The Oversell

No matter what NBC says to the contrary, I'm reasonably certain there's no such thing as an episode of Celebrity Circus "you can't afford to miss."

David Letterman accomplishes the incredibly difficult feat of making Spencer Pratt look like a douche.

I guess the first question is: why the fuck is Spencer Pratt a guest on Letterman in the first place? I don't necessarily find this to be the "bitch-slap" that Defamer does, but at least Dave doesn't just do the full-out suck-off plus ball cupping routine.

Also: if Spencer Pratt really does get $100k for going to a club, then I'll have to congratulate him on doing what I assumed to be impossible: making my view of humanity even dimmer.

JP + RM 4Eva!

Okay, kids. It's a new day, and despite Mike's bitterness about how I was right and he was wrong regarding American Idol and the fabulousness that is David Cook, it's time to move on to much more important matters.

And those matters boil down to only one matter. The small yet singular matter of my new boyfriend Robert Muraine.

Who's Robert Muraine? you ask. Well, dear readers, fuck what you heard, because Robert Muraine is only the sickest popper to EVER set foot on the So You Think You Can Dance audition stage.

Behold:



And, by the way, calling him the best popper ever is saying A LOT after last season's Phillip Chbeeb (my old new boyfriend) made it to Vegas again this year!



And to think, little Robert was dancing on the 3rd Street Promenade--right under my nose!--the whole time. So ironic, then, that it took Mary Murphy's crazy Hot Tamale Train to bring us together.


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Nobody Magnet

Because I live in Los Angeles and go out to fabulous places a lot, you might suppose I see glittery famous people scurrying around every corner, somehow emanating the enticing glow of perfection and Stolier-than-thouness despite incognito baseball caps and huge sunglasses.  

You'd be wrong, though.

In fact, there's none of that in my life.  I have a very different brand of star-magnetism.  Yes, this is my super-power: I see many, many people from film and television, it's true, but they're all useless, semi-famous, barely noticeable folk that only an outrageous pop-culture junkie with a good memory for faces (read: me) would recognize.  

The "famous" people I see?  Well, much like their prototype, the Mad Rapper they ain't got no hot cars, and they ain't even got no bitches.  Many, in fact, might still be living with they moms, yo.  

You may wonder: who are these fantastical creatures? 

Are they celeb-reality stars?  Yep!  As I've mentioned before, my list includes Mr. Boston from I Love New York, Hulk Hogan's (now ex-) wife AND daughter, the blond chick with the scarred up face from Rock of Love 1 and the butchy half of the lesbian couple from this season's Top Chef.

But wait!  "What about B- and C-list actors?" you ask.  Hell yeah, I got those, too:

Just yesterday I was at a bar in Santa Monica with Mark Feuerstein, whose best moments were certainly the few episodes of West Wing he did, but who's probably best known (if he's known at all) for playing the lackluster love interest in Woman on Top and In Her Shoes.  By the way, possibly because the extra E in his name makes things extra confusing for wannabe semi-celeb spotters who need to cross check him on IMDB, Feuerstein was wearing a sports jersey with HIS OWN NAME on the back as he paced in front of the bar, gabbing maniacally into a cell phone and having a conversation about what I can only imagine is his next break-out role as, perhaps, Kelly Ripa's charming yet lovelorn brother in an ABC Family original movie.  

Another example: as you all know, it was my birthday last week (a day I proudly share with our own Dave Housley) and I had a cocktail birthday party extravaganza to celebrate the fine day two powerhouse Barrelhousers were born.  And because the fates are with me every day, but especially on my birthday, I was lucky enough to party in my very own home with Laurence Mason, who apparently rocks it out on the not-quite-hit series Prison Break, but who I personally will forever know as (and only as) Lord Nikon from the not-even-remotely-hit film Hackers, with Angelina Jolie (pre-babies, and even pre-incest kiss with her bro at the Academy Awards) and her soon-to-be first husband Johnny Lee Miller.  Yes, Mr. Mason and I got cozy over the makeshift bar I set up in my dining room, where he and his hot video-ho girlfriend (in a nineties-tastic C+C Music Factory-looking spandex booty dress) got their drink on.

The funny thing is, even the actual famous people I see--the ones who've been in tons of stuff and really are talented--aren't the recognizable ones.  Like, I saw Fisher Stevens chilling at my favorite Venice Beach coffee shop, but I was with a friend who didn't even know who he was.  And, seriously, name more than two movies Fisher Stevens ever did off the top of your head.  Can't?  Exactly.

And Angie Harmon!  While admittedly the most famous of this crew, I couldn't even remember what show she starred in when I saw her chatting intimately at a corner table in my neighborhood sushi joint.  However, I will say she looked super duper hot, which makes me happy.  I always like it when my celebrities live up to their inhuman expectations.

Which is something I can't say about Mira Sorvino, who takes her dog to the same vet I take my dog Special to and is, if cute, not exactly star material in person.  However, this can't be said of her husband, D-list actor Christopher Backus, who was perusing the doggie treat offerings with her, holding their adorable little girl and looking way more rock star than seven mustaches.

Anyway, the point is, if I don't see Britney's vagina in person soon, I'm going to cry.  I can't sit in front of Kitson forever, just hoping she comes back for a must-have Lauren Moshi tee!  (Besides, umm, the paparazzi have threatened to give Perez Hilton my address and tell him Victoria Beckham lives there if I keep taking up valuable sidewalk space.)  

Regardless, I've decided to revel in this ridiculousness.  It's clearly my fate to be the shepherd to this wayward, blinged-out flock, as Moses (and/or) Michael Dell was to my own Jewish people.  So, wish me luck.  As your Barrelhouse Reporter-at-Large, I solemnly pledge to see/stalk a higher caliber of almost-famousness.  I will come to the fabulous places, I will seek a richer, drunker and even less talented group of pathetic former child stars and current heiresses and I will, indeed, conquer them.  

(And by conquer, of course, I mean that I will ask them what their favorite Patrick Swayze movie is.  And I will get an answer, by God.  I will!)

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Breaking: Heidi Montag still retarded, alive

So apparently Heidi Montag is voting for John McCain. Which is news because ... well, because, see, Heidi is, well ... ah, fuck it. I got nothin'.

Hey, What Ever Happened to The Least Talented Queer Eye Guy?

Oh, you mean Jai Rodriquez, the "culture" guru most notable for his awesome first name spelling and ability to, um, well, yeah. Well, he's the new host of "Groomer Has It," a new Animal Planet show that plops the Top Chef/Top Model framework down onto -- yes, you have it, dog grooming.

Check out the trailer for the show. You won't regret it. It's a pitch-perfect parody of a reality show, with all the fake tension and outlandish drama (for instance, the guy who is crying and blubbering, "it just wasn't a lot of time to groom a dog that big..."). Except it's not a parody.

DMX Weighs in on Barack

DMX gets all socially conscious in this snippet from an interview in XXL. Enjoy.

Are you following the presidential race?
Not at all.

You’re not? You know there’s a Black guy running, Barack Obama and then there’s Hillary Clinton.
His name is Barack?!

Barack Obama, yeah.
Barack?!

Barack.
What the fuck is a Barack?! Barack Obama. Where he from, Africa?

Yeah, his dad is from Kenya.
Barack Obama?

Yeah.
What the fuck?! That ain’t no fuckin’ name, yo. That ain’t that nigga’s name. You can’t be serious. Barack Obama. Get the fuck outta here.

You’re telling me you haven’t heard about him before.
I ain’t really paying much attention.

I mean, it’s pretty big if a Black…
Wow, Barack! The nigga’s name is Barack. Barack? Nigga named Barack Obama. What the fuck, man?! Is he serious? That ain’t his fuckin’ name. Ima tell this nigga when I see him, “Stop that bullshit. Stop that bullshit” [laughs] “That ain’t your fuckin’ name.” Your momma ain’t name you no damn Barack.

So you’re not following the race. You can’t vote right?
Nope.

The Real Housewives Are Depressing As Shit

Has anyone but me seen that new "Real Housewives of New York City" program? I don't have much to say about it, except that it seems kinda sucky. At least in the Orange County version, the people were ridiculous in a world that existed far, far away from any recognizable (to me) reality. But when they're in NYC, it makes them real people somehow, which makes the show kind of sad. Plus, it's obvious they're all trying way too hard to be socialites. I mean, if they were REAL socialites, they'd never go on the show, right?

In the first episode, each woman reveals that a) she lives on the Upper East Side (except for one woman who lives in Brooklyn -- Park Slope, presumably -- and another who DOES live on the Upper East Side, but totally wants to move to "like, a loft or something" because she's really just a "downtown girl" at heart), and b) they go to parties and benefits like it's their jobs.

Which is sadder than it is fabulous, because they really are working. At one point, one of the ladies (I haven't bothered learning any of their names) talks about how one gets "into society" -- by going to event after event and party after party and making donations to the right charities and getting to know the right people and while she's talking she has this scared and exhausted look in her eyes like she's been running on a treadmilll for five hours but she can't stop or even slow down below an eight-minute miles or THIS BUS WILL BLOW THE FUCK UP!!!!!!

It makes me happy for my own, simpler life, where I not only know I'm socially retarded, but pretty much revel in that fact. I'm pretty sure the kinds of parties and bars I go to will give me entree into only society -- the society of bums who drink Ripple on the sidewalk out front the Wawa. And that is totally cool with me.