By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
My life is veritably in shambles, but I can still sit back with a smirk and dole out unsolicited advice to celebs who are doing just fine.
Those who can't, teach, and honey, I can't at all. So let me rise to the crap-culture podium and let the gratuitous instructional work begin:
Stay away from clowns! Your tempestuous mama worked in the circus, which must explain your recent sideshow attraction with her, and Heath Ledger was done up like something out of Insane Clown Posse in The Dark Knight, which disturbingly has become the Heath Show, some people occasionally remembering you're in it too. So obviously you should never go near a circus tent ever again. In fact, if you see a red nose, rainbow hair, or grinning people packed into a miniature limo, run and call the police!
I know the gossip that your hands have turned purple can't possibly be true. Whisperers swear you've done some weird Scientology-suggested toxin-expelling ritual that discolors your paws and that's why you've been seen wearing gloves, which is as absurd as the plot of Tom's upcoming Nazi film. But just to show what a wacky, spontaneous chick you are, you should go along with the dish! In your All My Sons performances on Broadway, keep wearing the gloves, along with frilly hats, leggings, and scarves, just to keep the natterers wondering. For once, have fun with the gossip, Katie. Or take off the gloves and star in The Color Purple.
Get yourself some more babies! No, I'm serious. You haven't picked one up or popped one out in at least five minutes! Your maternal woman-of-good-works shtick seemed a little fried-fishy at first, but it's gotten you so much press and has completely managed to turn around that whore-of-Babylon-with-blood-vials thing, so I suggest you accelerate your wonderfulness and pick up every baby you can find. Go ahead, scoop them out of garbage cans, taxi cabs, and even people's arms if you have to. Bring a shopping bag to your local church and fill it up with whatever screaming infants were abandoned on the steps. Pretend it's Supermarket Sweep and the babies are turkeys. You can even beat Mia Farrow's record if you start copulating now!
Hi, Meryl. Sorry I haven't called lately, but I'm a tiny bit peeved. See, for years we've all raised our eyes heavenward and clucked, "Is there anything the woman can't do?" Well, now we know—ABBA songs! Watching you act like you're having such fun while droning out those tooth-rottingly bouncy Swedish meatballs was rather painful, and your voice, I'm anguished to say, wasn't really strong enough to carry off some of them anyway. So you were above and below the material at the same time, and I don't like to see my Meryl in a no-win situation like that. Ignore the box-office receipts, toots, and listen to my cry of reason: Don't sing no more!
FYI, doll, I just got an e-mail from one of The Ones, the group that wrote your Top 10 Brit hit "Flawless (Go to the City)." It seems they called for comps to see you do their song at the Garden the other night and were told by your management that they'd have to pay $267 per person. George! Is that the way someone with toilet paper always stuck to his shoe should behave?
Don't fuck up the variety show you're supposedly in talks to do. In some of your past negotiations, you've been somewhat demanding, which you have every right to be, but as a result the projects haven't always come to pass. Well, I need you to carry this one through. I think you would be amazing as a modern-day Ed Sullivan (and you're much more appealing than he was—you have a neck, for one thing). Besides, the time is so right to turn the tide away from all this "reality" shit and take it back to pure escapist entertainment—you know, all-star funfests spotlighting Broadway stars, jugglers, and hand puppets (if not necessarily clowns). I need this show! I bet even Barbara Walters needs this show!
Gossip Girl cast
Why don't each of you do something to distinguish yourself, whether that be kill someone, OD, or develop chlamydia? This way, I'll know which one you are when people say "So-and-so from Gossip Girl." My mental bulb will alight and I'll be able to go, "Oh, yeah, the one who ran over a baby deer" or "Right, the girl whose grandmother died in her car trunk." Otherwise, how am I really supposed to know Blake Lively from Chace Crawford?
When did you become the An Unmarried Woman channel? Yes, you do show Inventing the Abbotts every few days to throw us off, but mainly you're the An Unmarried Woman Channel and you know it! Mix things up a little. Even the History Channel does some non-Hitler programming every once in a while.
Madonna: Keep doing what you're doing, honey (except for those cheek implants—they would even scare Heath Ledger.). I tsk-tsked when you teamed with yet another hot young talent to make hits with, but it paid off, and your unerring business skills proved to be on target once again. Then came your brother's I-hold-no-grudges-but-here's-1,000-of-them book, which mainly elicited sympathy for you while cementing your stature as virtually unbesmirchable. And the A-Rod thing? You might as well milk it, since it might just be a brilliant publicity-related construct anyway. I got the same anonymous tips that you were shtupping him that the other columnists got—and now I suspect they came from your and A-Rod's mutual manager. Whatever the case, the gossip has taken the cobwebs out of your personal life for the first time in ages. So keep climbing the stripper pole to success, girl. Who am I to judge? But those cheek implants! Oy!