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Not Billy Mays, Too!!!

This has been a bad couple of days to be famous. Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and now...Billy Mays!

Shit.  loved this guy. I loved the way he was so totally and completely FIRED UP about his products. Be it OxiClean, Orange Glo, Kaboom, Handy Switch, iCan, Mighty Putty, Awesome Auger, Steam Buddy, or the Tool Bandit, Billy Mays was COMMITTED TO BRINGING YOU GREAT PRODUCTS!

I ask you this...what justice can we expect in a world that allows the asshole ShamWow! guy to live even after he slapped around a prostitute while a married father of two who promised his items would WORK OR YOUR MONEY BACK is allowed to die? Billy Mays is dead, my friends, yet a prostitute slapper goes on about his business with impunity.

Not fair.

A friend of mine wrote a witty Facebook status update that referenced the passing of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson on the same day.  

"First the 70s died. Then the 80s. Better watch your back, Spice Girls."

I chuckled at the same time that I realized that in a matter of seconds, dozens of my "friends" were posting about the simultaneous loss of Farrah and Michael. ("We never did see them in the same room together, did we?  Hmmm.")

But what I was mostly struck by was not people's clever remarks, but their immediate jump to connect the celebrities to their own lives, particularly childhood memories.

If karaoke had gone mainstream by the time I was in the 6th grade, "Ben" would have been my song.

We danced to Thriller at Tracy's house and also the Lionel Richie VHS!

My brothers had that famous swimsuit poster on their wall forever.

My youth is flashing before my eyes!  Damn!

Samantha B. remembers debating the best songs from "Thriller" over hot lunch (mashed potatoes via ice cream scoop!) at Evans Elementary.

I remember watching the Jackson Five and Little Michael as a kid -- he was only 3 years older than me.

My daughter did not know who Farrah Fawcett was when she heard the news today.

Okay, fine. We can deal with not having a lady president (still), but with the recent overflow of testicle-wearing late night hosts, it got me thinking, why no late night lady hosts?

Joan Rivers tried once and was ridiculed (and yeah, Joan isn't my favorite lady comedian of all time, but come on, it's not like she's Chevy Chase), but there haven't been many women on the late night radar over the years. Now View host Joy Behar is being given some sort of chat deal. Only problem is it's at 8 p.m. Central time and on CNN. Not exactly Jimmy Fallon territory.

I mean, Fallon's cute and all, and I can appreciate the Saved by the Bell reunion attempts, but please. Late night? I think he still only has to shave every other day. Jay Leno is a boring old toot who I will never forgive for selling out his comedy soul and pimping for Doritos, and now he refuses to retire. Conan is just fine, but Carson Daly? The dude should be lucky to have a cruise ship hire him. Colin Ferguson, Jimmy Kimmel, Dave Letterman...I need a jock strap just to write this post.

Of all the girls from The Girls Next Door, I'm really most pleased that it's Kendra who's having a baby with her fiancé, professional football player Hank Baskett. (Apparently, Hugh Hefner teared up when he heard the news that his little girl was all growed up.)

Anyway, back to what I was saying. I'm so glad that it's Kendra who is spawning because the world needs more geniuses walking around, you know? I mean, when you look back on the episodes of Girls you really realize that Kendra was the genius of the bunch. Oh sure, you're laughing at me for saying that, what with Kendra's inability to pronounce three-syllable words, but hear me out.

Holly Madison was a calculating little witch who tried her mightiest to get as much Playboy power as she could, but when she realized Hef's sperm just couldn't make one more go, she gave up. Now that's smart, but it's not Kendra-smart. Because what does she have now? Bad ankles from her time on Dancing With the Stars and a couple of old pairs of Criss Angel's underpants.

So, I'm a straight lady, but I have this weird girl crush on the Channel 2 Traffic Lady, Jennifer Reyna.

I know I'm a feminist, and I'm not supposed to objectify women, and I'm supposed to be neutral about a woman's appearance because women are already totally objectified enough as it is. But this isn't even about objectifying women.

I just have a crush on Jennifer Reyna. On everything about her. Even more than just what she looks like.

Of course what she looks like does have something to do with it. Her outfits, probably. Like any gal, she dresses for other women, not for men. Her fashion choices are a bit daring, but also sensible. She wears bright colors, but she's never garish in her wardrobe decisions. She dresses to fit her frame, but she's not whorish about it.

She's perky, but it doesn't seem fake. She has a great smile!

I just spent about 10 minutes of my life that I will never get back tooling around on the Yanni site and have discovered something disturbing. Ladies and gentlemen, Yanni was here, and I missed him. He played the Toyota Center this past Saturday while I was stuffing my face at the Ninfa's on Navigation.

I missed the Yanni concert, y'all.

Okay, someone explain to me what does Yanni do? What does he play? Is it about his voice? Does he play piano, or is that simply left to John Tesh? Does he play the bongos? Or maybe the zither? It seems like either would be about right.

So I just went to his Wikipedia bio and discovered that he is a "self-taught pianist, keyboardist, and composer." Self-taught, eh? Like I'm a self-taught drunk. Okay, I can buy that. Self-taught. Just like Beethoven or whatever.

Photo by PinkMoose

I never thought pregnancy could be so crazy.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Now calm down, gentle readers. The fates have not yet conspired to allow Miss Pop Rocks to breed (perhaps there's an overabundance of snark at the moment and the universe does not need anymore), but this thought crossed my mind when I was perusing the tube and  realized the number of television programs devoted simply to making people totally freak out about getting knocked up.

In just a few days, we will be graced with Discovery Health Channel's "Baby Week," which is a lot like "Shark Week" except with a focus on fetuses and not hammerheads (same dif).  
Instead of copying TLC's Baby Story and Bringing Home Baby (breezy, dreamy shows that follows couples idiotic enough to allow cameras to film them as their lives completely transform when they bring their mewling infant into the world), Discovery Health's "Baby Week" is focused solely on the freaky deaky.

I have this vague memory of being a kid and watching Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood on Saturday Night Live. There was Eddie Murphy, making serious fun of my childhood idol Mr. Rogers by creating a freaky, parallel universe where Mr. Robinson could joke freely about his wife leaving him ("I'm so glad the bitch is gone!") and avoid his landlord, that white man just tryin' to get Mr. Robinson's cash.

I didn't get all of the jokes, but I knew enough to get that this guy was weird, twisted, and someone I wanted to be just like someday.

Flash forward a few decades and the same man who once created Mr. Robinsons' Neighborhood is now in some film called Imagine That.

Imagine that man used to be funny.

As a nerdy child who devoured books, I have to say there are a few I simply read too soon. Be it sex, drugs, or violence, my consumption of the following tomes sort of scarred me. I probably should have stuck with my Little House books until I was at least out of middle school.

Flowers in the Attic
I read this when I was 11 or 12, and it freaked me out on so many levels. It was bad enough that Grandmother and the self-absorbed mother locked the four Dollanger children in the attic of the Virginia mansion where Grandmother lived, but this book contained 1) consumption of human blood in an effort to survive starvation, 2) sister/brother incest between Corinne and Chris, 3) death of a child, 4) crazy abuse including whippings and chopped-off hair, and 5) poisoned cookies! This book messed with my head in a major way, and I wouldn't look at my brother (named Chris!) in the eye for a month.

Joy of Sex
I managed to get my hands on a copy of this when I was babysitting. Imagine my disgust when I viewed the drawings. The man and woman looked horrible! The guy was all hairy, the woman looked like she hadn't bathed in months. I realize now that Joy was trying to be all `70s and hippy dippy and one with nature and the body, but all it did was scare me into staying a virgin until I was in college. Apparently, they've revised the book and the pictures aren't so hairy, but I still don't think I'll be reading it.

Photo by kaddistrophic

Could a young, twentysomething hipster please explain to this 32-year-old crotchety senior citizen what exactly is American Apparel's appeal, puhlease?

My problems with the chain of clothing stores are many.

First of all, Dov Charney, American Apparel's CEO, is a known perv who once masturbated in front of a reporter. And while his clothing may be sweatshop-free, it is certainly sold on the backs of soft-core porn stars. (Is it just me, or do the kids in the American Apparel ads look like they need a vitamin shot or Chlamydia screening or something?)

Second of all, business-wise they are morons by using an unauthorized photo of Woody Allen in their ad campaign and then having to pay him bajillions.

But mostly I do not get American Apparel because of its clothing. It's like Flashdance barfed inside that store. Leggings, tunics, rompers, bodysuits. Who wears this shit?