Hey, you guys, I just realized I've been running this celebrity gossip blog for well over a year without posting any actual celebrity gossip. Sorry about that. I must have gotten distracted. To make it up to you---my gossip-obsessed readers---I've got some really juicy scoops.
Really juicy. Like, super juicy. Juicier than you can imagine. Okay, so imagine the juiciest scoop you can imagine. Even juicier than that. That’s how juicy these scoops are gonna be. Are you sitting down? Are you seated? Because things are about to get juicy.
Blind item: Okay, now this one is really salacious. Super juicy. Ready? It turns out that a big time movie star, whom everybody thought was nice, it turns out he’s…
Wait, before I get to that, I feel like maybe I should explain why I haven’t been better about loading you up on celebrity gossip.
It’s hard being a professional celebrity gossipist. The pressure to get juicy scoops; the scarcity of the scoops, themselves; the public relations people constantly feeding you scoops that might seem juicy at first but aren’t actually juicy at all---it wears a person down.
I mean, just sifting and winnowing through all the would-be scoops day in and day out, deciding which ones are juicy… Is this scoop juicy enough? Is it too juicy? How juicy is too juicy? That’s a lot of responsibility.
Add to that the overhead costs of being a working gossip hound. There’s laptop upkeep and wifi access. There are bribery payments to loose-lipped doormen. There are constant cab rides, chasing celebrities around the city hoping to catch them doing something juicy. It adds up.
Plus, I don’t know if you guys realize this, but there’s an almost infinite amount of competition out there for the juicy scoops and only a finite number of celebrities to produce juiciness. I mean, it’s not like any old random person can become a celebrity. It’s not like you can get on television without any discernible talent or skill, make a fool of yourself, and suddenly be a celebrity.
I mean, if that were the case, folks would be chasing fame all the time. There would be an entire metropolis filled with soulless, beautiful automatons doing whatever it takes to become famous. They’d fabricate opportunities to be out in front of photographers. They’d make scenes at nightclubs. They’d shoplift or flash their undergarments or, worst of all, become DJs.
Can you imagine a world like that? It’d be terrible. We’d be flooded with all sorts of false juicy scoops every day until we forgot which were the real scoops were and which were just juiceless static.
Soon, with the fall of celebrity journalism, other kinds of journalism---political, business, scientific---would collapse. The rich and powerful would realize that the social narrative could be manipulated and manufactured. Juiciness would be replaced by faux juiciness, and we’d be too distracted to know the difference.
As Edward R. Murrow said: If every scoop is the juiciest, then no scoop is the juiciest.
It’s a horrific idea, I know. Let’s just be grateful that it’s not the case.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I just saw a cable television persona/teenage mother buy Starbucks while wearing a see-through tank top and carrying an iguana. Time for a little investigative journalism…
Dear Madame Tussauds,
Good afternoon, or possibly good morning. I’m not sure when you’ll be reading this. I recently toured your world-famous wax museum in Times Squares, and I am writing to lodge a complaint.
For the most part, your wax museum is amazing, and its lifelike depictions of celebrities are unmatched. Your Justin Bieber, your Jennifer Lopez, your Robert Pattinson---they all look just exactly as primped and vacant as their real-life counterparts. I mean, my goodness, you can almost smell the desperate, ever-diminishing creativity coming off the Lady Gaga statue.
Historical figures, too. I have never personally met President Roosevelt, but if his sculpture is anywhere near as accurate as the booty on your Kim Kardashian … well, bravo.
That said, I must take umbrage [word of the day!] with your wax sculpture of supermodel/television hostess/national treasure Tyra Banks.
First off, where is the smizing? I don’t see any smizing. Do you even know what smizing is? Apparently not, because you failed to include Tyra Banks’ patented smize. It means “to smile with one’s eyes.” It’s her signature look, yet somehow you fell short of capturing it.
Also, the pose? Standard red carpet hand-on-hip? You clearly have never seen Tyra demonstrating her innovative “broken doll” poses to the contestants on her reality television show America’s Next Top Model. If you had, there is no possible way you would have chosen such a bland posture.
Not to say Tyra looks any less amazing on the red carpet than in a fashion shoot. Her hand-on-hip pose is still very impressive.
But, aside from these problems with the outward appearance of your Tyra wax figure, I feel you’ve failed to capture her true essence, her je ne sais quoi.
Where is the life? The charisma? Where are the millions of fans Tyra has helped with her daily talk show? You couldn’t have sculpted a few adoring women sitting at her feet, gazing up in admiration? The least you could have shown was a mound of fan mail thanking Tyra for her cellulite tips or her bravery in taking out her weave that one time.
What about Harvard paraphernalia? Tyra is attending Harvard Business School classes, which you would have known if you had watched the CBS Sunday Morning interview with her. Yet, I don’t see any mention of Harvard Business School in your sculpture. I’m sure Harvard Business School would be happy to mail you a Harvard branded t-shirt or tote bag, especially because this is certainly the real deal and not at all some sort of promotional stunt on the part of Harvard University. Why, I’ve never heard of them courting celebrity students before.
In summation, please create a new Tyra Banks statue from scratch. This time, with more attention to the true star power of its subject. Give it the kind of careful detail you’d give a head of state or an OT Level 3 scientologist. Thank you.
I'm hoping to one day publish lo these many humorous essays into a physical book. Or, if not a physical book, then at least an e-book I can put on my wife’s Kindle. That way, I can still drop it at college reunions and feign embarrassment. "Oh my, did I misplace my published book? How embarrassing… No no, you’ve pressed ‘menu’ by accident. Hit ‘back’ please to see my embarrassing book." (Pretty good feigning, right?)
But, here's the rub: In order to sell millions of e-book copies and afford a beautiful, energy-inefficient Mid-Century modern house, I'll need much greater name recognition. As it is, I'm jockeying for position on Google with the guitarist from OK Go. Stupid rock stars, always hogging the Google.
So, I would like to propose the following: If there are any Hollywood starlets reading this who would like to have a scandalous, tabloid-grabbing sexual tryst, please contact me. I can provide references and Polaroids.
I could be like the hip East Village DJ or vaguely European hedge fund manager boyfriend. Except instead of those things, it’d be me---comedy essayist and part-time storyteller Andy Ross! So, how ‘bout it?
I think we could really help each other add to the omnipresent publicity dross. Do you hear that buzzing sound? That could be our post-brunch paparazzi photo on Access Hollywood.
(Only early career starlets, please. I’m not looking for any leathery, spent starlets. I don’t want to seem desperate.)
Alternately, in order to gain publishable notoriety, I thought maybe I could survive some sort of harrowing disaster, like digging myself out from an avalanche or fighting off an escaped zoo tiger. I honestly considered the tiger thing, but then I remembered how nervous I get around escaped zoo tigers.
Another way I could become famous is by becoming the winning-est Jeopardy contestant ever. How hard could it be? You just ask questions, right? And, my third grade teacher, Mrs. Margaret Furnington-Hamlisch, always told me there are no stupid questions. [nods, self-satisfied]
Of course, then I thought about the time I was a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and I threw up all over guest host Shawn Robinson. They edited that part out, but she was not at all as gracious about it. I guess her dress was a loaner.
Ultimately, I’ve decided to become famous through frivolous lawsuits against chain restaurants. It’s a win-win. If I lose the court cases, I still get all that great publicity. If I win the court cases, I’ll be a millionaire. Then, who cares about publishing a book of stupid comedy essays?
So, it’s a plan. Boston Market, here I come. With a banana peel in my pocket and a dream in my heart.