Thoughts On Lindsay Lohan and other Celebrity Convicts

Lindsay was released from the cooler this morning. Straight to rehab, what a shame. The bighouse where she had it so rough she couldn’t have her hair extensions, makeup, or smokes.

She got her meds and Twizzlers though.

Of course, Lindsay was in jail for less than two weeks, at the sheriff’s discretion and could be released early due to overcrowding, just like Paris Hilton. So Lindsay and Paris get released early because the jails are overcrowded, but how many “non celebrity” inmates get the same privilege? I’m sure the Kardashians got bounced early too.

Obviously, our celebrity obsessed culture has convinced these people they are important and above the law, and the rules of society. They can do what they want, roll deep and crash their cars on coke, things like that.

Paris’ house is filled with photos of…Paris, according to a recent piece in Esquire. She’s had multiple reality shows. She gripes about how much she “works.” Paris is famous for being rich and famous. Her “work” is being a celebrity, traveling, and partying. And making herself look like an idiot. It’s not her fault she was born into such privilege, but it’s her fault the way she takes advantage of it. I gripe about it, but I read the article. “Hey, a Paris Hilton article!” She always looks so nice and clean.

The Kardashians are the same. Famous for being famous. Initially for being FOPs, Friends of Paris. They jetset, pose for the paparazzi, have reality shows, and go to jail. More taking advantage of privilege. Their Dad was one of O.J.s attorneys. I also at one time dated one of their distant cousins. She was distant enough NOT to be rich, BTW.

Same with Lindsey. At least she’s got a few movies under her belt, but she’s most known for being a screw up and a party girl. And on again off again lesbian. When it’s convenient. A lesbian of convenience. A convenian.

Sure, Lindsay needs help, they all do. They need a real dose of reality, not one from a show, or a two-week stint in the jail in isolation. Put ‘em in a cell with some crazy crack bitch, or gang banger. See who’s wearing the extensions at the end of the night, and eating the Twizzlers.

At any level, money doesn’t get you class, or make you have class. Money lets people do what they want. People will let you get away with it because you can pay for whatever you want, and they want to live vicariously through you. It’s about how you’re raised, what you’re taught. If you’re taught you’re different and better than everyone else, you’ll believe it.

Real class is treating people with dignity and respect, whoever it is. Whether you agree with their lifestyle choices or not.

We’ve always been obsessed with celebrity and glamour. It just seems in the new century the “reality” boom has bred this new breed of celeb that is famous for being famous. TV is rife with reality and gossip shows. The Internet is rife with Perez Hiltons, and celebs twittering.

Perez Hilton is another one…he’s famous and rich for spreading gossip. Ah, the American Dream at work. The Internet connects us all together, but lets us all be a little bit of a pseudo celeb on our Facebook, Twitter or blog.

Then there’s the paparazzi. Rags will pay so much for an exclusive photo; these photogs will go to unbelievable lengths to shoot something exclusive.

Hey, they got me, I read, listen, and watch. It’s the train wreck principle. We can’t look away as we drive by the accident. I gripe about it, but I still listen, read and watch. Maybe I’m just jealous. I want the money and to be able to do what I want and get away with it. Go to jail, and get out in a couple of weeks. I’d like to think I would take advantage of privilege, but if I hadn’t, I’d be a different person, and just might become convinced I’m better than everyone else.

My Seed Could Find No Purchase In the Rocky Soil Of Her Loins

When my wife and I decided to have a second kid, it took a while. I was willing to keep trying, but even I was starting to get concerned. If we were teenagers in the backseat of a car, it would have taken one time. If you’re a relatively responsible married couple, it can take a while. We were a little older than average, but we became concerned there was an issue.

OK, My wife was convinced there was an issue with my “seed.”

She did her part; she went to her GYN to see if there were any issues on her end. Her GYN looks JUST LIKE Dr. Juliet from LOST, you know, the fertility doctor on the island. Creepy. Not as creepy as asking her why all the babies die on the island in a waiting room full of expectant mothers.

SO, Dr. Lost asks my wife how often we’re…“trying.” My wife told her “3 to 5 times a week.” I think even her doctor laughed. We didn’t “try” that much on our honeymoon. I didn’t masturbate 3 to 5 times a week when I was 15…all right maybe it’s accurate in that case, but c’mon. I could tell you the last date, time, and day of the week and what we had for dinner the last time we “tried.” My wife couldn’t tell you if we did it this afternoon, but probably thinks we did.

Ultimately, Dr. Lost told her to relax and keep trying, everything was normal. And that maybe her husband or partner or lover should get checked.

My wife suggested I go get my sperm counted. That sounded OK to me, I’d seen it in the movies. You go into a swanky office, all the nurses are super hot and cool, and offer to “help with anything you need,” porno mags and videos, high fives all around. Cigars, beer, barbeque, lounging around in comfy robes after you submit your “sample.” Some place you think you’d want to hang out on a regular basis. Like a Gentleman’s Club.

Of course then there’s reality.

Jerking off into a plastic cup in the shower, while your wife laughs at you and refuses to “help.” An unrealistic timeline for delivery, an irritated nurse, and an old bitter doctor who tells you your count is “OK” but the sample had “low volume.” I told him it was low because we’d had sex “3 to 5 times” that week. I’d like to see his “volume” after jerking off into a cup in the shower.

But back to delivering the sample…

After “collection” there was a 30-minute window to get the sample to the lab. Now, you’re in the shower so you have to finish that, dry off, and get dressed. We lived a good 15 minutes from the lab. If I hit traffic or couldn’t find parking it might mess up the sample, and I could be…screwed…and have to relive the whole process again. Then someone could say, “He can’t even get masturbation right.”

I thought about “collecting the sample” in the office parking lot or restroom, but that’s not something you want to go to jail for, and have the other boys find out.

So, I get there barely in time, and run into the office of the lab. There’s a line of grandmas getting their regular tests and drug addicts probably getting their regular tests. I get to the window and the receptionist asks me what I’m there for.

“Dropping of sperm sample,” I whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“Dropping of sperm sample,” I whisper again.

“Dropping of what?

“Sperm sample!” I say louder as the needle rips off the record, the music stops, no one is talking, and I sound like I’m screaming. All the grandmas knew I’d rubbed one out in the last half hour. Even the drug addicts were shaking their heads. Security was called, babies started crying.

Of course, we did get pregnant again, after we decided to relax.

We had a son. Already had a daughter, had our bookends.

After number two was born, we decided we were done. Or I was done. A friend of my wife’s said she shouldn’t get her tubes tied, in case it “doesn’t work out” with me, and she still wants to have kids.

So it was decided I would get the tubes snipped.

It’s odd to lie on a table in a very non-operating looking room office, get local anesthesia needled into your penis, and then have a man tugging and cutting into your testicles while he tries to have an everyday conversation with you. I assure you he was a legitimate doctor, not “vasectomies to go,” but it WAS coupon day. PennySaver.

After the lovely burning smell of my tubes getting cauterized, he told me to “wait a week before ejaculating.” He didn’t say, “before having sex,” he said, “before ejaculating.” I said, “we either know each other, or you know I’m married.”

He said in 4 weeks, or 20 ejaculations, whichever comes first, to go get a fertility test. He actually said, “so in a week have sex, or just masturbate a bunch.” Now THAT’S a prescription I’ll TAKE refills on please.

So of course, I got to 10,000 miles before the scheduled tune-up. One way or another. It was tough to wait that first week. I wanted to make sure everything was still working, besides the ability to impregnate. Everything seemed to work ok.

So, of course I had to do another fertility test. Or I guess an infertility test. This one was a little more important. Instead of checking to SEE if you’re shooting blanks, it’s to CONFIRM you’re shooting blanks so it’s OK to shoot your gun off in non-combat situations.

I’d done this before, I was an old pro. Plus I’d just had a couple of weeks of “collection” practice. I do my collection, race to the lab, and the receptionist it flirting it up with some Dad who’d just dropped off HIS sample. I wonder if she helped him COLLECT it. I wonder how his volume was.

They must have noticed me jumping up and down or heard me clearing my throat. They finished up and I approached. She distractedly told me to put mine in the bin “with all the others” and that she’d “get to it.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I reluctantly left my sample in the bin and waited for the go/nogo call.

In a few days I got the call from the doctor’s office, and the nurse told me I “was good to go.” I was back in the game, coach.

Turns out in the end it was all OK, I WAS good to go and shooting blanks, 3 to 5 times a week, just like my wife suspected all along.

Why I Laugh At Boobies

I was exposed to horror movies at a very young age, and it’s had a lasting effect. Seeing the Jaws 2 at 6, Jaws soon after, the Exorcist at 10, and Psycho at 11 changed my life.

I cannot go in the ocean today and not think about Jaws.

I cannot get in the shower and not think about being attacked by a nut job dressed as his mother, with a knife.

My parents took me to see Jaws 2 while we were on summer vacation at the Jersey Shore. This was before Snookie and the Situation were even BORN. In all their wisdom, they thought it would be a fun movie for a little kid to see, in the theater, while staying at the beach. “Have fun in the water tomorrow son!”

Soon after, at my aunt’s house, on something new called “HBO” I saw Jaws. I was warned it was going to be scary and asked if I could handle it. What was I going to say? I was good until fisherman Ben’s head pops out of the bottom of the boat with the eye protruding. Scared the Hell out of me. I was then decided I couldn’t handle the rest of the movie so I was sent to bed. Alone. Show a kid a movie, scare the Hell out of him, and then punish him.

Exorcist was actually part of a movie marathon. One of those all day/all night BBQs where the parents eat and drink and the kids hang out. Our neighbors had this new thing called a VCR. Played movies on tapes. We started with The Howling, then Alien, then King Kong 77. That’s a lot of movies. Then the moms showed up and wanted to know what we were watching. Then suggested we all watch Exorcist. Told us it was scary, asked if we could handle it. What were we going to say? Still the scariest movie ever. That night after we went home was probably the longest night of my life. Everything was the devil or that possessed chick coming to take me away.

The 80s horror movie explosion coupled with movie channels on cable TV was a boon for the corruption of my innocence and my desensitization to sex and violence. Halloween movies, Friday the 13th movies, Nightmare on Elm Street movies, as well as any number of formulaic knock-offs with a killer and teen sex.

My mom held the VCR remote, and controlled the universe. Whenever there was a particularly gory killing, she’d utilize the remote to relive, reexamine, and review. As VCRs and remote functions improved, so did our examination of the slasher killings. Mom was the queen of the remote, and could capture details with pause, rewind, and slow mo, that the best CSI labs couldn’t get.

We would watch every killing in gruesome detail, over and over. However, when the inevitable sex scene or boob shot came along, my mother would frown and make me cover my eyes. Funny thing was, I was cool with the scenes, and it was my Mom with the issues.

My Dad hated horror movies. On movie nights when we were going to watch one, he’d get up, mumble something like “enjoy your crap” and wonder off to bed. Of course, it could be 5 minutes, or 50 minutes later, and he sex or nudity could only last for 5 seconds. That was the time he’d come stumbling out for a glass of water, or to the bathroom. He’d stare at the TV and groan “what the Hell are you watching!?”

To this day when I watch a movie with my Mom, she still tells me to cover my eyes if there’s nudity or sex. I tell her I’ve actually seen real boobies up close. Of course now, I might be more uncomfortable seeing this stuff with my Mom than when I was a kid. I was watching a horror movie with my father-in-law a couple of years ago, and a fairly graphic sex scene came on. I told him “sorry, I had no idea…” He said, “It’s OK, I like boobies!”

So I suppose in some way, all this has desensitized me to violence on TV and in movies. Nothing really fazes me, not even the news. Now that I have kids and dogs, sometimes violence towards kids and animals bothers me. Even if the kids or animals are evil.

I can’t watch breaking bones or dislocating limbs, real or fake. That DOES bother me. I’ve never seen the Joe Theisman broken leg clip all the way through. Probably because I’ve dislocated my knees so many times, so I can empathize a little more.

Nevertheless, I still giggle when I see onscreen boobies. Plus, I still call them “boobies.”