Counter Culture

Though I try to stick to jabs and stabs at my celebrity friends, never before has the line between politics and celebrity been as blurry as a Madonna covershoot. (I’ve saved you the pleasure of myself donning the pantsuit ensemble, but rest assured there’s a rifle in my pocket.) If the mere presence of bikini-clad gun-totin’ VP wannabe Sarah Palin makes you think Ashton Kutcher is hiding behind the podium, you’re not alone. If you believe Hilary is to Sarah as Nicole is to Paris, you’re halfway there. And if you dug this week’s debate way more than Wife Swap but a little less than America’s Next Top Model, you’re ready.

I propose we call this shit show farce The Amazing Presidential Race. Clever FOX producers will divide the key players into tribe Dumbo and tribe Jackass, forcing survival of the fittest in a sweet loft decorated by our friends at Ikea. Fuelled by free booze and a yearn for power, our contestants will be subject to daily challenges like weapons of mass destruction scavenger hunts, squaring off with the ladies at The View, and beach relay races with buckets of oil balanced in their mouths.

Day one of Vote ‘08? Makeovers! Viewers will vote for their favourites on www.evilorhot.com, the winners awarded with special privileges including free hard question do-overs, the white woman’s vote, and the freebie state of Florida. Contestants will confess their day-to-day campaigning diary in a secret room, unknowing being filmed in night vision. Here we’ll see Obama chain-smoking and Palin thinking and re-thinking of any news publication she reads.

Alright, seriously now, let’s get real and talk spin-offs. After all, focus groups find Biden boring (though silver fox-y) and McCain older than Janice Dickenson; and Obama’s on contract with Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. The American people – and we loser Canadians who don’t care at all about our own election – want Palin. We want pink “I’m a VP” t-shirts, we want fuzzy limo is-that-a-muff? shots, we want Youtube video of club nights out with Ann Coulter. We want drunken nightly rants (“Eaf you, Bearack! You don’t know me!”) and staged grocery shopping with Heidi Montag. We want rehab, “recovery” and relapse.

If the ratings from last week’s vote are telling, Sarah’s ability to recite her lines, be adorable, and rock a Valentino suit make perfectly qualified for television, a dance single, perfume design, political leadership, and prime time reality stardom. Whether picked bachelor styles after a single McCain meeting – though I’m sure their facebook posts were flirty – or receiving voodoo protection from witchcraft, The Sarah Palin Show is a thigh-slappin’ terror-fightin’ six-pack-poundin’ political roller coaster of good times. So hop in, Generation Y, shelve your fear factor at the door and vote Sarah Palin for VP. Just text your vote to NBC after the show.

Dear Ms. Fey,

Congrats on your sweet Golden Globe, SAG and now Emmy hat trick, a feat unheard of since last year’s Ugly Betty (though you did it without braces). Your razor wit and new-baby cleavage make you a true inspiration to glasses-wearing women everywhere. 30 Rock is an ironic postmodernist masterpiece that’s like way better than The Office. The only thing missing: Me.

Besides a sarcastic sense of humour and intimate friendship with Lindsay Lohan, I feel you and I have much in common. We’re both Scottish and Greek (though replace my Greek with more Scottish). Our parents’ disproportional support has left us unfit for any conventional profession and inappropriate in every office environment. We’re therefore comedy writers, of varying successes.

I’ve considered my possible positions on your show and decided that best friend/co-head writer is the best fit for me personally. I don’t currently have or believe in a comedy CV or portfolio, but there is a brief stage of my spectrum of intoxication where I’m allegedly quite witty. (This usually occurs immediately before my grammatical inversion stage, when my vodka funny tastes cranberry.)

Luckily, I’ve also had much experience in front of the camera. I starred in numerous feature length high school video projects. Recently, I can often be seen drinking coffee and rolling my eyes in the background of the Slice Network. I was once the first runner-up to portray bad jeans model #3 in a makeover segment. I’ve also attached a blurry cell phone picture of me dressed as you on Halloween.

Though I’m very willing to play a variety of non-ugly characters on 30 Rock, I think I’d best portray a recent television grad who’s hired as your personal assistant. Possible hilarious story lines include a longstanding rivalry with a newly-promoted too-blonde turbo-slut Cerie, my avoidance of a non-requited affection from Kenneth the Page, and my improper Electra complex-y crush on Alec Baldwin.

Again, I offer my sincere apologies regarding our botched Rainbow Room martini meeting. I fear my emails to you were actually just sketched pictures in my diary of us holding hands. Our now mutual friend and security guard, Delroy, kindly escorted me from the 30 Rockefeller lobby and suggested I contact you legally via NBC mail.

I look forward to discussing this matter further over mozzarella cheese sticks and blood cookies. My thanks in advance for your consideration, for rightly calling Paris Hilton a piece of shit, and for making it feel ok to wear glasses to concerts (though not on dates).

Eagerly yours,

Rosemary Counter

Ps. I am also available for hire by Mr. Baldwin, should he need my services in any way. He can call me whatever derogatory names he wants, and I promise to like it.

Though I hate to be a hater (just kidding; I love it), I can't lie: I have a tiff with TIFF. Maybe it's a little love/hate, as the swag seems sweet and I did one year touch Matt Dillon's bulging bicep. But come the light of day, the swag's revealed as ten pounds of ads and one turd-like organic energy bar. I vaguely recall Matt refusing to sign a ripped pack of Belmonts (asshole). My head hurts from those damn little cans of champagne, and I know tonight is another long lineup of wannabe starfuckers and yet no starfucking. So here, some fantasy 'tude for thought while your feet bleed into your pumps.

Scenario Best: Looking fab next to the open bar, Matt Damon struts up and whispers in your ear. "Has anyone told you you just like Kate Beckinsale?" You coyly smile and ask if anyone's ever told him he looks like Matt Damon. He laughs, appreciating a rare wit that surpasses that of any Hollywood starlet.

Scenario Real: While searching for your drunk friends on a sticky dance floor, a guy that looks like Matt Damon - but old - stumbles over and leans in. "Anyone tell you you look just like Sarah Palin?" he yells. "Who doesn't?" you scream back, but he doesn't get it. He mutters "fuck you, bitch" and hits on the girl behind you.

Scenario Best: You're perfecting your lipgloss in the bathroom when Lindsay Lohan gracefully floats out of a stall. You play it cool and casually mention you dig her Dolce & Gabbana. "Thanks," she purrs flirtatiously, "you're so nice." Bonding over the inherent Canadian niceness, Lindsay asks if you wanna party later, and winks.

Scenario Real: You've been waiting in line for half an hour to fix your running mascara. Accompanied with a double-sized black dude in aviators, LiLo finally teeters out of the bathroom, crying and texting at the same. You want to tell her you love her sequin-y minidress, but instead just awkwardly stare at her thighs. Jayron the bodyguard calls you a creep as he pushes you out of the way.

Scenario Best: Strolling outside Whole Foods, latte in hand, you come face to face with your 80s sexual awakening icon Mickey Rourke. He hasn't aged a day, and when you tell him so, he thanks you and asks for a hug. You mention what a fan you are of his numerous quality films, and don't mention 9 1/2 Weeks.

Scenario Real: On the third night waiting in the VIP section at the Brass Rail, Mickey finally arrives. You shyly push through the polyester-clad dancers to get near enough to say, "I'm, uh, a big fan of, um, you know?" Your mind goes blank. Before you realize it you're going on and on about the scene where Mickey feeds Kim a fridge. You suddenly notice you're the fattest girl in the room, and say so. Mickey gives you a pity hug with an ass squeeze to signal it's time to go.

So what's the real-life lesson here? Swag is garbage, otherwise they'd sell it. You don't look like Kate Beckinsale, even if someone says you do. Matt Damon is married, if you care about that kinda stuff. Lindsay likes sparkles, pick-me-ups, and fedoras - but not you. So save your dignity and make Toronto starfuck-free, cause sometimes a touch-feely snuggle with Mickey Rourke just isn't worth it. I can't even watch 9 1/2 Weeks anymore without feeling dirty. True story.

Maybe it’s my (and yours, don’t deny it) inner teen-girl sleuth. Maybe it was my impressionable age when the Richard Gere gerbil story scurried about Hollywood’s dirty minds. Maybe it’s because Michael and LaToya do look exactly the same when you’re not wearing your glasses. But seriously though, I heard from a chick that knows a dude that all celebrity rumours are true, effing awesome, and a surefire way to secure a spot in Hollywood history. Here, a guide to making n’ faking your own timeless tale in tinsel town.

Firstly, the gay rumour: so truly fabulous that it’s gay not to have one. Everyone who’s anyone has a persistent homo cloud – or is that a rainbow? – following them from casual chai tea outings to the bright lights of the Mamma Mia sing-a-long premiere. Leading closet crusaders include the omniscient Oprah Winfrey and her bat-shit crazy friend Tom Cruise (though I hear it’s not gay if it’s Scientology). Musicians are especially susceptible: Whitney Houston laughs off lesbo whispers with crack addiction (it’s whack, yo), Clay Aiken and Ricky Martin can hardly artificially inseminate a female gamete without eyes rolling, David Bowie and Mick Jagger can’t even have hot gay 70s sex without arousing suspicion backstage. (By suspicion, I mean arousal; and by backstage, I mean in my dream last night.)

If you’re too homophobe to start your own gay rumour (not me: Be mine, Lindsay), perhaps you might consider becoming a beard. Think Katherine Hepburn, Nicole Kidman, Liza Minelli. Think furs, long phallic-y cigarettes, boundless extramarital promiscuity. Cooler than fag hags and more dignified than fruit flies, Beards are half way to actually being gay and you can still wear all your regular clothes.

Not sexy enough? I feel you, sister. If sexual deviancy tickles your fancy, you’re in the right town for a cruel slap in the face. From a cross-dressing J. Edgar Hoover to that time when Angelina slipped her brother the tongue, rank tales abound to satisfy perverts everywhere. Remember when Marilyn Manson (who played Paul on The Wonder Years, duh) had a rib removed for self-pleasure of a most unnatural kind? What about that time when Rod Stewart was rushed to the hospital with a stomach full of love juice? Or was that Elton John? Or my boyfriend Bowie? It’s already happened this season to Lil’ Kim and Britney Spears, you know. When will these crazy celebs ever learn?

For the truly dark, dig deeper for your repressed evil alter ego and get creative. Classic sickos include the cryogenically frozen Walt Disney, who may or may not boast the infamous extra Y chromosome, the must-have accessory of serial killers and Jamie Lee Curtis. Curtis has “internal testicles” (cause those exist) and Hitler only had one. The Kennedys killed Marilyn (seriously, they so did), Courtney killed Kurt and Mary-Kate killed Heath; whereas Elvis, Andy Kaufman, Jim Morrison and Heath Ledger are still alive.

Too wimpy to fake your own death, you say? Cmon, you used to be cool. But since your mom will be pissed and the government says it illegal (fascists), keep it real and stick to celebs. The gay, perverted, and murderous stars have no power over our slanderous whispers. Speaking of which, I heard the other Olsen twin is a hologram from the future. Tell everyone you know.

Besides the obvious – she’s an ex-accessories buyer, I buy accessories – it seems teeth-sinker slash princess-to-be Kate Middleton and I have a lot in common. Though she spent the last weekend waterskiing in the peasant-free island of Mustique, and I spent it locked in my peasant a-plenty village apartment, bitching about bitches who water ski, I nonetheless think an iron-mask-man switcheroo is in order (come back, Leonardo DiCaprio!). Here, a call to Wills to reconsider.

Firstly, the physicals. We both have brown hair: her’s long and luscious, mine chopped and dyed red. Next, we have the thin-lipped smirk of a Cheshire cat and the sly hazel eyes of a crazy woman, though hers peer from beneath a Philip Treacy hat. We’re both a statuesque 5’10, when I’m wearing three-inch pumps. Kate’s starved right down to an American size 2, and I was pretty skinny for a while in high school.

At the insistence of our invasive mothers, Kate and I both attended reputable universities (although I hear St. Andrews doesn’t suck quite as hard as U of T). We have arts degrees of similar meaninglessness: mine in English and hers in Art History. We took minors in Man-Landing, although in Canada it’s called “Women’s Studies.” Left academically disadvantaged, we’re both criticized by the media for our lack of career (though in my case, replace “media” with “invasive mother”).

So Kate and I instead do what we’re good at: her attending high-profile royal events, me profiling such events, often royally high. Last seen at 3:45am last night at the club Ruffles – where a jeroboam (look it up, serf) of champers puts the British taxpayers back a hefty £12,000 – Kate shows an appropriate amount of tanned thigh as she gracefully exits, not unlike me tripping down the stairs at the Dance Cave at a quarter after 11.

Both class acts, my limey doppelganger and I walk parallel uncertain paths to undeserved celebrity: Kate leverages her fame for Burberry bags; I steal fashion magazines from Indigo. She goes deerstalking at Balmoral; I go manstalking at Queen and Spadina. Telegraph newspaper called Ms. Middleton “Most Promising Newcomer”; Shedoesthecity editrix Jen McNeely called me a “cupcake fairy”.

So go ahead and get your knickers in a knot, Kate, cause this cupcake fairy’s got one squinty eye on your redcoat. And though you may be tall, thin, nouveau riche and ramming the king, I’m, uh, real? Bollocks!

Every morning, the alarm clock blaring as I fight a mean case of the morning confusions, I remember where I am and reluctantly face the world. With a brief stop at the coffee maker, I boot up and surrender again to technology. I check my email quickly to make sure I’m not fired (god forbid, but at least I won’t have to shower) and then – full of pathetic shame and an irresistible need to know – I lurk, coffee in hand, to Facebook.

Like coffee, Facebook is a needle-free socially acceptable habit that seems harmless. But, also like coffee, you might find yourself chain smoking at 4am, your mouse clicking aimlessly at pictures of people you hate now posing like America’s Next Top Model at parties you weren’t invited to. You make a mental note that they’re way fatter than you now and can’t spell the word “awesome,” and you pretend not to care.

Not that you hate all your Facebook “friends”, of course, as some are moderate acquaintances that you’re too shy to call or unsuccessful bar hookups who weren’t hot enough for a phone number. But I’m sure that 380 of your 400 “friends” are people that you may or may not remember from high school, who you may or may not have hooked up with at a house parties circa 2002. And that brings us to the heart of Facebook, the stalkathon.

Stop me if this sounds familiar: Though in reality estranged, you’re nonetheless Facebook “friends” with your d-bag ex (who was just so cute that few couples of times). You fight the daily status update, but usually fail. He doesn’t know this of course, as – with the exception of a casual birthday wish, which has the inflated value of absolutely nothing – your 200 visits are invisible in a true perfect crime.

Then some bitch posts on his wall. Cheeks sucked in and lips pursed, she’s all “I luv youre profile pic!!! awsom time on fri!!! x x x” and you’re all flustered and engulfed in rage. You can’t see her profile of course (damn privacy settings), but you can see her friends, and you can read her illiterate posts, and you can make up a fake Facebook account and befriend the bimbo. Just kidding…or am I?

The point I’m trying to make – if I weren’t distracted by cheating at Scrabulous at this exact moment – is that Facebook is for creeps, and thrives on making non-creepy people creepy, and creepy people even creepier. My denial and consequential deletion of daily activities is perhaps the creepiest act of all. Which is why I’m taking the first step, admitting I have a problem, and quitting Facebook cold turkey – until lunch.

It ain't easy being Tom Cruise these days. You can't get a job, everyone thinks you're a knob jockey, you're short like a woman. Once the star of hetero classics Top Gun, A Few Good Men, and Cocktail, the golden boy turned walking punchline has been cruelly yet hilariously booted from the Hollywood A-crowd. Needless to say, this poof has some serious, non-homosexual somethin-somethins’ to prove. And what better way to assert your teeny masculinity than an old-school Russian-styled domination of your child bride? Here, ten tips for Cruise control from the master.

1. Recognize vulnerability: Legend has it that a bright eyed Katie Holmes unknowingly foretold her fate. Semi-reliable internet sources quote: “I think every little girl dreams about their wedding. I used to think I was going to marry Tom Cruise.” Run, Katie, Run!

2. Feed the (heterosexual) Fantasy: Did you know Katie’s special friend proposed on top of the Eiffel Tower? Did you know I just puked a little in my mouth?

3. The Bling, Part One: Shower her with riches. By riches, I mean Chanel. And by shower, I mean one of those game show glass boxes packed with hundred dollar bills. Show her wealth greater than the Creek ever could.

4. The Bling, Part 2: Makeover Hour: Warehouse cardigans, no, black Gucci dresses, Yes. An Armani-themed wedding? Yes, yes! Oversized Prada sunglasses to hide the bruises? Priceless.

5. Separate from the Herd: That’s right, no friends under any circumstances. No Dawson and especially no Pacey. Tom is your only friend. Your one faux-friend, for InTouch Magazine’s sake, can be Posh Spice, who is a hired femmebot.

6. Sealing the deal: baby-making will greatly complicate her escape. Ever seen Not Without My Daughter?

7. The baby ball-and-chain: hiding your spawn from the prying eyes of an unforgiving media is a full-time job. Which means no time for Disturbing Behaviour: The Return.

8. A new God: No, not Tom, silly. Crazier. His name is Xenu and he has some simple requests. Just an open mind, a silent birth, and all of your money will guarantee your soul is sticky-alien free. A bargain.

For the record, Xenu vetoed the last two tips. If absolutely necessary, pleaser refer to other (alleged, but still beloved) celebrity wife-beaters including Bill Murray, Mos Def (unless strippers lie), Paul McCartney, Liza Minnelli, and The Bounty Hunter (I assume). Also Tonya Harding, who gets the shedoesthecity equality solute for hitting her husband with a hubcap.

That said, Cruise Control (and it's un-funny bitch cousin "domestic abuse") is a serious feministy issue and if you, like Katie Holmes, don't wanna wait for your life to be over, we recommend you call someone and get help, preferably Tonya Harding.

While we’ve busied ourselves arguing over – and in some particularly pathetic cases, donning the t-shirts – Team Jolie versus Team Aniston, sexiest woman alive Angelina Jolie has slowly but surely imported a football team sized family of reinforcements. With the sexiest man (if you dig men prettier than you are) casually strewn off her tattooed arm, Brangelina is set on world takeover.

And frankly, I’m ready. They’re superhot, they produce a steady stream of mediocre films, they’re politically astute, and superhot. But, like the Greek gods that preceded them, I fear the looming wrath of family politics-to-be. Though simply accessories now, the future sits uneasily on the little multi-coloured fingers of Maddox, Zahara, the golden child, that new one, and the twins. Like a real-life celebrity-themed game of Risk, who will inherit the kingdom?

Player One: Maddox Chivan, Cambodian orphan. Acquired 2001 with then-husband Billy Bob Thornton. Pros include status as eldest, likely controlling with evil sense of entitlement. Media-savvy with stylish and much-copied faux-hawk. Championed celebrity adoption movement. Cons: old news, thin legs, Billy Bob Thornton-factor.

Round Two: Zahara Marley, aged 3. Born in Ethiopia, original name unknown. Pros: first baby adopted by Brad, future bootiliciousness, America’s deep-rooted fear of Black people. Cons: middle child syndrome plus disrupted birth order equals disaster. Birth mother still alive and likely story-selling. Sub-par red carpet fashion sense.

The Blood: Shiloh Nouvel, b. 2006 in Namibia. Pros: First appearance worth millions. Only infant immortalized at wax museum. Inevitable extreme good looks. Inherited mother’s witch-powers. Cons: Privilege (which doesn’t sell). Admiration turned resentment from rest of world. Lack of fulfillment of the “little girl lost” variety.

The Under(cut)dog: Pax Thien, Vietnamese orphan, born 2003. Pros: Asian street fighting skills, luscious peek-a-boo locks. Cons: Often indistinguishable from Maddox. Name change at four/possible split identity disorder. Alternative persona, however, is likely a ninja (this is a pro).

Double Trouble: The twins, born in France, 2008. Pros: superior genes, telepathic superpowers, inevitable sitcom child-stardom. Cons: creepy twin factor, natural competitive nature, born in France.

Though this loyal subject is eagerly awaiting some serious blood and gore, I must begrudgingly add my disapproval of infant violence and subsequent vote for peace (and for Brad to wear the gladiator outfit). May the Jolie-Pitts reign of familial love be as long and supreme as the Kennedys, the McCartneys, or my family. For in this time of terrorism and adoption, we can all be winners: except for Jennifer Aniston, obviously.

Somewhere amidst this spirited weekend of Gay Pride and Fag Hagism, whether you found yourself blowing bubbles in a life-sized martini glass or rolling your eyes in a temper tantrum of male-attention withdrawal, you probably got your daily dose of celebrity gossip, pride-styles. Today’s lesbian special? My best friend Lindsay Lohan.

My lil’ cokette recently packed up her spandex leggings collection to play lesbo doll house with her new “friend” DJ Samantha Ronson. That’s the little sister of Brit producer Mark Ronson, if you know who that is, which I certainly don’t. She’s also a twin (spooky) and her mom got hitched to Foreigner’s guitarist. Samantha’s cute in that androgynous way, but I’m like so much prettier than her.

Though she insists it’s a quotation-free friendship (like ours, since LiLo keeps resisting my advances), the mean girl has been seen playing nice: first canoodling at Cannes, then snuggling on P. Diddy’s yacht, and threatening to kill Ashley Olsen for talking to her girlfriend. Don’t act like you wouldn’t.

But it’s not all love nest good times, as all the mags, internet columnists (not me, obviously), and judgmental star enthusiasts have been taking swipes and stabs at the scissor sisters. Perez Hilton – himself an uberfag – posts daily about Lindsay and “saMANtha”: who’s the man or wife, who wears sneakers or dildos, who started last night’s MySpace fight. Whereas this baggagy shit surely reminds you of an actual real-life committed relationship, Lohan bears a nagging question that the rest of us do not: is she really gay? Is this just for attention? Lindsay Lohan? I mean cmon!

Pre-rehab Lindsay had been linked, among others, to: pop tart Aaron Carter, Wilmer Valderrama (though he likes to be called Fez), my so-called teen obsession Jared Leto, Sean “che-ching” Lenon, Girls gone wild’s Joe Francis, whiner James Blunt, nanny-shagger Jude Law, alleged nanny-shagger Ryan Phillippe, and someone called Adrian Grenier. Through all these hetero hookups, no one asked, is Lindsay really a huge slut? Maybe she’s pretending! That red head from the Parent Trap? Cmon!

So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Pridesters. And to Lindsay: call me?

Like all great cultural phenomenons, it all started with Britney Spears. Newly single and clad in a Little Miss Sunshine tee, Britney stumbled out of Paris Hilton’s futuremobile. In a lace blouse better suited for a nun, Paris looked demure and a little smug (perhaps relieved that someone else was on display). The paparazzi got a few choice pics showcasing Brit’s cesarean gunt before, finally, Paris reaches over to demonstrate her dedication towards modesty. It was business as usual in tinsel town.

Cut to Lindsey a few weeks later: Chillin’ in the club, a lit cigarette hanging from her mouth. Like it aint no thang, Lindsey scrunches her dress to her hip, exposing her good stuff (albeit smushed inside her pantyhose). Celebrity bloggers likened her lady parts to the somewhat less-ladylike roast beef sandwich.

Never one to be outdone, Paris jumped back on the bandwagon. Type Paris Hilton vagina into any search engine and, trust me, you won’t be disappointed. Replace Paris Hilton with celebrity and you’d better cancel your plans tonight. Though this week may be Dita Von Teese’s, past muff de jours include Lily Allen, Christina Aguilera and Jessica Biel. Oldies but goodies include Tyra Banks, Kelly Ripa and, of course, Sharon Stone.

So now to serious business: what the ef is this about? Is cameltoe show merely this season’s nipple slip, or is something more sinister brewing down below? Is this a new low for women everywhere or – dare I say it – the ultimate display of pussy power?

Not that flashing your moneymaker is suddenly more girl power than voting for Hillary, but there is some undeniable pleasure that fascinates feminists and internet perverts alike. For a generation of celebrities that are stalked day and night for vulgarity – Stars without makeup! Worst beach bods! – maybe spreading um for the camera is the revenge of the isn’t-this-what-you-really-want variety? Factor in entire shamelessness and this sure feels like re-appropriation, baby.

So next time Britney falls out of a limo, let’s quit vajahating on her box and instead applaud her work towards mainstreaming the vagina. And then, let’s move on. Maybe the paparazzi might relocate their efforts to the shaming of men for whose balls fall out of their short shorts. (I’m looking at you, Matthew McConaughey.) Now that’ll be a sweet day in tinsel town.