SAINTS AND SINNERS

Everyone's favorite heiress, Paris Hilton, has been short-listed to play Mother Teresa in an upcoming biopic of the beloved humanitarian. Not since 1960's sexual icon Sally Field (of "Gidget" fame) was cast as "The Flying Nun" has the Catholic World been met with a comparable cinematic assault upon all that it holds dear.



In 1967, when Ms. Field was cast as Sister Bertrille on the hit television series, "The Flying Nun," many in the Catholic community were appalled that the entertainment industry would soil the Catholic faith by allowing California surfing harlot -- "Gidget" -- to portray a woman of the cloth. The potential casting of Ms. Hilton as the Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta is certain to draw similar ire from the Catholic Church.

However, some in the Catholic community are pleased with the choice of Ms. Hilton as Mother Teresa, hoping that Hilton's acceptance of this "role of a lifetime" will transform her from vapid, promiscuous princess to serious, sensitive actress.

The Catholic Church has long taken credit for Ms. Field's 1984 Academy Award for Best Actress for "Places in the Heart," convinced that it was Ms. Field's role on "The Flying Nun" which legitimized her as a Hollywood star.


One Catholic Bishop interviewed for this story, speaking on condition of anonymity, said the following on the subject of Ms. Hilton's potential role as the divine Mother Teresa:

"I really enjoyed House of Wax, but was ambivalent about One Night in Paris. I found the shaky camera work to be distracting ... even for a sex tape. But, I'm hopeful that after playing our Beloved Mother Teresa, young Paris will be well on her way to the Oscar podium. The scientologists think they run Hollywood. Well, they don't. The Catholics do."

Ms. Hilton, initially unaware who Mother Teresa was, turned down the role because of a prior commitment to star as a talking handbag in the upcoming Disney release "Rodeo Drivin'." When she was eventually told that Mother Teresa was part Indian, Ms. Hilton is reported to have exclaimed "Okay, that sounds perfect...It will be like Dances With Wolves, but totally HOT!"

SILENCE IS GOLDEN

Say what you will about Scientologists, but they may be on to something with this "Silent Birthing" thing. In recent months, it has been near impossible to silence Tom Cruise....whether mounting a crusade against psychiatry or cartoonishly praising his Rosemary bride, Mr. Cruise has been quite -- ahem -- "vocal" in recent months.

However, the Cruise-Holmes miracle offering is scheduled for arrival any day now, and that can only mean one thing......extended silence. Am I alone in hoping that Ms. Holmes is in labor for, oh, I don't know....say, maybe two weeks or so? Is that asking too much?

I can just imagine Mr. Cruise jumping on a couch, silently waving his arms (perhaps with a ball-gag in his mouth), preparing to receive his doomed newborn. One immediately thinks of Jor-El wrapping Kal-El in brightly colored, tin foil swaddling clothes preparing the child for his predetermined destiny.

It has been widely reported that Mr. Cruise's "friends" were spotted carrying several posters into the Cruise compound, one of which read “Be silent and make all physical movements slow and understandable.” To that, I can only say THANK YOU. Thank you Scientology for finally telling Mr. Cruise what the entire world has wanted to tell him to his face for the past year.

BE SILENT AND MAKE ALL PHYSICAL MOVEMENTS SLOW AND UNDERSTANDABLE!!!

Couldn't have said it better myself.

DIAMOND-ENCRUSTED CANCER

The Make-A-Wish Foundation has helped one 14 year old girl's dreams come true. Well, not really. I mean, they aren't going to cure her cancer or anything. Or assist her family with medical bills. BUT, they are allowing her to glimpse what life is like when you're a dim, trust-fund slut.




As The Insider reports:

It's every girl's dream to visit PARIS HILTON's closet, and today the heiress is making one little girl's birthday dreams come true.

Following an afternoon milling about Ms. Hilton's 40,000 square foot closet, and trying on an assortment of diamond tiaras (and assorted skank-wear) , the young cancer patient was taken "shopping on Rodeo Drive at upscale boutique Kaje, jeweler Mikimoto and over to the world-famous JOSE EBER salon for hair and makeup."

Ms. Hilton, noticeably proud of her philanthropy, made the following remarks:

"It's too bad that you can't cure cancer with antibiotics, because that stuff works. I'm just flattered that her cancer wish was to watch me shop. I mean, I do that anyways. But its nice to know that I can inspire people to stop having diseases sometimes."

Be careful what you wish for.

THE APOCALYPSE OF ONLINE DATING

I have never tried online dating. However, my friends tell me that it's not all that bad. Well, after hearing the horrific news that JOAN RIVERS recently created a MATCH.COM profile in the hopes of reeling in Mr. Right, you can rest assured that I will do my dating the old fashioned way....drunk and desperately in a bar.

What lonely, misguided shell of a man searches a sea of MATCH.COM profiles looking for a 72 year old wax creature, whose career profile consists of "stands on carpet and murders the English language," "criticizes attractive people," and "shamelessly promotes untalented daughter"?

A Joan Rivers dating profile is like a Joseph Stalin Commemorative, Humanitarian Award ..... hideously paradoxical.

Tapping Out

Recently, I was sent to Des Moines, Iowa on business. I say "sent" because, after visiting Des Moines, I am fairly certain that no one who resides in sunny Southern California VOLUNTARILY flies to Iowa in the middle of February. It just doesn't happen.

Please do not take this as regional elitism, but there is absolutely NOTHING to do in Des Moines, aside from eating steak, farming, working in the insurance industry, watching television, and participating in and/or supporting high school athletics. In other words, I was completely happy to shut myself up in my hotel for two nights, and catch up on some emails, rather than immerse myself in the "culture" of Des Moines, Iowa.



Well, not everything went according to planned. Despite my best efforts to stay removed from all that is Iowa, I could not hold Iowa at bay. I did not come to Iowa. Iowa came to me. As it turns out, I happened to be in Des Moines at exactly the same time as the Iowa State High School Wrestling Championships. To make matters more interesting, the wrestlers and their "supportive" families were all staying at my hotel.

Now, in Los Angeles, you could have an NCAA Title Game, a television awards show, the X-Games, a marathon, an air show, and a Presidential visit all occuring in the same afternoon, and no one would bat an eyelash. This is not the case in Iowa. In Iowa, the State High School Wrestling Championship is the Super Bowl, Academy Awards, Olympics, and moon landing all wrapped into one.

The state of Iowa is typified by family gatherings, the celebration of shared values, and the folkloric hero worship of local athletes. Nothing reflects this stark reality more than the State High School Wrestling Championships.

Let's put it this way. If you want to really understand Los Angeles, spend a lazy tuesday afternoon at a West Hollywood cafe, drinking a soy latte with your overpaid stylist, discussing whether the $300 bandana you just purchased accentuates your new tribal tattoo, all while having an argument with your agent on your Blackberry. If you want to understand Des Moines, just buy a ticket to the wrestling championships.

To describe my experience at the Embassy Suites in Des Moines, Iowa as absolute bedlam would be a profound understatement. It was more like an epic hybrid of a three ring circus, Roman gladiator competition, frat party, and Fourth of July backyard barbecue. It was the type of controlled, communal anarchy that can only occur in places where everyone thinks and acts alike; where the celebration of common experiences and beliefs is its own form of rebellion. If you asked the state of Iowa what it was rebelling against, it would probably say "everyone not from Iowa."

(side note: I noticed a very interesting phenomenon in Iowa --- the number of people who wear items of clothing with the word "IOWA" emblazoned on them is staggering. Hats, jackets, sweatpants.....a sea of IOWANS more concerned with geographical identification than brand names. I found this both unsettling and admirable, for all the obvious reasons.)

My hotel was abuzz with acne-covered grapplers, their coaches, enthusiastic cheerleaders, and hundreds of other parents, siblings, and friends simply content to comprise the rooting section. Homemade signs were posted on the hallway bannisters and throughout the atrium, offering words of encouragement such as "Take Home the Trophy Trevor!" and "Show No Mercy Billy!" Cheerleaders roamed the hallways in packs of 5 or 6, pretending not to notice the wrestlers, and yet giving themselves away instantly with hushed giggles, and awkward smiles.


The younger brothers and sisters of the wrestlers, hopeful to one day be the object of their parents' pride and attention, stalked the hallways like ferral creatures, hijacking the elevators, and racing through the lobby as part of an elaborate game of intra-hotel hide-and-go-seek. It was Like "Mad Max: Beyond Des Moines" ..... there was no oversight, no rules, just the pageantry and spectacle of high school wrestling.

This was no ordinary weekend. This was State Championship weekend. Or so I was reminded at 2 am, when a team of wrestlers began screaming some type of tribal warrior chant in front of my hotel room.

The wrestlers were not alone. Their families hung from the rafters of the hotel, equipped with ice chests and bullhorns, thrilled to be a part of it all. It was a frenzy of Coors Light and Lee Jeans. Two parts rodeo, one part family reunion, and one part religious service. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen. I didn't know whether to call the front desk, or shout "Hallelujah!"

That's when it occurred to me. In the middle of a sleepless night, isolated and alone, seeking deliverance from Red America, I was being taught a lesson. A lesson about fanship. About community.

I've crowded into a luxury box at Staples Center and clapped my hands in appreciation for Kobe Bryant's remarkable abilities. I've sat at Dodger Stadium and watched Eric Gagne pitch a dominant 9th inning (or rather, listened from my car after leaving in the 7th inning), but I've never in my life known what it means to be a true sports "fanatic." There is a large segment of this country, predominantly in the midwest and south, in which professional sports (NFL, MLB, NBA, NHL) are the minor leagues . . . the afternoon matinee preceding the main event. And that main event is high school sports.

I sat in my hotel room thinking that, while these people might not remember who won the AFC championship this year, or what player was taken first in the NBA draft lottery, they will ALWAYS remember the name of the kid who won the 145 pound weight class at the state championships in 2006. The outcome of the World Series, the results of the Indy 500, the drama of the Super Bowl ... all paled in comparison to whether Kennedy High School beat Hudson High School on a friday night in a dimly lit high school gymnasium.

Awake in the middle of the night, I was awfully close to dismissing these Iowans as bad parents. Underage drinking. Kids running through the halls. Teenagers treating the Embassy Suites like their personal jungle gym. But then it occurred to me ... the very fact that these parents were there, at this hotel, offering uncompromising support for their sons, was admirable. They took time off work, saved money, cancelled plans, fundraised, and made the journey to Des Moines to attend this once-a-year event. This was their Super Bowl. Their World Series.

I put in earplugs and went back to sleep, feeling almost guilty that I had spent an hour online emailing my friends about how unbearable the hotel patrons had become. The Wrestling Championships were the biggest show in town, and I was the ONLY one not excited about it. I was in the minority. No time for west coast pretention.

Make no mistake, in the end I was quite happy to return home to Venice Beach, CA. But I returned with a new perspective on what it means to be a fan. For Iowans, sports heroes don't make eight-figure salaries, and they don't sign endorsement deals. If you didn't make your name in an Iowa High School, then Iowa has no use for you.

Iowa certainly has no use for me.

DOWN TO EARTH

Why do so many people believe that by describing their personality as "down to earth," they are somehow making themselves sound more appealing? Similarly, why is it that so many hopeful romantics, when describing their hypothetical "ideal" companion, inevitably include the attribute of...."down to earth"? If you do not believe me, just check the personal ads. One would think that our planet's gravitational pull had been significantly altered judging by the number of desperate people who claim to be VERY down to earth. I do not know who started this, but please stop. Seriously.

The last thing in the world that I EVER want to be is down to earth. And I assure you, my ideal mate is VERY far from earth . . . almost extraterrestrial. To those who use and abuse this hollow phrase, I simply ask you . . . what exactly is the opposite of "down to earth"? What are you hoping to avoid? If someone is REALLY NOT down to earth, then what are they like? Do they have wings? Are they magicians? Astronauts? I am absolutely serious. Until someone describes, in detail, a person who is undeniably NOT down to earth, it is hard for me to get a grasp upon this peculiar phrase.

I cannot think of a single bad reason for leaving earth...even if it is only for a brief while. Jumping. Skipping. Climbing. Flipping. Flying. Levitating. Dreaming. Surely these are not the activities of a repulsive human being. So, what am I missing?

I guess it is just another way of saying that you are very "grounded," and would prefer courtship with someone who is similarly "grounded." Again, a hollow phrase. I suppose that it has something to do with our human circuitry....Electricity ALWAYS seeks the quickest path to its source or to the earth. Proper "GROUNDING" provides a certain path for electricity to safely move back into the earth. Ask any electrician, or any physical scientist, and they will tell you that the very purpose of GROUNDING is to ensure SAFETY.

That must be it. If you are "down to earth," then you are someone who plays it safe. Someone who avoids silly risks, because, in the end, you have already found your comfort zone in life. Your niche. You truly KNOW who you are, and feel no need to constantly reinvent yourself everyday. To those of you I've just described, I can only say . . . GOOD FOR YOU . . . now step aside, and let the rest of us . . . those who crave reinvention . . . those who abhor stasis . . . those with a foolish heart . . . to explore the territory you have elected to ignore.

We will send you a postcard from the stratosphere.

PICKING FIGHTS

A memo of a two hour meeting between George W. Bush and Tony Blair on January 31, 2003 has revealed that Mr. Bush made it clear that the U.S. intended to invade Iraq whether or not there was a second United Nations resolution and even if UN inspectors found no evidence of a banned Iraqi weapons program.

Perhaps the most troubling information gleaned from this smoking gun memo is the following:

Mr Bush told Mr Blair that the US was so worried about the failure to find hard evidence against Saddam that it thought of "flying U2 reconnaissance aircraft planes with fighter cover over Iraq, painted in UN colours". Mr Bush added: "If Saddam fired on them, he would be in breach [of UN resolutions]".

Yes, you read correctly. President Bush actually considered painting U.S. fighter planes in UN colors in order to fool Iraq into firing at them, and thereby justifying US retaliation. Faced with poor intelligence regarding weapons of mass destruction, our President actually considered the "he hit me first option," as a way of rationalizing the United States' hostile action against Iraq.

When forced to make the hard choices, our elected leader behaves like a stubborn five year old. Only, this is not a sandbox. It is war-torn, foreign soil. And we are not playing with toys. But rather with missiles.

It is time for all reasonable, dignified Americans to put an end to the tangled web of deception that the Bush Administration has laid for us. We deserve better. We deserve the truth.

WHEN CARTOONS FIGHT BACK!!!

From Afghanistan to Indonesia, tens of thousands of Muslims around the world have launched a series of new protests -- some violent--over cartoons depicting Prohpet Mohammed.

The cartoons, published in the French and Danish Press, were originally commissioned by the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten, and have met with extreme backlash from Muslim communities across the globe. Over the weekend, protesters torched embassies of Denmark and Norway.

The aforementioned protests were sparked by the Islamic tenet which forbids any depictions of Mohammed. However, the content of the cartoons themselves have also created quite a stir. For example, one of the cartoons depicts the religious leader wearing a turban shaped like a bomb with a lit fuse.

Now, in a startling turn of events, the cartoon community has chosen to FIGHT BACK. Not since the cancellation of "The Muppet Babies," and subsequent collapse of the Saturday Morning Cartoon lineup have the 'toons united with such fury and force.

Yosemite Sam, President of the "Cartoon Characters Anti-Defamation League," issued the following statement:

"Yer darn 'tootin we're upset. For far too long, we 'toons have fought against the tyranny of hyper-realism and the rigid constraints of religious dogma. I remember back when my character was created, and Southern Baptist congregations were in an uproar over my depiction of the Southern, 'hootin and a 'hollerin lifestyle. Well, we fought back then, and we're gonna fight back now! Some of you young'ins might forget the battle we 'toons waged against the nation of Tazmania after they attempted to censor my dear compadre the Tazmanian devil on the grounds that he allegedly perpetuated xenophobic myths about Eastern European culture. Both Taz and I feel that we have an obligation to come to the defense of our fellow 'toons in this time of increased censorship and fundamentalist fervor."

The 'toons have worked day and night to assemble a group of recognizable faces ... known simply as the "Coalition of the Animated"... to come to the aid of other 'toons in need. In just two short days, the international Coalition has already drawn (no pun intended) the likes of Yosemite Sam, The Tazmanian Devil, Wile E. Coyote, Foghorn Leghorn, Elmer Fudd, Sylvester the Cat, and Pepe Le Pew. The Coalition intends to build its forces rapidly, using grassroots methods to spread its message. The Road Runner and Marvin the Martian have already been enlisted as messengers in the hopes that they may quickly and efficiently appeal to the international and intergalactic cartoon communities for much needed support.

As this article went to press, the Coalition of the Animated was dutifully marching across the Lebanese countryside armed with ACME brand dynamite, a pitchfork, and a hydraulic trampoline. If and when this momentous battle escalates, we will bring you the full story.

LEBRON AND I: Tough as Nails

As I watched the Lakers v. Cavs game last week, it occurred to me that I have a lot in common with Lebron James. Do not laugh. I am serious. Of course, I am not the most versatile NBA guard since Magic Johnson, nor do I possess a single shoe contract, but if you look closer, you will see it. You have to look beyond our physical appearances. Beyond our relative abilities to shoot a basketball. You will have to ignore, for a moment, the fact that Lebron makes his teammates better, whereas I reject the very notion of a teammate. Furthermore, you simply must disregard the fact that Lebron has his very own T.V. commercial, while I, on the other hand, would exchange my left testicle for a S.A.G. card. I am not concerned with such minutiae.

So, I have a confession: I am a chronic nail biter. And, I hasten to add, SO IS KING JAMES. If you have watched merely one quarter of one Cavaliers game this season, you have witnessed Lebron absolutely devouring his fingernails. In fact, his nail biting has become so prolific that he is now a poster child for stopbitingnails.com. At times, Lebron looks absolutely invincible, and yet, when he goes to the bench for a timeout and furiously chews his nails, he resembles a scared boy seconds before his third grade talent show. Last week, Lebron praised Kobe Bryant by explaining that, while he felt he had similar on-court skills as Kobe, he could not yet match Kobe's killer instinct. Well, it is hard to intimidate opponents and garner the absolute trust of your teammates when, with 10 seconds on the clock, you are biting your fingernails while anticipating the final inbounds pass.



Can you imagine if President Bush bit his fingernails during the State of the Union Address? We would certainly have even less faith in him than we do at present....if that is possible. How about if your esteemed heart surgeon commenced chewing his nails before performing a quadruple bypass. This would not inspire confidence, to say the least.

If Lebron truly wants to ascend to the upper echelon of NBA guards, and hang his jersey alongside the likes of Jordan, Magic, and The Big O, he has to kick his nasty habit. NBA immortality comes at a price. You need not be infallible, you must simply appear as such. I do not know this for sure, but I would venture to guess that Jordan maintained perfectly manicured nails. Likewise, I would assume that Jerry West did not exhibit a facial tic everytime he went to the free throw line during crunch time. To truly become a God of the hardcourt, you must shed all of the habits, fears, and psychological crutches that earthbound men uncounsciously rely on throughout their day.

Unless and until Lebron ceases biting the very instruments upon which he shall base his legend, he is just like me. A true NBA immortal does not bite his nails. I bite my nails. And, for the time being, I am merely a legend in my own mind.

Homeless for the Holidays

Every time I pass a homeless person on the street, I silently wonder to myself whether they have a family? When I see a man walking barefoot through a busy intersection while clutching a blue tarp and wet wool blanket, and sporting a beard like a post-apocalyptic birds' nest, I will routinely "invent" a family history for him...like an E! True Hollywood Story, except without the celeb component. Does he have a wife and kids close by, perhaps starving and alone in the back of a van? Is he estranged from his family? If so, how does the family rationalize the fact that they are essentially allowing a blood relative to beg for food and struggle to stave off death?

Well, a story caught my attention a few weeks back, which speaks volumes of the relationship between the homeless and their absentee kin. The family of a homeless man who was shot and killed by a Mighigan State Police Trooper has filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the officer, just one week after the officer was acquitted in a criminal trial. The very family which allowed one of their own to wander the streets of Detroit without food or shelter, has now instituted a lawsuit seeking $10 million in damages for the substantial "loss" they have apparently suffered as a consequence of his untimely death.

I can just imagine the damages portion of this trial, as a tearful mother weeps for her late son on the witness stand, and attempts to convince the jury that while her son was NOT INVITED to Thanksgiving dinner, and routinely steals money from his brother for crack, his loss will forever shatter their lives. The whole country will likely be riveted by this trial, or at least those with close family members who comprise our escalating homeless population. If the trial results in a multimillion dollar verdict, you can be sure that the "families" of homeless men and women will pray that their non-prodigal sons and daughters piss off a cowboy police officer in a dark alley.