On Clocks, Cocks and One More Reason to Move to the UK

“This weekend, the UK changes.”

Those are the last words I heard while watching the following commercial reminding people in the UK to turn their clocks back an hour. Those are the last words I heard because I was mesmerized by the delicious man undressing himself. Even his smooth accent wasn’t enough to make me listen to the actual words coming from his lips. Go ahead and watch it. I dare you to pay attention to what he’s saying.

We also change our clocks twice a year here in the US. We do not, however, get reminded by sexy men. That would undercut all the work being done by narrow-minded religious zealots who are doing their best to take over this country in the name of Jesus. Instead of sex, we get technological instruction.

Where would you rather be when it comes time to change the clocks?

On Lady Gaga, Re-Releases and The Cracking of the Poker Face

Lady Gaga is going on tour.

Those six words are apparently enough to send any (gay) lover of pop music into a tailspin. When do tickets go on sale? Will the show sell out? How much are tickets going to cost? What will I wear? Will she love me? Is she God?

I am a (gay) lover of pop music. I am not, however, convinced that I care a whole lot about Lady Gaga’s tour. While I was once gaga for Gaga, my love affair with this singing art installation has wilted. And I’m rather afraid that it may be wilted beyond the point of no return.

The nail in the coffin that was my love for Lady Gaga is the upcoming release of The Fame Monster. One could call The Fame Monster Lady Gaga’s sophomore effort, the follow-up to her debut album, The Fame.

I call The Fame Monster a joke.

Instead of giving her fans a proper new album, Lady Gaga is simply re-releasing The Fame with eight new songs tacked on to the back of it. Instead of recording two or three more songs and releasing a full album of original material, this artist is choosing to ride on the shirttails of her existing success. She’s choosing to cushion the success of The Fame. She’s choosing to cheat her fans out of their money. She’s being rather unfair.

Lady Gaga would argue with me on those points, however. “I think re-releases are unfair,” she recently went on record as saying. “It’s artists sneaking singles onto an already finished piece of work in an effort to keep the album afloat. Originally [my label] only wanted me to put out three songs and now it’s much more than that. It’s a new album’s worth of material.”

Someone needs to correct her. The Fame Monster is a new album’s worth of material that is being packaged in conjunction with an old album’s worth of material. That, my dear, is a re-release. There’s no talking yourself out of that one. If you truly believe re-releases are unfair, you’d give us an album called Monster and leave The Fame in the past.

Lady Gaga is not the only recording artist who’s gone down this route in recent years. It’s becoming a very common marketing stunt, a way for record labels to capitalize on the success of a certain project. It’s a good plan for the pockets of record executives and their cronies.

For the fans, it sucks. It means shelling out money for a bunch of songs you already own so that you can get your hands on new material. Lady Gaga had it right when she said it’s unfair. And yet, she’s decided to re-release The Fame anyway.

I used to look at Lady Gaga and see a pop artist with promise. She was different. She was severe and exciting and intriguing. I thought she was someone who could really shake things up.

I feel now like I was wrong. Apparently she’s just like everyone else. She’s out for herself. She’s out for the money. She’s afraid of separating herself from the success she’s already found in order to explore the next phase of her career. She’s not nearly as brave as she portrays herself to be. She’s not an artist. She’s a puppet of the music business.

It’s not surprising. Everyone’s a puppet of someone else. Everyone’s in it for the money. It’s all just a little hard to swallow from a woman who tries so hard to convince the world that she’s a real artist who is in it for so much more.

Looks like, at the end of the day, Lady Gaga’s poker face is starting to crack.

On Hollywood, Stars and The Race for Fame

I saw a poll online yesterday (forgive me for having forgotten the site) that asked readers to vote on the worst Hollywood parent. The choices consisted of Jon Gosselin, the father of Balloon Boy, Octomom and Lindsay Lohan’s father. I didn’t vote, but Jon appeared to me taking an early lead. I can’t say I disagree with those results.

My first thought upon seeing this poll was that I have no clue what Octomom’s actual name is. My second thought was that none of these people, with the possible exception of the man who sired Lindsay Lohan, should be considered Hollywood parents.

Then I stopped and thought about it for a moment and I realized that this is America. In America, anyone can be a celebrity. All it takes is a little screen time, a lot of audacity and people like me to write about you. Make a few bad choices and – BAM – you’re a star, baby.

It seems everyone wants to be a star these days. Be it reality television or blogs or YouTube, there are so many options available for the average Joe who wants to cash in on the fame craze. I can’t help but wonder, however, what the appeal is.

The minute one crosses over the line from being a regular person to being a star, everything changes. And from what I can tell, it doesn’t usually change for the better. Look at Jon Gosselin. Sure, he’s famous now. He also happens to be one of the most detested men on the planet at the moment. Complete strangers are voting him the worst parent in Hollywood. His marriage is in shambles. His family is falling apart. Every mistake he’s ever made is up for public judgment. His life is no longer his own.

I sure hope it was all worth it, Jon.

And yet, I wouldn’t be a very honest person if I didn’t say I wasn’t at least the tiniest bit intrigued by the idea of being famous. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to checking the stats of this blog religiously to see just how many people are reading my public thoughts. I admit to fantasizing about being discovered someday and becoming the next big thing on the Hollywood writing scene.

Seems I’m as caught up in America’s race for fame as the next guy. I’m not nearly as despicable about it as Jon Gosselin, but the seed has been planted. I’m far from innocent.

What separates me from the likes of Octomom, however, is that which separates human beings from, say, fungus. I have self-awareness. I completely recognize that at least on some level I blog in the hopes of being famous. I also completely recognize that I’m never going to become famous for keeping this silly blog.

And yet, I’ll play along in my own delusional mind. And I’ll continue to judge those who have faired better than I in the race for fame. For, that’s what we do. We build you up to tear you down. And then we throw our hats in the ring to be the next person who is vilified by all of America.

Ain’t fame great?

On Responsibilities, Parenting and Not Letting Your Children Read Playboy

“I don’t like this movie.”

Those words were spoken rather loudly by the young girl sitting behind me at a viewing of Where the Wild Things Are.  These words were spoken just seconds before the young girl proclaimed she had to go to the bathroom or she would pee in her chair.

As you can well imagine, I was far from thrilled to be seated in front of this youngster.  I was, not, however angry with her.  I was angry with the grown man who had chosen to bring her to the movie in the first place.

I am well aware that parents are allowed to bring their children to the movies.  I am not one of those people who feels that children should never share the same space that I am in.  I love kids.  I’ve taken kids to the movies before myself.  I have no problem with kids in a movie theater when I make the decision to see a movie that is made is for children.

The issue here is that Where the Wild Things Are is not a movie that is made for children.

Yes, the movie is based on a popular children’s book.  Yes, the movie features large puppet-like creatures.  Yes, the central character of the movie is a young boy name Max.  None of this, however, means that Where the Wild Things Are is appropriate for children.

I knew this was a movie for adults before I even stepped foot into the theater.  I knew this because I read a few reviews of the film.  I did my homework.  I educated myself.

Why the hell can’t parents do the same thing before shoveling their kids into their mini vans?

When you are a parent, you have a responsibility to your children.  This means you do not bring them to a movie just because you think it’s appropriate for the little ones.  This means you look into the film.  Any parent who would have done so would not have taken their children to see Where the Wild Things Are.  And yet, I saw that exact film with quite a few children.

It’s all rather troubling if you ask me.  In a day and age when Marge Simpson is on the cover of Playboy magazine, animation can no longer be the measure for determining whether or not a product is kid-friendly.  Similarly, you can’t just bring a five-year-old to a movie because she likes the book it’s based on.

Children do not know any better, but adults do.  Or at least they should.  Most parents would not let their kids read Playboy just because a cartoon is on the cover.  So why would they let their kids sit through an emotionally dark film just because it features cute furry monsters?

I’m not a parent.  Maybe I am missing something.  Maybe it’s now acceptable to have your children see movies that grapple with some pretty heavy issues such as divorce, loneliness, trust and betrayal.  Maybe I’m way off base.

If I am, I apologize to all those parents out there who blindly took their kids to see one of the most adult films I’ve seen in a long time.  I’m sorry for making assumptions about your choices.  Next time I’ll go to a late-night showing of any film I think may have even the slightest appeal for children.

All I have to do then is hope that young kids still have bedtimes.

On Imagination, Goonies and Going Where the Wild Things Are

It’s rare that a movie intrigues me so much that I contemplate seeing it on the first night it hits theaters. I tend to give a movie a week or so before I settle down with my ridiculously expensive bucket of popcorn. I prefer to let the hype die down. I’d rather let the fanatics see it before I plop down my hard-earned cash.

Where the Wild Things Are has me feeling differently. I may just have to break my own rule and see this one as soon as I possibly can.

Truth be told, I have only the vaguest memories of the book. I’m not one of those people who is waiting with bated breath to see whether or not the movie will crush all of my childhood memories. I haven’t spent the better part of my adulthood imagining this moment. I’m just not that invested.

And yet, I’m really excited to see this movie. There is something about this film that speaks to the little Dr. Sparky that still lives deep down inside of me.

As a child, I was an imaginative little bugger. I didn’t need a lot of toys. I never really enjoyed video games. All that was required for me to be happy was a book and my imagination.

I spent hours roaming our house and backyard pretending to be everything from a pirate to an archeologist to a soap diva on a deserted island to a Goonie. I was He-Man. I was a Smurf. I was Christopher Columbus. I was a wild thing.

As I’ve gotten older, my sense of imagination has certainly lessened. It has not been completely lost, however. I still hold on to that magic I was able to conjure as a child. Sometimes I’m still a Goonie.

It’s that piece of my that still pretends to be exploring a cave with the help of One-Eyed Willie’s map that can’t wait to see Where the Wild Things Are. I can’t wait to loose myself in a good old-fashioned story of imagination. I can’t wait to go on an adventure with Max. I can’t wait to be a little boy all over again.

I can’t wait to find myself where the wild things are.