Posts Tagged ‘celebs’

Are you famous? Is your career slipping? Can you write at a preschool level? Congratulations! The world of celebrity children's books is waiting for you!

And it's a booming one. A genre once brutally dominated by quality, relevance and entertainment has been revitalized by celebrities who are making their mark in this highly lucrative field. Well, newly lucrative, anyway. Regular old children's authors still don't get squat but it's their own fault for just writing all the time and not being celebrities.

This month Sir Paul McCartney's "High in the Clouds" elevated him to the ranks of Madonna, Spike Lee, Billy Crystal, Will Smith, Jerry Seinfeld, John Travolta, Gloria Estefan, Maria Shriver, Henry Winkler, Shaquille O'Neal, Lynne Cheney, Sarah Ferguson, Martha Stewart, LeAnn Rimes, Bob Dylan, Dr. Laura Schlessinger, Harvey Fierstein, Della Reese, Michael Bolton, Debbie Allen, Cindy Crawford, Keith Hernandez, Katie Couric, Dom Delouise, Bill Cosby, Jimmy Carter, Larry King, LL Cool J, Jane Seymour, Carly Simon, Jay Leno, Whoopi Goldberg, Carson Kressley, Jimmy Fallon, Britney Spears, Jimmy Buffet, Jesse Ventura, and His Royal Highness Prince Charles in the hearts of starry-eyed parents everywhere.

Sure, aside from showoffs Jamie Lee Curtis and John Lithgow most of them write simplistic, message-heavy, repackaged-comedy-routine-or-pop-song quickies, but who cares? Send it to your publisher and wait for Oprah to call! It's even better than releasing a sex tape for instant press coverage and you don't even have to worry about losing that weight first.

Just look at some of the upcoming celebrity children's books slated for the Christmas season:

"Off the Rack," by Paris Hilton. With perseverance and courage a young heiress finds the strength to ignore the peer pressure of her less-advantaged schoolmates and buy designer label clothes, which helps the economy way more anyway.

"I Can't Write, Either," by Rob Schneider. A wacky but misunderstood 2nd grade class clown proves that you can live your dream and entertain even when no one finds you very entertaining.

"Sally Sue Springtime Sparkles and the Industrial Society that Collapsed Due to the Unnatural Demands of Technology," by Theodore Kaczynski. A bedtime manifesto that's perfect for rainy day reading. 35,000 words.

"Thomas the Tranq Engine," by Tom Cruise. After escaping from a den of wicked psychotherapists and their evil drug therapies, a troubled young boy finds solace on a secret island where anyone is welcomed no matter how different or wealthy they are.

"Bright, Shiny!" by Ashlee Simpson (with Jonathan McIntyre, Elizabeth Wee, Brian Griggs, Alexander Hough, and Bernice Lynn Partridge). A colorful, easy-to-flip, 6-page board book that your child will love reading to you.

"Brave Billy and the Pirates," by Bill Gates. A plucky young boy finds himself in a lone fight against dastardly pirates who threaten to steal away everything he holds dear despite his valiant, unappreciated efforts. Encrypted e-book, available for Microsoft Reader only.

"How Did That Get In There?" by Winona Ryder. A touching tale of a young girl and her animal friends who find out that stealing is, apparently, wrong.

"Everybody Hates," by Lamb and Lynx Gaede of Prussian Blue. Two perky, blonde, crime-fighting tweens battle against evil and miscegenation with the help of their purebred dog and their ghost friend, Heinrich.

"Whoa," by Keanu Reeves. Deeply existential, this engaging philosophical work examines the wonder and impermanence of the world around us in a way that children can understand: by repeating the same word over and over. Sometimes twice. Illustrated.

"Are You There, Dr. Lazlo? It's Me, Pam" by Pamela Anderson. A young Pamela struggles through her early development as she not only deals with what's happening to her body but strives to make it happen faster and higher up, maybe with a little tweak in the cheekbones and a little tuck right around here, it'll never show.

"The Flying Red Carpet," by Joan and Melissa Rivers. A bit unusual in the children's book line, as this book contains no plot or characters of its own but instead just fawns over all the other books.

Why aren't you here? Call your agent! Call your publicist! Fire up the personal trainers! It's time to hit the talk circuit with a vengeance to remind people you're out there and you seem to like kids.

Oh, and you might want to write the thing first, or at least come up with a title. Makes the marketing easier.

Pat Morita, star of the "Karate Kid" movies and a zillion other places, has died.

When I was a teenager I searched in vain for a martial arts teacher half as wise or skilled or funny as Mr. Miyagi. And while there have been some out there, none of them would teach me in exchange for household chores, so I had to make do by watching the Karate Kid movies over and over and putting "-san" behind all my friends' names in a gutteral voice, which was almost as good.

I remember him from "Happy Days." I remember him from M*A*S*H. I remember him from all the television guest spots when they needed an Asian guy and couldn't get Mako. I even remember him from "Even Cowgirls get the Blues." I remember him as kind and funny and wise in a common-sense-sounding kind of way, and I'll miss him.

Debra Lafave, the 25-year-old teacher in Tampa who was accused of sexing up a 14-year-old student, pled guilty today. She'll do house arrest and probation.

The great part of the article? This quote from her attorney, towards the bottom:

Fitzgibbons said in July that plea negotiations had broken off because prosecutors insisted on prison time, which he said would be too dangerous for someone as attractive as Lafave.

Excuse me?

Pretty women go to jail all the time. Doesn't he watch Cinemax?

'Star Trek' actor George Takei comes out

George Takei, who as helmsman Sulu steered the Starship Enterprise through three television seasons and six movies, has come out as a homosexual in the current issue of Frontiers, a biweekly Los Angeles magazine covering the gay and lesbian community.

Takei told The Associated Press on Thursday that his new onstage role as psychologist Martin Dysart in "Equus," helped inspire him to publicly discuss his sexuality.

[...]

"The world has changed from when I was a young teen feeling ashamed for being gay," he said. "The issue of gay marriage is now a political issue. That would have been unthinkable when I was young."

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I'm guessing this is not a big discovery for his friends and family if he's been with a guy for 18 years, but now I'm wondering what happens with his career. Does the Federation have a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy?

Nicolas Cage, big-time Superman fan, has tagged his brand new baby boy with the name Kal-El Coppola Cage. "Kal-El" is of course Superman's real name and means, in Kryptonian, "He who will get beaten up in school, a lot."

Not that I have a problem with Cage and his super-homage. It makes as much sense as any other way to name your child — I favor pulling out random Alpha-Bits, myself — and it honors someone, albeit fictional, who clearly has made a great impact on the Oscar-winning actor.

But, please, someone, think of the children.

Years from now when K.C. "Call me Kale" Cage gets picked up for felonious assault, again, it may not be possible to trace it back to this moment, but I won't be surprised in the least. What would you expect after a constant onslaught of "What's up, Superdweeb?," "It's a nerd! It's so lame! It's Stuporman!," and similar biting wit. And that'll be from his teachers.

Admittedly the temptation to break from the ordinary in the choosing of your offspring's moniker is a powerful one. My wife and I named our oldest son Tony. Not Anthony, mind you that sounded too whiny. Instead we went with Tony and thus we doomed him to a lifetime of informality. But had I known then that comics were fair game (and if my wife had been sedated) he'd be signing his checks Opus, Woodstock, or Hobbes.

Besides, there are worse names out there.

Cage could have named his child after an inanimate object, like Satchel (both Woody Allen and Spike Lee), Apple (Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin), Banjo (Patrick and Rachel Griffiths) or even Brooklyn (David and Victoria Beckham). Or a concept, like Sonny and Cher's daughter Chastity and Erykah Badu's kid Seven.

Cage might have gone for the merely odd. Stephen Baldwin named his daughter Alaia, a hauntingly beautiful name that ensures she will never, ever get correctly spelled mail. Madonna and Guy Ritchie chose Rocco to proudly signal their son's inevitable porn star career while Penn Jillette chose his daughter's future vocation with Moxie Crimefighter. Paula Yates and Michael Hutchence's daughter Tiger Lily Heavenly Hirani sounds like something you'd order at a nice restaurant, possibly with eggroll. And Jason Lee named his child Pilot Inspektor for some reason known only to himself and his God.

Giddy from exhaustion and post-natal medication, the Cages could have made the common celebrity mistake of using the "Name Your Pet" book. Julia and Jamie Oliver have Daisy Boo, Courtney Cox and David Arquette created Coco, and Paula Yates and Bob Geldof whelped both Fifi Trixibelle and Peaches. No charges have been filed to date.

Sadly, these playful, lifelong cruelties often travel in packs. The late great Frank Zappa and his wife Gail probably hold the record for child-warping names with Dweezil and Moon Unit, but in that family such names made perfect sense. Director Robert Rodriquez produced Racer, Rebel, and Rocket. Bruce Willis and Demi Moore cranked out Scout, Rumer, and Tallulah. Forrest Whitaker is responsible for Ocean, True and Sonnet, which suggests he wasn't using a baby name book so much as sticking his finger into a dictionary.

In my darkest times I wonder if celebrities do this to their children out of a sincere desire to give them something magical and make them forever different from the mundane world, or if it's just a quick way to get in the headlines for a few days. Maybe it's to ensure the child will be creative and artistic by guaranteeing plenty of schoolyard abuse for later use as traumatic inspiration. Maybe they couldn't get the vanity license plate they wanted and this was the next best thing. Maybe it's the drugs.

But what really worries me is that celebrities tend to try and one-up each other, which means this will escalate. In 20 years you'll be afraid to walk the streets for fear of being attacked by permanently disgruntled people named Dishrag Barrymore, Google Sue Potato Salad Clooney, Vote Democrat Baldwin, or Gedavidityjaxencomp Pitt. Gangs of celebrity offspring will band together and wreak their horrible vengeance on the world and we will tremble in fear at their totally justified havoc.

But when things are at their darkest, never fear.

Kal-El will save us.

Don Adams, the actor whose bumbling spy Maxwell Smart set the bar for me for all future spy shows and movies, died Sunday. He might be known to most kids nowadays as Inspector Gadget but for me he'll always be the one guy who could kick Bond's ass, although it would probably be an accident.

Apparently women want Jessica Simpson's hair. Not for some sensible reason, like for a wall trophy or as an ingredient for one of the more interesting rituals, but because they like her best.

In a new poll perpetrated by In Touch magazine, readers picked "Dukes of Hazzard" star and professional newlywed Jessica Simpson over runners-up Jennifer Aniston, Jessica Alba, and Angelina Jolie for most coveted do. This is despite the fact that her usual hair style reminds me of nothing so much as a Barbie that has been picked up and violently shaken, possibly by a Labrador.

The people have spoken and I respect the democratic process. However, this article kicked off an entertaining conversation between my wife and me as to what celebrity parts I personally might wish to have. Instead of my own, I mean.

At first Teresa was steadfastly loyal, swearing that I was perfect in every way and that she'd fight to the death with a fire axe before she'd allow a single one of my beloved features to be swapped. Except maybe for my hairline. And my legs. And chest. The whole physique could use an overhaul, truth to tell. In fact, we quickly determined that I could be built out of the spare parts of Richard Dryfuss (hair) and Steve Buscemi (teeth, complexion, wardrobe), with Body by Apu.

So the shopping began. And let me tell you, there were some hard choices.

Hair? Teresa pushed for Sully from "Monsters, Inc" but I decided to go with Brad Pitt, in any one of his roles where it's not actually shaved off. Thick, wavy, and looks good no matter what's done to it. Perfect for the lazy groomer, plus it seems to attract actresses, models, and, in general, women.

Steven Tyler's mouth looked to be a good choice since it was sensual and talented and can eat corn on the cob without going side-to-side, but instead I picked out Bruce Willis' grin, accompanied by a Pierce Brosnan smirk. When provoked, it would produce John Goodman's laugh.

Teresa remained devoted to my eyes, saying she couldn't think of a celebrity with better ones. When I asked about any eyes at all, such as those belonging to the guy at Import Autos where she takes her car after every mysterious and eerily regular malfunction, she suddenly rattled off a long list of famous peepers that had nothing whatsoever to do with any mechanic, anywhere at all. From that panicked litany I settled for Johnny Depp. Took his jaw too, with an option on his cheekbones.

I left my own nose in place, to keep me humble.

Will Smith's post-"Ali" shoulders would fill out my shirts nicely (he can keep the ears) but I want arms from KoKo the gorilla, because those things can tear a Nissan Sentra in half.

I was deadlocked between cutting the mitts off Ray Charles or Eric Clapton – I briefly contemplated taking one of each – but sheer talent won me over and I chose the hands of Christopher Hart, who played Thing in the Addams Family movies.

Chest? Probably Brad again. Abs? According to Teresa that would be Spike, Buffy's vampiric, occasionally evil ex. Not the actor who played him, mind you, just Spike. Legs? Baryshnikov, maybe, or Lance Armstrong.

Butt? We both came up dry on that one, but in last month's In Touch poll readers recognized Colin Ferrell's booty to be superior and I have no reason to doubt their findings. Sometimes you have to trust consumer reports.

For feet I went with Hugh Grant, because anyone who can get caught red-handed — or whatever — with a hooker and still have both a love life and a career has got to be the fastest dancer alive.

Some of the more ethereal qualities were easier. I want John Travolta's luck, Johnny Depp's personal magnetism, Tom Cruise's bank account, Jon Stewart's wit, Samuel L. Jackson's cool, Groucho's romance, Hank Azaria's voice, Rob Thomas' singing ability, Dave Barry's agent, and Batman's car.

In fact, of all the things I can call my own, there's only one I would never trade, upgrade, or seek to improve in any way at all: my wife.

Although we could probably build up her legs a bit…

In the culmination of the most star-studded, avidly watched trial of the century this month, musical phenomenon and alleged pedophile Michael Jackson was completely acquitted of all counts. I hope you won't think less of me when I say I'm disappointed.

Don't get me wrong, it's not because I think he was guilty of child molestation, giving alcohol to a minor, the deliberate release of "HIStory," and the other equally heinous charges. I have absolutely no clue if he did any of it – I'm pretty sure I wasn't there, unless someone got me really drunk — and so I have to assume the jury found sufficient reason to doubt the accusations. Fair enough.

Nor is it because this verdict was a surprising, almost unprecedented refutation of the most hallowed law of American jurisprudence, "Dude's a freakjob with a monkey, right? Of course he's guilty!" (Cited by Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, 2002, United States v. That Guy Over There).

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Time for some random ponderings over items that have recently confused or bothered me. These are the sorts of things I think about during traffic lights and long Web page loads instead of thinking about anything, you know, useful.

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Planned Parenthood recently filed lawsuits over "Choose Life" license plates, claiming that offering only one side of an issue was a violation of First Amendment rights. South Carolina State Rep. John Graham Altman, probably only half joking, suggested that "Choose Death" license plates be issued as an alternative. Now, there's no way I'm jumping in the middle of this particular hot button controversy, but you know what?

I really, really want a "Choose Death" license plate.

Not to express any specific philosophical views, but because it's just vague and unsettling enough that people would give me plenty of room on the highway for fear I might suddenly make my choice on the I-95 overpass.
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Is anybody else really bothered by E! Entertainment Television running re-enactments of Michael Jackson's trial every night? "'We're going into this with a very serious attitude,' Ted Harbert, president and chief executive officer of E! Networks, said of "E! News Presentation: The Michael Jackson Trial." How? Personally I'm hoping they make it a musical. Can't you see Richard Gere singing "Razzle Dazzle" as Michael collapses from a near-fatal case of the sniffles just as he's due to testify?