Give It Away Now
Well, this is quite a way to start the new blog year. I completely forgot to post my usual half-ass late-afternoon Monday post.

So here now I come to you semi-live late Monday night. Theoretically this means I should have had plenty of time to gather myself, to collect my thoughts after my normal late-Sunday-night post and bring you a high-quality full-sized post, the kind of excellence you've come to expect in this past Year of the Bucket.

I said theoretically. But as theories go, I think that one's a lot more "flat earth" than "general relativity". For instance, it doesn't take into account the acid-spewing battery in my wife's car that took me 3 hours to clean up, remove and replace.

Just as a tip for those who don't know but always wondered: car battery acid doesn't taste nearly as good as it looks. It's a mistake you only make once.

But past that, I don't really have the energy to put together a post, but not because I'm physically exhausted. No, it's my heart: it is broken.

I know what you're thinking, "Hey Pops, you're taking the news of this whole Tiffani-Amber Thiessen wedding way too hard" to which I'll say yeah, probably. But that's not everything, you know. It's not just that now I know Kelly Kapowski and I will probably never be together anywhere but in my 114-volume self-published leather-bound collection of Saved By The Bell erotica fan-fic.

Not only did Tiffani-Amber Thiessen get married, but... oh God, it's almost too horrible to say... she's dropped the "Amber" from her credited name.

Jesus. Here comes the nausea again, hang on...

Nothing is sacred anymore. You know, you watch and watch and watch a person toil in the public eye to make something of themselves. You follow their every career move in meticulous detail on your cork board/index card/colored yarn flow chart. You write their agent to ask for a correspondence address. You wait for days and days outside the house you think they probably live in only to find out it was Charlotte Ross's place all along. And then when you do find out where they live, you follow them around town, slowly-slowly, maybe even sneak into their gym and steal an article of clothing from their locker while they're in Tae-Bo class, take pictures of yourself wearing it and then mail it all back, pictures and clothing, along with a long rambling letter about the psychic bond forged by common garment familiarity you now share written in pigeon's blood.

See, you invest yourself, that's the trap. And then they not only get all "Oh, my lawyer says you can't come within 500 feet of me" and hit you with the pepper spray, but then they go and change their fucking name on you.

God. It's like nothing means anything anymore. I gotta call her Tiffani Thiessen now, la-dee-dah, Queen-of-Fucking-Spain. Just like Ricky Schroeder and Johnny Cougar and Cole Dammett, like all the sudden, snap-of-the-publicists'-fingers and we're all "Rick" and "Mellencamp" and "Anthony Kiedis". OK, "Cole Dammett" was a stupid stage name and Anthony Kiedis actually sounds, like, a thousand times better so maybe it's not the best example, but I think my point is clear. No respect for established tradition, man.

Just beware, Hollywood. Beware. One day you're going to push it too far. Not everyone out there is a together guy like me who a) can read TROs when they are presented and b) have a parole officer, AA sponsor and Scientology auditor to keep their darker impulses in line. I'm not pointing fingers or naming names, but if in her next project Jennifer Garner is credited as "Jennifer Affleck", some bad shit is going to go down. Don't say you weren't warned.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 8.4


Pops
- posted by Pops @ 10:11 PM