Lucy Liu attacked by a school of horny cuttlefish!
It gets worse.
Yes, showbusiness is a sordid, gilded ghetto. Behind the flashbulbs and the awards, behind the makeup and the costumes, lies an ugly truth.
The Casting Aquarium.
Even Lucy Liu, the lovely and talented star of the Charlie’s Angels chick action flicks, cannot escape its greedy clutches. Smiling bravely for the paparazzi despite the slimy embrace of a school of hormone-crazed cuttlefish, she personifies what must be suffered in silence inthe unspoken struggle for stardom.
In what used to be known as a “Faustian Bargain” and is now called “a personal contract with Harvey,” comely starlets are subjecting themselves to the embrace of repellent, corpulent invertebrates from under the sea. As for what their agents can do about it…why don’t you ask this young woman:
Seriously, seriously horny. Check it out for yourself: Shia LaBeouf, boeufcake supreme, Hollywood heartthrob and possible Indiana Jones love child, is horny as hell. For obvious reasons, I have placed this particular image over the jump. We don’t want to scare the horses!
Hoo, baby, you don’t want to go up against the Four Hopping Ninjas of the Apocalypse! These fearsome, kangarooian warriors put even the terrible Lo Pan of Big Trouble in Little China to shame. The last time I saw these guys I was leaving the Shebeen late one night and caught the briefest glimpse before they started hopping in a circle around me, faster and faster. Soon, everything was spinning.
An awesome scene featuring some top class fight choreography and special effects. Witness the titanic struggle of Man-Machine versus not one, not two, not even three but four evil hopping vampires!
Feast your eyes on this glorious Youtube and wonder no more at whether or not Bob married above himself: oh, he did, baby, he did! This is a clip of a classic catfight showdown of the very iciest type in good olde timey Hollywood style; duck and cover, boys! We blondes have to stick together, but just this once I’m calling it for the brunette; Suzanne Pleshette really knew how to take it up a life-threatening, eyebrow-arching notch. The men in this case are as incidental and interchangeable as chess piece Disney Princes, those vacuous, photogenic losers.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, inspired, I suppose or no, I actually know for a fact, by VF’s piece on Angie Dickinson, and today by the sad death of the original MILF, Suzanne Pleshette (okay, maybe second to Anne Bancroft’s Mrs Robinson, but there can’t be many straight Gen-X males who didn’t have a thing for the divinely sensible and sexy Emily Hartley).
Now, I’m a chick. Been one for years, actually. So I’m used to it. But there’s more to it than meets the eye: when you think about it, women as diverse as Princess Diana and Paris Hilton have managed to become some kind of arche- or at least stereotype. And it pays to type well, not fast or you can get stuck as your 7-year-old self’s idea of a cool chick, which explains the whole Madonna wannabe situation. So when you’re a little girl and you want to grow up to be a woman, what, exactly, do you have in mind? Britney Spears? Madonna? Marie Curie? Isabel Allende? Amanda Lepore? You’ve got to choose your icons carefully, if you don’t want to end up dated by nothing more than your accessories and identified by nothing more than the labels your mother sewed into your underwear.
It wasn’t until the seventies… that Dickinson met her pop-culture destiny, playing Sargeant Suzanne “Pepper” Anderson on Police Woman. Pepper was a lot of firsts: the first woman to have men report to her, the first unmarried female officer, the first to display self-doubt and, occasionally, a weakness for Jack Daniels. While she was doing all that, she also carved out a new look for the powerful woman—briskly beautiful in minimal makeup, blond hair permanently tousled from running down perps, her white Bianca Jagger–esque pantsuit adding to her unconscious swagger. Take that, Sydney Bristow.
“It’s a pleasure to meet a lady who’s a gentleman.” Frank Sinatra
Unlisted but indelibly a part of this pantheon are Catherine Deneuve and the fictional, yet nonetheless iconic, Catwoman and Emma Peel, about whom I’ve written elsewhere and will link up once I find it.
It’s called the American Dream because you have to be unconscious to believe it. George Carlin
For most of the world, America is the great entertainment factory. The New Jerusalem envisionsed by the Puritans has turned out to be the world’s leading manufacturer of amusement and cheap thrills. The colonists and their descendants did indeed build them a shining city on a hill — but they called it Disneyland. In the Declaration of Independence they enshrined, along with life and liberty, the inalienable right to pursue happiness. But happiness is hard. Happiness takes work. Even worse, happiness is a long shot. So America settled for fun, perfected it, and sold it to an eager world. Pop music, Hollywood movies, the seductive sound of ice chattering in a silver cocktail shaker — they are the tangible, consumable expressions of the lofty principles in the Declaration of Independence,
the free culture of a free people.
William Grimes, in
Straight Up or On the Rocks, The History of the American Cocktail
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raincoaster 