nicole trying to clean up her rep in time for her day in court, Brangelina giving it out for free to shill their respective new movies, and nary a rookie Celebritard climbing the ranks, the Paparazzi have a lot of free time on their hands. I wonder what they’ll do with all that free time? I mean really, who wants to spend the summer stalking those idiot Laguna Beach kids? L.C. is hot and all, but at some point you gotta remember why you got into this business. It was to be in the trenches, literally (the ones you dug in the dirt on the Malibu Cliffside while waiting for Tom and Nicole to go to breakfast). It was not to waste your time in front of The Standard at 2:30 am on a Tuesday on the off chance Kristin Cavallari walks out in a slinky dress and boots all over Hollywood Blvd. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing that.

So while the Paparazzi anxiously await the return of their skanky meal tickets from their respective detention centers and publicist enforced club bans, I put together a list of 21 things that the papz are likely to do with all there new found free time.

1. Stalking Jennifer Lopez, just for old times’ sake.

2. Going to the beach. Not to enjoy the ocean, but to practice burying themselves in the sand for the upcoming celebritard bikini season.

3. Hitting the gym. The treadmill, specifically. The new breed of star is mighty quick. Gotta practice getting out of the way of speeding, bloodthirsty Mercedes’.

4. Snubbing George Clooney in public, giving the star a false sense of security, waiting two minutes, and then casually following him around for the rest of the day at a safe, seemingly harmless distance.

5. Having epiphanies about their empty soulless existence, but then ultimately deciding not to get out of Jennifer Aniston’s garbage can.

6. Banding together to heighten the tabloid intensity on Hayden Panetierre in the vein hopes she very quickly becomes the next La Lohan. TV stars make the best celebritards (Hi, Shannen Doherty!). Unfortunately, as we all know, the only person who can truly create a satisfactory is celebritard is the Celebrinator herself, Paris Hilton. And though she is truly omnipotent, not even Ms. Jailbird Hilton can skankify a perfectly respectable young girl from behind bars. She can still give the girl herpes, just not celebritardation.

7. Actually eating in the trendy restaurants they camp out at.

8. Catching up on their Netflix queue. Mel Gibson’s movie Paparazzi has been ironically sitting on their coffee table for months (it’s hard to get up the urge to watch Tom Sizemore act at night when you have to take perp walk pictures of him all day).

9. Sucking up to Harvey Leven.

10. Not returning Jessica Simpson’s publicist’s phone calls.

11. Going to rehab to kick their insatiable, life-crushing Brangelina habit. While at rehab, trying to learn Vietnamese to they can use more effective ways of getting Pax Thien Jolie-Pitt to look at their camera. Something tells me the paparazzi rehab would be about as effective as the gayhab Isiah Washington snored through during FaggotGate.

12. Continuing to bribe Lindsay Lohan’s duplicitous, picture stealing “friends”.

13. Competing in a last man standing style game of “not it!” to determine who will have the unenviable task of having to cover Rosie O’Donnell.

14. Wondering out loud why Tara Reid hasn’t stepped up to get some of the free tabloid limelight. After all, for the next month there will be a considerable dearth of “drunk celebritard falling out of a limo” pics, for which she is immensely suited for.

15. Scrapbooking.

16. Reading all the recent “Ben Affleck Is Coming Back” articles, realizing how much unwarranted hell they caused him back in the day and vowing to somehow make it up to him. Not by ever watching one of his movies, but maybe by not taking those extra forty pictures of him looking scrubby at Starbucks.

17. Recommitting themselves to capturing an illicit shot of Hillary Duff doing anything at all even remotely interesting. This might prove to be a herculean task.

18. Googling Kim Kardashian and still not understanding why her picture is worth anything.

19. Getting drunk and mischievous and sending in an order to Pink Dot for three cases of Grey Goose to be delivered to Promises Malibu under the name “Han, Lo”.

20. Weighing their options of getting out of bed to snap bikini pics of Britney Spears. On the one hand, it’s an easy shot that will sell. On the other hand, they’ll inevitably spend the night throwing up their lunch, followed be restless fever dreams of cellulite-ridden buttocks devouring tiny blue thongs, scored to Britney’s dance club hit “Toxic”. What price dignity, eh?

21. Doing what any normal person with a telephoto lens would do… taking close up, high-res pictures of their junk.

Bangarang!

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“The dance is tomorrow. She’s a cheerleader, you’ve seen Star Wars 27 times. You do the math”

“I’m Jewish. That’s no cakewalk either. Last year, I was elected school treasurer. I didn’t even run!”

“Mitch, girl go pee-pee not something I want to see-see.”

“I did an episode of Bette Midler’s short-lived sitcom on CBS. I thought it was Emmy-worthy. Turns out it was A BETTE MIDLER SITCOM ON CBS!!”

You know him as Neil Schwieber from Freaks and Geeks (rest in peace greatest cancellation injustice this side of Parker Lewis Can’t Lose). You’ve seen him on various TV shows, including: Veronica Mars (speaking of R.I.P.’s, How I Met Your Mother, Undeclared, That 70’s Show, Boston Legal, My Name Is Earl and many more. You may also remember him as the Donger spoof character in Not Another Teen Movie. I know him as Samm Levine.

And he was cool enough to stop by the PopLoad show and talk to me about his career.

We spoke about all things Freaks and Geeks; how he got the part, how Judd Apatow shocked the industry by actually getting the show on the air, the positive critical reaction and how it didn’t have an effect on the ratings, and Samm’s musings of what his world would be like if the show were still on the air. Samm talked about his experiences guest starring on various TV shows; he worked with Lindsay Lohan for one day on the Bette Midler sitcom before La Lohan walked off the show. She was an awesome person even then. I wondered why he wasn’t in Knocked Up, and Samm talked about why Judd likes to put him in his shows but not his movies (which is curious… and lame). Samm told me about how he got into the business, what it’s like hanging out with famous people, his plans for the future and best of all, the total hotness of Kristen Bell. Suffice it to say, the interview rocked.

And you can download the mp3 of the interview by CLICKING HERE (takes a minute to download)!

For more cool, geeky celebrity interviews, tune in to PopLoad every Monday @ 7pm PST on www.NowLive.com

Bangarang!

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The bar none coolest thing at the Celebration was The Vader Project, and art exhibit based around a reimagining of the Darth Vader mask. Artists from around the world, and from all different genres, were given a basic black mask as their canvas and told to make it their own. This was the result. For more info on The Vader Project, including information on the artists involved, you can go HERE or HERE.

(NOTE: I’m sure these masks all have official names, but I’m not gonna go look them all up. Besides, my versions are probably a lot funnier. Also, the lighting in the room was way wonky, and it resulted in a lot of blurry pics. I did my best to correct it where possible, but not all of them are crystal clear. My apologies to the vision impaired. And those easily made naseous.)

Cool character renditions on this one.

Brain Vader

The Cabo Wabo Vader Shack (located on Tatooine, natch)

The Uni-Vader

The Statue Of Vader-y (bring me your whiny, your fearful, your bad actors)

This is crazy blurry, but I love the Yoda on this one.

Um, …ok. Kinda lame.

Rocky and Bullvader (”But Palpatine, when do we get to kill Luke and Obi-Wan?”)

The artist put NO effort into this. What is that, paper mache? This helmet is low-fi.

Pink, but still Punk Rock.

Darth Vader looks so pretentious with that goatee. What a art house douchebag!

This one is fun. Kinda youthful.

Patriotic Vader. God Bless (The) America(n) (Empire)!

I’m Seamus O’Kenobi, this is Bobby O’Vader. i’m ready to get drunk (and force choke some bitches)!

Star Wars plastic surgery gone bad. This guy has a worse eye job than Rose McGowan.

Dude, how awesome is this one? Reminds me of one of the light up bad guy from Running Man (”Thought it was pretty funny in the Death Star, didn’t you!”).

This reminds me of candy for some reason.

Darth Hick

Bozo the Sith Lord

Love the colors on this helmet. Wish I had gotten a clear shot.

Darth Hippy

Darth totally should have rocked a naked chick on his grill. He would have been less intimidating, but he would have gotten invited to A LOT more parties. A Darth Vader upside down force keg stand would be a site to behold.

And finally, my favorite helmet of the exhibit. Spy vs. Spy Vader. I would pay large amounts of money to see a cartoon of two Vaders, one white and one black, trying to blow each other up. It would totally absolve Lucas of the awful prequels. We really need to get the people of Mad Magazine on the phone. Pitch this project up.

Bangarang!

Even if you avoided the panels, neglected the Laser Tag and Droid Race, and had exactly zero interest in walking the sellers floor, there were still greats sights to be seen and fun times to be had. The people watching levels at the Celebration was off the charts. Just standing in one place and randomly clicking pictures would have yielded you high hilarity. Here are my favorite (in focus) pics from in and around the Celebration.

This is what you saw as you walked up to the Convention Center.

This is the awning you had to walk under to get to the main Exhibit Hall.

The view from the top of the stairs, looking down onto the main lobby area.

Kids love R2D2 (though they were too afraid to actually touch him). By the way, this was a working model. It rolled, beeped and the head even swiveled. It was way awesome.

These are made out of Legos. Legos! I could barely make a square out of Legos when I was a kid. But then again, I much preferred chewing on Legos, than actually playing with them. I was an odd child.

The dude in black was not pleased that I took this picture. Though he might actually be pissed because some random dude was trying to zap his alien lady. It’s hard to tell.

Is that a C.O.B.R.A. trooper? Go Joe!

Dark Jedi’s like their cancer sticks. Of course, Anakin probably smoked Virgina Slims (Sith Pussy!).

One of the many totally cute tiny Leia’s.

Even stormtroopers need a cell phone break.

Dimo likes him some Star Wars toys.

Like I said, the gold bikini is a privilege, NOT A RIGHT!

If you camped out for a four day event that never sold out, then you are crazy pathetic. It’s sad enough that the event producers felt it necessary to make this sign.

The Jay hanging with The Fett. Han wishes he could chill with us.

Blurily smooching on the Princess.

Probably the closest I’ll ever get to Natalie Portman.