Happy Birthday, Kim!

This year, Hallowe’en is going to be different from any other time in living memory.  I know — I’ve had my problems with All Hallow’s Eve recently (It used to be one of my favourite celebrations until it got hijacked by a bunch of nitwits!) but I’m not one to kick somebody when they’re down.  So, rather than taking a few gratuitous shots at a holiday that’s having a hard time, I’ve decided to look elsewhere for something to write about — and I found it!

Once again, Kim Kardashian has gone out of her way to tell you – point blank — just how much she thinks it sucks to be you.  She gave herself a 40th birthday party torn out of the pages of Decadent Weekly.  This particular debauch was held on a private island, and all attendees were tested, quarantined, disinfected, sanitized, sterilized and washed — toes to tonsils — before they were allowed anywhere near the Queen of CyberSleaze.  Kim herself was in fine form, harnessed into a dress specially engineered to make the jiggly bits stand still and to showcase Silicon Valley.  She had enough makeup on that no virus could possibly fight its way through and walked on tottering heels as though she were following an imaginary plow.  (You go, girl!)  Most of the other women had that glazed look of one-too-many shots of Botox (no smiling or you’ll crack the paint!) and the men were, as usual, forgettable.  There were enough “candid” photos to satisfy even the tweeniest of tweens and so many bent-knee poses that I’m certain Barbie was jealous.  And the whole mess was documented on Twitter with a tease that there was more coming soon to a television near you. 

So what’s the big deal?  Just another set of cyber-celebrities strutting their stuff on Twitter – happens every day.  After all, everybody knows that, despite the hype, we’re NOT all in this together, and pandemic or no, rich celebrities are doing rich celebrity stuff all the time.  Ho-hum!  Nor was the backlash anything special.  Calling Kim Kardashian “tone-deaf” is like calling Kim Jong-un a dictator.  The Kardashian crowd doesn’t care what you think.  These are the folks who would recapture Free Willy and turn him into corsets and perfume if they thought it would give them five more minutes on Instagram.  Actually, the closest anyone got to criticism was Colin Hanks’ “Let them eat cake!”  But no, this wasn’t a modern Marie Antoinette, hobbling around a Tahitian Versailles.  It was more Louis XIV meets Wal-Mart.  One suspects the partygoers were drinking Dom Pérignon laced with Red Bull, dining on roast flamingo stuffed with M&Ms and playing Clue with a real murder.  It was all very nouveau gauche without it actually being nouveau anymore.  The festivities were clearly “been there/done that” tired.  And the “inner circle” looked like they were trying way too hard to convince the peasants that tawdry wasn’t a chore. 

In the 21st century, we’ve all seen lavish parties.  George and Amal rented the Grand Canal in Venice, for God’s sake!  A lot of celebrities own their own islands, but the Kardashians still have to rent theirs.  And the ship they’re taking these days has already sailed.  The once mighty Kardashian brand shares the spotlight with a B-list actress from Suits who wants to be the Queen of Southern California; Ellen, the world’s nastiest sycophant; and a pack of snapping rappers.  By Monday, Kimmie’s birthday bash will be all but forgotten.  Kardashian relevance is getting lost in the Social Media conflagration they created, but, more importantly, the Cult of Celebrity is losing its charm.  The world has moved on.  

Cult Of Celebrity!

red-carpet

It may be too much to hope for, but it looks as if the terrible, terrible plague that has gripped our planet for far too long may be over.  … SERIOUS PAUSE … Uh – no – not that one, the other one: the soul- eating Cult of Celebrity.  Maybe — just maybe — our unholy obsession with celebrities could be in its final days.

It all started in March when Wonder Woman and her tone deaf (that works on so many levels!) choir trotted out John Lennon’s ode to hypocrisy, Imagine.  Although they meant it as feel-good manna from the ruling class, it didn’t take the peasants more than a few minutes to “imagine” Gal and the gang were a bunch of assholes.  After all, millionaires telling a bunch of people who are having trouble paying the rent to “imagine no possessions” is kinda adding insult to injury.  And from there, it just got worse.  Ellen DeGeneres, the world’s mightiest sycophant, told us that living in her multi-million dollar mansion was like “being in jail.”  Clearly, Ms. DeGeneres has never been in jail, seen a jail or even had a jail carefully described to her.  And of course, since then we’ve all learned that, even as she spoke, her smiles and chuckles production company was treating the staff as if Ellen was the warden.  Then along came Madonna, the Queen of Pop, and named Covid-19 the “the great equaliser.”  Oddly enough, she did it stark naked in a bathtub that probably cost more than my car!  Apparently, some of us are more equal than others, huh, Madge?  Then there was Jennifer Lopez frolicking in her huge backyard; Pharrell Williams, asking for money; Katy Perry, bored out of her mind, and on and on and on.  But for sheer audacity, nothing beats the crew of really, really white people on Twitter, celebsplaining how much Black Lives Matter in their “I Take Responsibility” campaign.  These Malibu militants were giving it their best shot, but it was almost impossible not to laugh at their “Dammit, I’m sincere!” sincerity.  First of all, they’re actors – Duh!  Secondly, we all know their only brush with black anything is probably Will Smith.  And finally, aside from wearing a T-shirt and maybe giving the housekeeper a Christmas bonus, these folks were done.  When they shut off the camera, they were going back to their enormous homes, their manicured lawns, their nannies, their drivers, their personal assistants and a little Grey Goose by the pool.  The message might be “We’re all in this together,” but anyone who’s watching knows we aren’t.

The truth is without Award Shows, Red Carpets, parties, photo-ops and the Late Night Jimmies (Kimmel and Fallon) the celebrity emperor has no clothes.  When push comes to shove and serious stuff is on the table, it’s painfully obvious that celebrities are less than useless.  In fact, they’re part of the problem, because they insist that fame somehow makes them relevant — that their political insights, their social awareness and – OMG! — their medical advice actually means something.  It doesn’t.  It’s just muddying the water.  Personally, I’m praying that, as more and more people discover this, when the New Normal finally gets here, there won’t be any room for these parasites.  We can only hope!

Spelling Counts!

orlando

Valentine’s Day is over; next stop, St. Paddy’s Day.  So, as winter clings to the Northern Hemisphere like a drunk clinging to a lamp post, and Mother Nature and Old Man Winter fight it out to see who marks the calendar this month, let’s find a cozy place out of the wind and rain, take a page out of Puck’s book and wonder “what fools [we] mortals be!”

Celebrity tattoos are as common as hen poop in a barnyard, so it’s no big deal that Orlando Bloom got a new one the other day.  You remember Orlando Bloom: he’s the “actor” who played Legolas, a Middle Earth elf with an emotional range of .07 on a scale of 1 to 1,000.  Anyway, it seems Mr. Bloom was having a little trouble remembering his son’s name (Flynn) and, rather than constantly bother his entourage about it, he decided to get it permanently inked into his arm.  Problem solved?  Not quite!  First of all, Standard Written English wasn’t cool enough for Bloom, so he had it printed in Morse code, a form of communication that’s been dead since Roy Rogers roamed the Earth.  Unfortunately, something got screwed up in the translation, and they spelled the name wrong.  Okay, a “dot” here, a “dash” there; it was an honest mistake.  But here’s the good part.  Nobody noticed!  Obviously, tattoo artists are not known for their cryptographic skills and there’s no app I know of that spellchecks Morse code, but … here’s the deal!

You’re an A-list (high B-list?) movie star.
You’ve got a ton of people around you every day with nothing better to do than suck up to you.
Every single one of them has an iPhone, iPad, iWatch, iWhatever.
Yet, not one of them, from your publicist to your personal assistant, cared enough about you to take 30 seconds and say, “Siri, what’s Flynn in Morse code?”

That, boys and girls, is a cold and lonely life.

Anyway, the ink dried, and there’s Orlando on Instagram, proud as a puppy with a chewed-up slipper.  He’s selfie-d a forearm shiver with what looks like a surgical diagram drawn on it, and the teasing caption reads “new #tattoo can you guess who?”

And here is where we veer off into the land of WTF!

Apparently, Orlando’s Instagram audience includes more than a few people who took the time and trouble to figure out his body art was Morse code (Remember: it’s not a written language.) and then were willing to spend even more time translating it. (I doubt if many people can do Morse code from memory, these days.)  Plus, they know enough about the life and times of Orlando Bloom to realize that this was his son’s name and that the dolt had misspelled it.  Then, they felt morally compelled to publicly point that out to him – a number of times.

At last glance, Orlando and son are doing fine, despite the looming years of therapy.  But honestly, folks!  Our world has a bunch of people with way too much time on their hands.