Tag Archives: celebrity!

Responsible Journalism

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Licketysplit

I’m a magazine junkie. My first Vogue subscription was right up there with getting my driver’s license. Technically, I even have a degree in magazine journalism. That wasn’t too hard to do, as you might imagine. I know a magzine is called a book, and the area with the stories is called a well. But other than that, the curriculum did not live up to my expectations. I dreamed of prancing around in sky-high stilettos, nabbing emu muffs from the freebie closet, maybe fetching Anna Wintour or Liz Tilberis some passion fruit tea. Or infant blood. I would toss off opinions on the bag of the season, foment Halston revivals, and take to hurdling over fire hydrants to escape Bill Cunningham constantly photographing me.

But then I realized that a) I kept having to take crappy newswriting classes to fulfill core requirements, and b) I would make about $25k starting out on staff on a fashion mag. And I wasn’t already independently wealthy enough to afford the requisite wardrobe and the crappy NY studio at a good address. And I got so fed up with the newswriting classes that I just wanted to start making shit up. It’s not like I invented a heroin-addicted tot and started a national outcry, but I nearly had one professor convinced that street luging was Boston’s underground sport of choice. Then I had one whole class on how to “Boston Herald-ize” a headline. A reputable paper says “Nightclub fire kills 90?” The Boston Herald says “DEATHTRAP!” This was not what I wanted to do in life. And I only had a semester left to get my degree! If I had it to do over again, I would have picked a different program at a different school. Seventeen-year-olds should not be allowed to make momentous decisions that will eventually cost them much aggravation, not to mention a hundred grand.

Since I was clearly no good at creative non-fiction unless I was making it up, I gave up on writing for a living and went for the cheap, easy loot of web development. Ah, the late 90’s! Hell, back then I could afford the clothes. Nowadays I still buy all the magazines. Not Glamour, not Cosmo, not In Style. Lucky? Doesn’t turn my crank. Just the ones with really inaccessible fashion layouts. I have piles and piles littering my apartment. This morning I was flipping through Elle, and I ran across this bang-up piece on Matt Dillon, by Rachael Combe. Basically she lured Mr. Dillon back to her apartment and cooked up dinner on the pretext of interviewing him. Then she let the steak catch fire! He had to wield an extinguisher!

Now I’m cradling my head in my hands and thinking “Oh, I’ve wasted my life” (using the voice of Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons). If only I had known that the secret to journalism was putting celebrities in peril. To think that I could be luring a drunken David Bowie to my rooftop plunge pool right now! I could be scattering ball bearings in the foyer to welcome Ashton Kutcher or Adrian Brody. Think Misery. Think shoving Christopher Walken from a ski gondola. Am I ever on the wrong track….

C’est la vie.

xxoo

Tell me about the rabbits, Trista

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from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn, prescription

A few months ago I slugged it out with a few dozen other girls on a popular TV show. I won the affections of a lunkish Midwestern kinda guy. Everything was really dreamy for a few weeks, but then he looked at another girl in a bar! I did what any self-respecting person with crazy eyes would do and hucked the engagement ring at his head! I mean, I’m his fiancée! That alone should demand he pluck out his offending eye. We had a connection! And he didn’t see it that way. I like the idea of making a guy get down on his knees to re-propose every few days. I think guys like that too, it makes them feel like they have a special job to do. But then he just got all weird on me and wouldn’t spend the holidays with me. What’s with that, I’m his fiancée! And then he didn’t love me anymore. But I’m his fiancée! I have a ring! Should I keep it, Kitty? I won it fair and square.

-hella crazy

Dear Helene,

If I had one of those automagical Tivos, I would have zapped right past you, because you scare me so much. But I needed to see Trista lead Ryan around like a trusty St. Bernard. Yes, you do have crazy eyes. But Ryan seems to be on some serious veterinary tranks. Is he slightly retarded? Or is it just that rocky mountain high. At any rate, I hope Trista doesn’t let him pet her pretty hair too long. He’s got big strong hands.

Stay away from me,

-Kitty

P.S. Sure, keep the precious, go right ahead! Fine by me!

Hell is other people?

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I am a sad and lonely act, gagging for sex. My sympathetic friends have helped set me up on a couple of dates, but every time I found myself on the road to snog city, some part of me would panic and find fault with the guy-like I didn’t like his side parting, or he said “wicked” once too often. But then I go right back to repining my celibacy. Naturally, my friends are no longer sympathetic. Perhaps you can answer the question that’s on their minds- “what the hell is the matter with (me)?!”

-Cry for love

Dear Crybaby,

It’s not you, it’s them! Actually, that’s not true, it’s YOU, YOU, YOU, but I cheered you up for a minute right? One possible course of action is to re-evaluate your romantic timeline. Perhaps you are letting the woo drag on a bit too long? It helps to have already sampled the milk before you let the cow start to annoy you. So hop to it and kiss on the first date (be safe of course). If it’s sex you want, sex ye shall have! Then you’ll have at least a 3-10 day cuddle hormone-fueled fog before you start to blink, rub your eyes, and notice the object of your lust sways his hips like a woman or lets the fork touch his teeth.

Believe me, there is no relationship lacking this phase of revulsion. Your “Oh God, how did I get here?” moment could come in 2 days, or 20 years. But if it’s worth pursuing, you’ll forge ahead. You’ll know when.

Alternately, if it really seems that no one measures up, maybe your friends just don’t know anyone good! Maybe you need to ditch your friends for more attractive ones, with more suave, attractive friends of their own.

Failing that, figure out what’s eating you about yourself. If you don’t like yourself, you are likely a cranky poop, on your way to being a nosy old bat. And who’s going to want to be around such an obvious open wound? Maybe all these losers are really trying to drive you away because you are so insufferable and pathetic that they don’t know what else to do?

Oh, put the letter opener down! Turn off the oven! Kitty is just trying to provoke. Sadly, the answer is that you are the key to your own happiness. No one else can make anything better if you don’t allow them. It’s ok to be a solitary soul for a while. Try to put the cravings for love aside and find it within yourself. Think Buddhism. What Would Richard Gere Do?

Keep Kitty updated, Crybaby, as your problem is more thorny than anticipated. Relax, be yourself, and before you know it, you’ll be picking out a thermos for that special someone, not an ordinary thermos either.

Fortitude,

-Kitty

Road Trip Wreckage

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This is what you people love to see in a Blog- sleep patterns minutely charted! It was a twelve hour round trip to an opening in a mental hospital, troche and two days later i am still TIRED. Anyhoo, no rx I sold a painting and who knows what else can happen? In the van we drank champagne and there was general rowdiness. After all the jokes about the opening being crawling with lunatics, ailment there were in fact several patients present. They were easy to spot because they were INSANE. One of them cornered me to congratulate me on maintaining a semblance of a productive existence, since it was “obvious” looking at my work that I, too, am a “deeply disturbed person”. I kid you not boys and girls.

Well, even though I am TIRED, I suppose I ought to get back to work in the studio today. After all, there is that facade of living to promote! I must maintain the porous barrier between my present state of being and a shuffling lithium induced stupor (staves off the ranting and construction of tinfoil armies of tiny soldiers). My routine is an eggshell-like veneer concealing emptiness which requires but the slightest pressure to be crushed into gritty shards.

smooch

where have all the flowers gone?

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I’m a reclusive media figure, and I was recently pilloried in a highly rated television documentary. Barbara Walters kept clucking and saying mean things about me, and then that fat chick who was filling in for the blonde lady on Primetime called me “funny looking!” Kitty, I am at my wit’s end. Years of childhood abuse and blinding fame have rendered me a tragi-comic man-child, and at this point I lack the emotional maturity to defend myself or even see what the hell the big deal is in the first place! Kitty, how do I get these hounds off my back?

-Never had a chance

Dear Never,

Kitty avidly watched your public flogging, pausing only to stuff more Rolos into her pie hole. Kitty’s not sure why she’s referring to herself in the third person either, but it seems like a train one can’t jump off easily. Anyway, beleagured Never, Kitty applauds your parenting decision to raise your children out of sight. More people should do the damn same. Especially the people who shop at the Bread & Circus in Alewife. Right there, you are making a valuable contribution to society as we know it. Perhaps the next step is to apply that sensible ideal to yourself? They do wonders with burqas these days! Never again will anyone twit you about the condition of your nasal passages if they can’t see ’em! Allow Kitty to suggest retiring in style, to a small bunker or other fortified structure. Think of the fun you could have in all your spare time if you didn’t have to dodge the media. Why, there’s the Home Shopping Channel, or one of those “construct-your-own” submarine kits! Or if all else fails, there’s always voodoo, or installing a system of trap doors outside your mansion to swallow up unwanted visitors from Child Protection Services.

Bon Voyage,

-Kitty Winn

drop a boulder on me, lord, or whatever method your might prefer

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Ok, this is not a typical rant, but I need to vent. I’m planning a motherfucking wedding, and I’m awash in a bilious sea of taffeta and shrimp puffs. $120 per person to feed Uncle Burt, Aunt Henrietta, and Big Fat Cousin Susie and her own unruly brood? I haven’t seen these people since New Year’s Eve 1986 (I’m not even kidding). I really see why women freak out (who watched Bridezillas last night on FOX? Admit it!) when confronted with all of these horrendous options for commemorating your nuptials. Today I’m at the point where I realized I just don’t care anymore, I want to hire a wedding coordinator, give them a budget, and we’ll just show up on the right day, stinking drunk. So I go Googling for Boston wedding coordinators, and I find…drumroll please….Klasi Events of Attleboro, MA….Dorna Love’s Wedding Daze of Lynn, and most notably Phat Katt Productions. Holy Fucking Shit. Not only do they cater to the big fat bride, they remind you that a basket of ladies toiletries in the restroom is a must for one’s guests!

Yes, you can’t throw a wedding without handiwipes. Now I don’t think I’m asking for much…an outdoor location in September for 75 people that will allow us to bring our own booze and have bar-b-q catered by Redbones. So if anyone out there has a palatial backyard they feel like renting out, let me know! Believe me, I’ve already lobbied for Vegas. Shot down. We are destined to have some unholy jamboree. Stay tuned as I unravel mentally over the next few months.

Oh, and yes, I’ve been to Indie Bride. Didn’t help! Feh. A pox on wedding bullshit.

tap tap tap

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This is what my friend had to say after a rousing round of Pop You in the Pooper- “HOLY JESUS CHRIST MOTHERFUCKING COWSHIT”

that pretty much sums it up from my end. ha ha. end.

after my near brush with greatness, search the world seems so grey and lifeless. oh wait, ed i live in berlin and the world is grey and lifeless. thankfully, there is cheese and lots of it. so i am going to find something to melt some onto. sausage, toast, a pen cap, whatever.

“…pop you in the pooper buddy dee dee dee…”

smooch

A little bit country…

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No, I’m not going to talk about that stupid Osbournes Pepsi commercial… Instead I want to share the latest in gay porn star country music. [Via Faustus, who is always an enchanting read, and Aaron, who is smarter than me and reads things.] I have decided that I want to hire Jeff Stryker to sing at my wedding! What do you think, “Pop You in the Pooper” should get all the aunties onto the dance floor.

See Lambchop, I can’t top Tom Hanks, but I’m always prepared to bring up the rear anyway. ow.

xxoo

Oh, P.S., I still can’t find MJ RC…. I think she has a photo shoot for www.gothharpy.com today. Maybe tomorrow?

PS

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I don’t mean to imply in any way that Steven Spielberg, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Tom Hanks are all gay men. Gay men with Beards. Beardie Weirdies.

So please do not sue me.

If Nick or David should ever care to sue me, then by all means. But I hope it will be catered and that you’ll stick around for cocktails.

Missing Tom Hanks

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I actually almost went to a gym today. No, Lickety, not because of the promise of untoward behavior in the sauna. I was going to tag along on a guest pass with a friend to her aerobics class. I wish I could participate in the same way that I enjoyed 20 minute workout before school as a kid- in my pajamas with a big bowl of fruity pebbles, hooting at the alien women doing squats in their neon tights/ fluorescent thong combination. (it was olivia newton john’s decade, after all!). Anyway, I didn’t end up having to jump up and down to awful german pop music because my friend spent too long on her makeup. Maybe she knows something I don’t about those saunas.

I decided randomly to troll the huge cineplexx at Potsdamer Platz. I like watching movies in a theater. Even bad ones. But I get there and wouldn’t you know it

OH MY GAWD!

there was a throng of people clotted in fron tof the entrance and they appeared to be drooling over what looked like a length of red carpet. Oh great, I thought, celebrities! I happened upon the Berlin premiere of Catch Me if You Can. No movies for anyone but men in pancake and a typhoon of carmen electras. After pausing a moment to feel like a special part of the greatness, I wanted to go home. A debate ensued because some of my friends wanted a peep at Tom Hanks. Now, while I would delightedly accept a supper invitation from Nick Cave and most happily take a turn around the park with David Bowie, I like to think of famous people like bears- they are more afraid of you than you are of them (and as long as you don’t feed them or attack their young, you won’t have to shoot them). No way in hell am I going to stand around outside for two hours in the middle of january pressed up against people I would never voluntarily touch, craning my neck for a glimpse of Leo’s pre-pubescent moustachery and an overweight Kip Wilson.

My friends say “oh, we like ourselves, don’t we?” Maybe we do. When I got home I turned on the news, and sure enough, in front of the Sony Center in a glorious haze of flashbulbs were Spielberg, Hanks, and DiCaprio.

and i just needed to say Oh MY GOD I MISSED TOM HANKS!!!

smooch