Wait a Minute

(Yeah, you remember)

HOLD THE TRAIN.

Whitney and Ray J were in a relationship? A five year long relationship? Are you kidding me? I've been all 'Don't blame Bobby, Whitney was a grown ass woman, there has to be some accountability...', but come on, Bobby. You had a child with this woman. You want Ray J around that child? Sexy, you canNOT.

This has been kind of hard to take. I lost my virginity to Whitney Houston. She was important to me.

Woah, I meant Whit was on the radio. I didn't lose it to her, physically. Although that would have been a way better story, sorry.

Charlie Sheen's Reluctant Mistress

The other day, a friend and I were talking about Twitter. More specifically, about whether or not I should join Twitter, and, were I to join, what my Twitter-name should be. There's probably a more techno-elegant name for that. Anyway, he suggested that I "just pick a celebrity, and throw a 'not' in there. Like - NOTCharlieSheen.' A few minutes later, we had my new favorite band name: Charlie Sheen's Reluctant Mistress (it's too long for that Twitter-name business.). And over the next few hours, I had a lot of thoughts about Charlie Sheen.

It appears that he's been in the news more than usual lately, for the sort of Charlie Sheen-esque escapades you'd expect. Rehab! Sex Tapes! Divorces! Why is anyone surprised? Why are these women in his life AT ALL SURPRISED BY HIS INSANITY, EVER?

The whole reason 'Reluctant Mistress' is awesome, to me, is because it indicates that one should be somewhat-to-extremely embarrassed to reveal their romantic affiliation with the dude. Because homeboy is a train wreck.

Ladies - it's fucking CHARLIE SHEEN. Charlie Sheen. If you turned to me randomly, at any time of day, and said "Quick: name the celebrity you think is most likely to be snorting a line of cocaine off a woman's body at this very moment?" My answer will ALWAYS be: "I don't know, Charlie Sheen?" Three years ago, if it were after midnight, I might be like "Possibly Steve-O. Or Russell Brand. But if they are, Charlie Sheen is probably with them. Charlie Sheen probably started it." But now it's 2011, and Steve-O is all straight edge (probably for the best) and Russell Brand is all wifey-ed up with Katy Perry (eh...is anything really for the best when a Katy-with-a-'y' hooks up with a guy who exclusively wears skinny leather pants and a lot of eyeliner? We'll call this a draw.) But Charlie Sheen is still bankrolling porn stars to hang out with him at days-long parties, where he greets guests at the door in a wine-stained shirt and, apparently, gold teeth.

So, ladies who make the - likely substance addled, but presumably consensual - decision to make things official with Mr. Sheen...what the hell were you expecting?

Given everything, it's surprising to me that Two and a Half Men is still on the air. Not because it's stupid - it's really no stupider than 90% of the other shit that's on network television right now. My own personal problems with the show stem mostly from the fact that I hate to think that Duckie grew up to be some awkward, marginally employed loser with a borderline retarded, loafy child relegated to living in his brother's house with a wardrobe consisting entirely of ill-fitting shorts and belts that look like they're apologizing for being so...braided. And, I hate that creepy kid and the housekeeper character is terrifying. Charlie Sheen is the character on the show I'd actually most like to hang out with.

I have to stop writing now. I can't believe I just said that. Putting the wine DOWN.

Rolling Like the Homeless...

Do you ever spy someone wandering around the city, and then find yourself unable to determine whether that particular individual is homeless, or if they've just been travelling for an extremely long time and are having, like, a really tough go of it?

.

It happens to me almost daily. It doesn't help that I walk through Boston Common on my way to work every morning - a place populated by peoples in various states of homelessness, as well as hippies, students, demonstrators of ranging passions, tour guides dressed in colonial garb, worker bees eating lunch, wild children, harried nannies, and lost tourists evidencing different levels of distress.

.

So I mean, there's really no way to know, with certainty, whether that dude is homeless, or if his luggage just totally sucks and he had to wrap his suitcase with twine somewhere in Iowa after the group of German house musicians he was hitch-hiking with parted ways. And that lady might be homeless, or she might just be having the worst time finding the airport EVER. And what is THAT DUDE's deal? Why is he sticking his entire head in that faucet? To wash it? To get water? Because he isn't able to do those things indoors? Or because it's been approximately 400 degrees for most of the summer, and one's hydration-situation can get pretty dire in a hurry? Oooh, although that's no reason to be sleeping on a piece of cardboard under a tree! Wait, but is someone filming you? Fucking Emerson kids.

.

So then...what is homeless, anyway? What are the parameters? Why do I obsess over this stuff? Especially when it completely, totally doesn't matter? Because, in the end, you can't determine that kind of status with any real certainty?* I guess it's better than obsessing over something I saw last night on E News. Or what Frances Rivera was wearing on the Real News, even though that is admittedly, really fun to obsess over.

.

You know what? All I can do is control my own actions. I'm just going to buy some really top-notch luggage and hope I avoid confusing people. You all can choose your obsessions accordingly. Just...don't let those Emerson kids record your image for too long, okay? I think they might be trying to capture your soul.

.

.

*I take that back, I think. Because if all of your shit** is in a shopping cart, that's a pretty reliable indicator of...domestic flexibility.

.

.

** If 'all of your shit' translates to 'garbage bags full of aluminum cans', then you have bigger problems than I'm ready to address right now. I'm sorry.

Miss Heigl If You're Nasty

Just now I thought to myself: 'That Katherine Heigl seems like a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I want very much to like her, so I would like to know why she feels the need to go and make movies like '27 Dresses' and this new 'The Ugly Truth' thing that seems so dreadful it makes my brain sore, because that makes me feel like maybe she's an idiot who I've just talked myself into liking because she's funny and weird and doesn't care that people know she smokes and her skin is divine and she looks lovely in satin and that's a very hard fabric to pull off, especially in warmer climates.'

Then I was like: 'I am also a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I smoke sometimes and if someone offered me a million dollars I would make the shit out of a crap movie like 27 Dresses and this evening I left the house wearing a pile of extra long tank tops, leggings and some Reefs that the dog chewed most of the toe off of five years ago so maybe I should QUIT JUDGING Katherine Heigl.'

Dunk You!

Seriously, why do I only ever see basketball-associated celebrities in real life? It's a really weird thing to be annoyed by, but it's just been following me around my whole life. Like, growing up in Amherst - people saw Uma Thurman at the bookstore, or ran into Robert Downey Jr. at Rao's. I? Saw Marcus Camby off the court a few times. And some lady that is now in the WNBA like, guest-coached at my brother's basketball camp when he was nine, but that totally doesn't count.

And when I lived in New Orleans? People were always like "Ooh, I was out at some weird bar in the Warehouse District last night, and I saw Jude Law and Sienna Miller!" Or "Ooh, there was this drive by last night at the corner of Magazine and Prytania, and I totally saw Sean Penn outside in his bathrobe drinking a beer and watching the cops like, search the area!" You know who I saw in New Orleans? KOBE BRYANT. In the French Quarter, on my way to a Bloody Mary lunch at Pat O's my first year of law school. And I was so underwhelmed. I think I even turned to the person I was with like "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, THAT TOTALLY ISN'T KOBE BRYANT, KOBE BRYANT IS CERTAINLY TALLER THAN THAT, BESIDES, WHO CARES ABOUT KOBE BRYANT, HE'S A TOTAL DOUCHE." (Yes, I was absolutely yelling.) And of course, it was Kobe Bryant, but WHO CARES because KOBE BRYANT IS A TOTAL FUCKING DOUCHEBAG. Christ.

Then one time when I was visiting L.A. (I know, Los Angeles, right? EVERYBODY spots a famous person when they're out there!) do you want to guess who I saw? No, DON'T BOTHER because you would not guess if you had a thousand chances. John Salley. Yes, John Salley. We were driving around Venice and he was just crossing the street in Bermuda shorts and a polo. First, I was like "OF COURSE I WOULD SEE, OF ALL POSSIBLE QUASI-FAMOUS PEOPLE, JOHN FUCKING SALLEY." and then I was like "why do I even know who John Salley is?" but whatever. That's my own issue.

And now I'm in Boston; there are all these celebs running around and filming movies and whatnot, and I've NEVER SEEN ANY OF THEM. You know who I saw outside the Colonnade Hotel last year? COACH FUCKING CAL. Who also happened to live in Amherst for the majority of my formative celebrity spotting years. Cannot. catch. A break.

I don't know why I even give a crap. It's not like I'm going to see Kate Hudson on Newbury Street and be all "I AM NOW COMPLETE." But still. I just want to see one. Because an alternate explanation might be that I see celebrities ALL THE TIME and I only recognize basketball players. Which is even weirder than being able to identify John Salley in a beach ensemble.

Puck This

So I have a little bone to pick with celebrity endorsed products. Not with their existence, generally - we're a consumer culture, blahblahblah, and if you buy one brand of energy drink above all others solely because your favorite BMX rider is paid to say they like it, then you're a moron, and you shouldn't really share your opinion (and please, can we stop with the energy drinks already? What the fuck do you do all day that you need so much freaking instant energy?).

Sorry, tangents. Anyway - I don't fault anyone for endorsing products. Hell, I don't even fault them for hawking products they don't even like. Who cares? What bothers me is when someone devotes some portion of their face-time to a really, really completely unbelievable product endorsement. Not unbelievable as in outrageous (more of those, please, actually) but as in 'No, man. I don't buy it. An Oscar worthy performance would not convince me that you use this product. Stop.' It's just maddening. Initially, for how stupid advertising execs think the public is, and secondly, because it is through this type of effective advertising that I am forced to admit how stupid the general public actually is. How do you believe this shit?

For example: If you're famous for something really specific... say, how Wolfgang Puck is really famous for his abilities in the kitchen - and you're widely recognized for the quality of your product above all else (like, say...Wolfgang Puck. For his good cooking.) then I just think that the product you're shoving at us should demonstrate some moderate compatibility with your purpose as a celebrity.

There was a certain strange era during which my mother would enter a strange, house-bound psychotic fuge, hole up in the tv room and watch QVC and HSN for extended periods of time. As far as parental insanity goes, it was a pretty innocuous sort, but it still resulted in the purchasing of several interesting items. Once, it was a giant faux-Oriental rug. One time it was a pretty awesome down blanket, and on one very relevant occasion, she purchased a set of pots and pans, endorsed by none other than celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck. Like, his signature is on the damn handle and everything.

My problem with these pots is not they they suck, or that they have major design flaws (they do, but we'll get to that) my problem is that it is COMPLETELY FUCKING OBVIOUS THAT WOLFGANG PUCK HAS NEVER NOR WOULD EVER USE THESE POTS AND PANS. I was not fooled for a second. These are the worst fucking pans I have ever used in my life. Invented for the casual cook in the era before Teflon, these pans are 100% heat transferable metal - including the goddamn handles. THE HANDLES ARE ROUTINELY THE SAME TEMPERATURE AS THE REST OF THE POT. No matter where the handle is pointed during cooking, it is always scalding, injuriously hot. I have burned the shit out of my hands so, so many times.

I know, I know, you're saying "stop crying, asshole, and use a potholder." Well, you know what? Fuck you. I am not a chef, granted; on the rare occasion I do break out the pots its usually for the purpose of heating soup, heating water (for ramen noodle soup, or for regular damn water, since I seemed to have misplaced my teakettle in one of my last three moves) ...and that's pretty much it. So I know it seems like I'm not exactly in the place to comment on utilitarian elements of cookware, but think about it this way: wouldn't you expect the expert cooking of Wolfgang and his employs to be going down in a loud, crowded, high pressure kitchen environment? Do they always have a sizeable, heat absorbing potholder readily available? Don't you think sometimes they have to just grab a damn pan and get on with it? Probably, right? Don't you think it would be somewhat useful for the kitchen staff at Mr. Puck's esteemed restaurants to have access to pots and pans with some insulated fucking handles? Probably, right? I mean, I'm just saying.

And yes, parents, I do own a potholder. Two of them actually. I bought them last month at Target.

And, assorted palms scalds asides, I do appreciate the pots.