Monday, July 16, 2007

Typing is to easy, but that's the way it is

So here's the story from A to Z...

I want to say it was a morbid curiosity which forced me to turn on NBC's Victoria Beckham: Coming To America. But it was more that I was curious about her speaking voice. Sure, back in 1997, I owned the Spice Girls CD. But I don't think I could distinguish between Posh, Scary, Sporty, Ginger or Baby even after listening to Wannabe 100 more times. I've seen numerous pictures of Posh Spice, but I wasn't sure if she spoke. For all I know, removing one's vocal cords is akin to that urban legend of removing one's ribs in order to have a small waist.

(On a side note, I've never quite understood the whole "If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends" lyric. Now in college, there was some overlapping as the years went on, yet you never made it "forever" let alone 2 weeks with one of those. Maybe they meant that you just had to like their friends? I'm not sure. But it is a catchy song. And I still talk to all my close college friends, so maybe friendship never ends? And the Spice Girls are doing that whole reunion tour now. Oh, I don't know...)

I turned on the show late, when Ms. Beckham was attempting to drive and get her license at the Los Angeles DMV. Her handlers did her makeup for the photo. She asked if they did retouching. Cut to the commercial break. I want this woman dead.

I continued watching and I have so say that she doesn't look as scary as she does in photos. The situations she entered were completely staged and contrived, and I still think evading the "dreaded paparazzi" could be much easier than some elaborate plot involving a blow-up doll. (Couldn't one get a room at a hotel, put on a modest disguise and then leave without anyone following? I would hope this would even be possible at the Chateau Marmont, but I have not been to L.A. since 1999.)

I decided it wasn't so much Victoria Beckham that frightened me by the end of the show, but more so the feracity in which photographers seem to be everywhere in L.A. I have close friends living there and they sometimes talk about being places where the paparazzi is staked out, but I began thinking about how anyone with a decent SLR can seemingly metastisize a career out of such a thing. And how a continuous regimen of plastic surgery will inevitably lead to L.A. becoming a virtual zombie state, if the Beverly Hills Socialites are any indication (For some reason, I found Posh Spice almost charming during this scenario, as it reminded me of those orientations for college or grad school and how you spend the day with the first people you meet, who will most likely become the people you despise more than anything by the time you graduate. But mainly I wanted to know where one gets an oil painting of George Clooney circa the between Facts of Life and Roseanne era).

Don't worry. I'm not a fan. I'm sure she's already taking Scientology courses. And I could ramble on and on about the decline of journalism and how celebrities are covered more than real news, how this is just another sign of a cultural apocalypse, blah blah blah. But its Monday and I don't feel like it at the moment.

Now this Age of Love show is on. Back in 1997, I thought Mark Phillipousous was hot. At that time, he clocked the fastest serve on record. I suppose he still is someone I wouldn't exactly deny, but the idea of this show disgusts me. For starters, any Bachelor-esque show is despicable and always will be. I find it amusing how these women get so broken up over discovering the guy that they, and 10-20 other women are "dating", may have screwed around with one or every other one. Hello? Why wouldn't you? Its the closest most men come to having their very own harem. You take advantage of it. I've seen some men do wonders with less and nary a rose to hand out.

I'm actually not watching the show. I'm typing. It's on in the background. I'm just wondering that about the whole premise. If women in their 20s are "kittens", and the around-40-year-olds are "cougars", at 30, what does that make me? Am I simply a cat? Would I eat the Indoor Formula Iams for adult cats — as opposed to the bag of kitten chow providing extra nutrients for growing felines or the mature cat formula, which prevents against bone density loss?

Oh, I don't feel like thinking about such nonsense anymore. I'm going to go finish my book. And listen to Oasis or the Verve Pipe, or maybe the Romeo + Juliet soundtrack. Things were a lot simpler when I was 20. And I know no one is picking me up for Monday night's $1 Rolling Rock and Ouzo shots at George's in a few minutes. (BTW, I never liked Rolling Rock, but the Ouzo would go down a few times by 12:45am.) But that's fine.

I would rather be a cat than a kitten. But I still really wanna zigazig ahhhhh.

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