First Class to Hell:

Monday, September 8, 2008

Guilty Pleasures

This week I did something I'm utterly ashamed of. I secretly ordered "Life with My Sister Madonna" by Ernest Hemingway -oops, make that Christopher Ciccone. In all fairness, I held out as long as I could. I tried to divert my attention by reading actual literature like "A Thousand Splendid Suns" and Cormac McCarthy novels, but every once in a while we all need a no-brainer book, and this definitely fits the bill.

The saddest part is, I'm totally enthralled by this book. Despite the fact that there are no new amazing revelations about Madonna (she's worth billions and is a raging bitch - who knew?) he does reveal a lot about the drug habits of the stars (loving it) including the time he did cocaine with Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss, Courtney Love and Donatella Vercace after the funeral of Gianni Vercace (classy!).

In my defense, the summer television line up has been less than stellar. I can only take so much of "Million Dollar Listing" before I'm ready to throw a brick at the television. At least "Entourage" started last night, so I can put down the trashy books and focus on the trashy shows -at last. And, speaking of trash, last night I also tried to watch the Video Music Awards on MTV. Holy crap, can you say hot train wreck? It might have been the most poorly produced live television show in history. Britney Spears acted like a High School freshman running for Secretary (all giggles and rushing through her speech at breakneck speed). What happened to the days when the show would be opened by Duran Duran and Huey Lewis and the News would be sitting in the audience drinking wine coolers in their ridiculous neon blazers? I remember anxiously waiting to see if chubby Janet or skinny Janet (Jackson) was going to show - or if Courtney Love would be coherent. Sadly this time around, when the nominees and subsequent winners were announced, I found myself repeating the word "WHO?" and realized that I am just old, old, old.

-Val

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Fashionistas Rejoice!

In clearly one of the years worst marketing disasters, the clothing store "Chicos" recently announced that they will be releasing the "Debbie Phelps Line"of clothing. Thank God, because Debbie Phelps, mother of Gold Medalist Micheal Phelps is finally filling that style void that for so long has been empty. I know personally, when I think of of the phrase "Fashion Icon", two names come to mind: Karl Lagerfield for Chanel and Debbie Phelps for Chicos.

Seriously though, when I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Phelps in the stands during the Olympics, her outfits were less than inspiring and she didn't exactly strike me as a Fashion Maverick. Let's put it this way: I never confused her with Jackie O or one of the Olsen Twins.

Perhaps the line should be called "Fashion for Frumps" or "Swim Mom Suckage" because after getting a sneak preview of some of her vomit-inducing jackets, I can't imagine anyone in their right mind (except perhaps Bea Arthur in "Maude") wearing these clothes. I've got an idea. How about we give people who actually study fashion (you know, like students of prestige Fashion Schools or maybe a Project Runway reject) a chance at creating something halfway decent?

Debbie, I'm sure you're a fine woman and great mom, but in the words of Heidi Klum: "You're Out." In the meantime, I think I smell a Christmas gift for my dear old mom.

-Val

P.S. Yes, the above photo is one of the hot designs from Debbie Phelp's "Chicos" line. I think it would have been even hotter if it had pictures of Little Debbie Snack Cakes or Pizza Slices on it, but that's just me.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Worst Show. Ever.

If you watch only one online clip today, you must click on the above to catch a glimpse of the opening credits of the Worst Show. Ever. I caught the above clip when watching this weeks episode of "The Soup" (one of the best shows, ever) and my son and I were literally rolling on the floor with laughter. I was both disgusted and intrigued, immediately setting my DVR to "Series Record" so I wouldn't miss an agonizing second. For those of you who are not familiar with this hot mess (i.e. all of you) "Outsiders Inn" is the latest reality show, featuring Maureen McCormick (a.k.a. Marcia Brady), Carnie "Will do any show for cash" Wilson and Bobby "Crackie" Brown. Did I mention it was on CMT (Country Music Televison)? Until this weekend, I wasn't even aware that this cable network existed. Sadly, it does - and it has some other humdinger shows like "Redneck Wedding" and "Country Star" (with guest "celebrities" Sebastian Bach, Lorenzo Llamas and Sean Young). Who knew?

Hard as I tried, I couldn't even make it through one lousy episode of "Outsiders Inn". The show revolves around Maureen, Carnie and Bobby - a virtual 'Three's Company' of wacky characters who are running a Country Inn in the deep-woods of Tennessee. The show is even more staged than "The Hills" and at one point I think I could see Maureen's eyes rotating back and forth as she read from a cue card. Later in the episode Maureen finds Bobby Brown in a guest bathroom cleaning the tub with a toothbrush and bottle of Fantastik (something that would clearly only happen if he were on a meth binge, so I suppose its plausible). Later, Carnie comes in to announce (in a rehearsed voice that is more wooden than an oak tree) that she has a rather large and painful "hemorrhoid". Later there is a talent show (featuring some Tennessee folk that stereotypically look like they just stepped off the set of "Hee Haw") and the tension grows as Carnie's medical crisis (a.k.a. the giant hemorrhoid on her ass) becomes critical.

When my husband Tom, who was patiently sitting next to me as I watched, looked at me like I had lost my marbles, I knew it was time to turn it off (and cancel the Series Record). Sorry "Outsiders Inn" - I tried, but the magical chemistry of Crackie Brown, Marcia Brady and the that Reality Whore Carnie was just too much for me to stomach.

No worries, I'm sure they will all show up on another amazing Reality Show in the near future.

-Val

Monday, September 1, 2008

Bad Girlfriend

At the age of 20, a college sophomore, I already had a penchant for drinking like a longshoreman on vacation in Tijuana. My sorority even gave me the "Blondes Have More Fun" Award, which was just another way of saying I drank the most Everclear Punch at the college parties I so frequently attended.

When Tom and I started dating later that year, I don't think he knew what he was in for. Most of the time I was fine - a normal upstanding girlfriend. But on occasion (i.e. usually after my fourth alcoholic beverage) I developed a second personality - one Tom not-so-lovingly referred to as "Lucifress". Lucifress, to put it mildly, was not pleasant. As the night grew, and I downed seabreeze after seebreeze, my bleach blond hair would become more wild, I would compulsively apply multiple coats of red lipstick and Lucifress would emerge. I could go from being someone's best friend to their worst enemy in one swift second.

It was on one memorable night that Tom discovered just how nasty Lucifress could become. At the time, Tom was a full-time student, with a full-time bartending job at a local resort. That weekend he had worked a Friday night, Saturday day shift and the Saturday night shift. I met up with him and a couple that we often hung out with that night during his shift. Already three sheets to the wind, I obnoxiously ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon and loudly drank it with our friends. Tom begrudgingly asked the couple to take me to their apartment, so he could come pick me up after his shift (as clearly I was in no condition to drive). Being the responsible 20-year-olds that they were, they took me back to their place where they proceeded to pour me a highball of Jack Daniels. Nice friends.

Tom picked me up around 2 a.m. By that time I was literally a fire-breathing monster. As he helped me to the car, I began to berate him for spoiling the fun. Obviously he had my best interest in mind, but I was like an angry Courtney Love in my baby doll dress, with my red lipstick, a tumbler of Jack in one hand and a cigarette (I didn't even smoke) in the other. As we drove home, Lucifress began to show her true colors. First by putting the cigarette out in between my legs, smack in the center of the passenger seat - leaving a lovely dime-sized burn whole in the upholstery of Tom's new car. When Tom objected to my "rock and roll" gesture, I grabbed his tip money (approx. $400 in cash from his triple-shift over the last two days) and threw it out the window. At the time, we were traveling at about 45 miles an hour in a construction zone and the money flew like confetti in every direction. I let out an evil cackle as Tom pulled over and tried to find his money (he was able to find only about $60).

The next morning I awoke with a blinding headache and full of guilt. What little I remembered was not good. I knew that Lucifress had gone too far this time. Tom forgave me but decided it might be time to 'take a break' for a week or so, while I contemplated my actions. We eventually got back together (because Tom is a saint with the patience of Job) and, although Lucifress occasionally made a guest appearance on some of our future dates, she was never quite as evil as she had been on that fateful night.

Lucifress, I am happy to say, is no longer with me. On the rare occasions where I have a glass of wine (or two) the worst thing that happens is I end up buying an expensive pair of jeans on line and then fall asleep in front of bad television. R.I.P Lucifress.

-Val

Note: The above picture is NOT me, but I found it online and it is a pretty good representation of what I might have looked like at the time (just mentally add some red lipstick).