And A C T I O N . . . Some people may not know this about me, but I actually possess a PhD in Celebrity Exposés. I'd like to take a moment to present a brief composite of the research I've compiled over the past several grueling years spent devoted to conditioning my psyche with single-minded scholastic scrutiny into these indispensable case studies of tinseltown ethos:
Six Degrees of Paris Hilton by Mark Ebner
The good news: If you're a true glutton for punishment, but still can't stomach the notion of reading a book about an overgrown and underfed hotel scion with plastic hair and enormous feet, you'll be happy to know this gonzo tome has practically nothing to do with Paris Hilton. The bad news: If you feel you might be uncomfortable with any aspect of the truly filthy underbelly flopping uneasily beneath the Versace belt of Hollywood's neon six-pack of depravity, you will positively squirm at the sickening sequence of events outlined in this anthology of ballsy investigative journalism penned by showbiz super-sleuth Mark Ebner. I've always been fascinated by Hollywood's wolfish appetite for psycho starlets and their inevitable extermination from pop culture, but after reading this captivating account detailing the myriad exploits of presently-incarcerated criminal mastermind Darnell Riley and his posse of crooked California comrades, I have become damn near fanatical about soaking up as much diabolical lawbreaking juice as my wet-behind-the-ears little brain can absorb.
dapqueen gives it: 4 out of 5 casting couches
The Truth About Diamonds by Nicole Richie
An actual page-turning secret pleasure by Nicole Richie that hysterically dismisses the entire Hollywood faux-fawning/dick-stroking party scene in one jewel-sparkling swish of a bony wrist. This wry and catty satire provides a meow-wow look into the life of an on the rise B-lister who harbors some steadily escalating ill will toward a certain infamous celebrity racist (see above) she's been BFF with since kittenhood, as well as the rest of the aristocratic fameball bunch she regularly humps around Hell-A with (imagine: smokin' laced cigs in drug dens with Diddy; martini-swillin' at thousand-buck-bottle V.I.P. tables that come magically equipped with mirrored tabletops, thus rendering line formation in the powder room a mere inconvenience of clichéd '80s lore; and a top secret transmission of the mysterious world of haute couture's glitziest grimesters and its carnival of neurotic survival of-the-fittest riddles reported in exhaustive detail. Again, imagine: bingin', purgin', starvin', druggin', vom-ooping. Pop a TrimSpa, baby, spew one for the team, rinse, repeat, ad nauseam. Got that? Neither do I). With fierce characterization and attention to detail, Richie illustrates the fameballs' insoluble celluloid germination and punishes them with words for their assault on the festering tabloid industry that has by now given way to a full-blown rebirth of scandal sheets and digital defamers that have encircled all of our existences for nearly a decade. The result? An overflowing squirt of many new vast and torturous celebrity empires of idiocy, such as the golden-showered skinned Kardashian clan and all the rest of those loud annoying bitches on the E! channel. Bravo, Nicole!
dapqueen sez: 5 out of 5 casting couches
Star by Pamela Anderson
It has been an utterly disheartening experience to endure the constant scoffing people project upon the high praise I award this splendid fairy tale that depicts the ultra-shiny disco dusted planet that the "fictional" Star Wood Leigh resides on. If you've read enough bleak Bastard out of Carolina-esque accounts of cheerless family laments to last you a lifetime, this breezy beachside read might be a truly welcome respite. Solid gold, Pam. I feel that heat.
dapqueen shouts it from the rooftops: 5 out of 5 makeshift casting couches/tanning beds
sTORI Telling by um, hmm... oh! by Tori Spelling
Just... no. If you've ever tried peering into the soulless, money-hungry vacuum that is Aaron Spelling's darling daughter and imagined you might feel even a microscopic frisson of stimulation, you'd be dangerously mistaken. GIRL, PLEASE! You grew up in an opulent palace, starred in the '90s teen soap du jour with Shannen Doherty at the apotheosis of her wayward infamy, lived through at least one questionably successful schnozz-job, and your mom had a frakin' present wrapping room in the Spelling manor - yet even your ghostwriter removed herself from attempting to extract one peewee scrap of luminescence from the nebulous abyss of your personality? T, I totally had your back and you totally let me down! Why you gotta do me like that, T?
Cita, you tried warning me! What can I say? When you're right, you're right!
dapqueen murmurs: 1 out of 5 breakfast nook stools (that is where she landed those roles, right?)
Well, clearly I have exquisite taste in literature. Be sure to tune in for future installments of my exploratory celebrity probings! Next time I will include a shiny new cluster of firm but fair critiques, including the scintillating works of Leguizamo, Lords, and... Superhead? Cheers!
I knew I was feeling a sense of unease on Friday, a vague sense that regurgitation was imminent. And so it happened. I felt dazed, though unlike most times, I didn't feel any relief when it was over. It wasn't until Saturday afternoon I realized why.
When something shocking happens, we tend to force ourselves to do one of two things: Isolate ourselves from others, live like monks (without the self-discipline), fear our own shadow and voice and, depending upon how far we've descended, become sadly absorbed by our perception of how others must think of us.
Or, in contrast, we force ourselves to consciously design new coping mechanisms, reconfigure the ways in which we choose to define ourselves, become - and this is a big one - gloriously less aware of how we perceive the way we think others feel about us.
A lot has happened within this past year. Some of it is terribly shocking, and some of it is shockingly good. I've lost family members in a terribly shocking way. I've come to terms with my own feelings of self-worth in this world after becoming the victim of a shockingly violent attack. I've sought out neuro-therapy and seizure cures for the nerve and brain damage incurred during the attack. I've decided that I no longer want to identify with being a victim. I've made the decision to move back to an area of the U.S. that tends to conjure within me feelings of emotional bewilderment. However, I've also made the decision to let go of the helter skelter hare-brain who stalked my every move and gladly wielded way too much perverse power over my feelings of self-value. Although it's been a few years since I've seen his hatchet face in person, his wretched acts of destruction and psychological terrorism have long since followed me, strangling my every thought, leaving imprints on my every move. Just as he'd hoped for. I've made a solid decision to stamp him out of my life for good. If he ever does come back in any form, I can rest assured that I didn't invite him.
I used to cry a lot. Now I cry very little. I used to hide from the world, afraid to say anything, terrified to vocalize my opinions, my voyages, my successes, my failures. Now I'm tapping into my social reserves, lunging headfirst into (admittedly awkward) conversations with others, eager to learn new social cues. Whereas before, I would feel threatened by somebody who asked me to share something about myself, for the first time in years, I'm actually keen on sharing tidbits of who I am with those who ask.
When you suffer profound loss, you feel obligated to commit yourself to the darkest place you can find within yourself in an effort to somehow unearth some light. You forge an embittered path through the dark roots and thick forests of your mind and tread a delirious line between complete self-destruction and pretending you're normal out of a basic necessity for survival. You devise cockeyed methods for waking up in the morning to go to work: You will not cry at the drop of a hat, but you will shoot daggers with your eyes at anyone who dares cross you. You will not roll your eyes at your boss, but you do feel compelled to brazenly let your naked hostility shine upon anyone who has the nerve to bitch about a bad day that involves rainy weather or incompetent co-workers. You don't even realize the loss of clarity, the soul-crushing weight of negativity, the hopelessness you feel until the inevitable thunderbolt of heavy opaque darkness looms over you like a big black umbrella on a stormy morning burial. And then, little by little, some lightness appears.
Recently, I've experimented with a new kind of therapy called EFT, or Emotional Freedom Techniques. I would like to invite anyone who has ever been wracked with pain, feelings of negativity, grief, guilt, shame, sadness, or depression they believed to be incurable, to try EFT. It doesn't cost money, it doesn't cost much time, and it's honestly the best thing I could ever have done for myself. It seems kooky, but it works. Don't ask me how, I just know that it does.
Rest peacefully Grandmas, Grandpas, Aunties, Uncles, Cousins & Sharon Lee. Too much goodness went by much too fast.
