Gaga is gaga for fame

I came across this article on PopEater.com recently, and took immediate offense to Lady Gaga being compared to Bjork. I get a little peeved when people riff on Bjork for that now infamous swan dress she wore at the Oscars and have previously expressed my opinion on this. 

Bjork is a talented artist, unconcerned with garnering fame or with others' opinions of her work or her wardrobe. Her originality comes from a place of truth, its genuineness palpable. Lady Gaga, on the other hand, strikes me as someone trying desperately to remain in the limelight by mistakenly believing she's blazing a new path with her outlandishness. 

Newsflash Gaga: that path was carved out a while ago by none other than Madonna, a veritable pioneer in the art of reinvention of the self and shocking the masses with overt sexuality, an artist whose sound you eerily seemed to replicate during last Sunday's Grammy awards. 

Arriving at the Grammy ceremony in an egg, claiming she's "in incubation" before her performance, stating that she doesn't have sex because she fears her creativity will be stolen via her vagina, all these things reek of warped delusions of grandeur. Lady Gaga can actually sing, she's got the talent but it's diluted in the wake of these ridiculous stunts that only irritate rather than inspire. 

Fame is merely a by-product, something fluid and fleeting. Talent is real, concrete. If only Gaga would focus on further developing her actual musical talents and her own unique voice rather than trying to out-do the likes of Madonna and Bjork, she may be taken a little more seriously. People tire quickly of disingenuous posturing. Sure, it was fun at first, now it's just lame.

The Bachelor trumps romantic date on Valentine's Day

A Valentine's Day morning at our house:

The boyfriend: Hey, wanna go skating tonight?

Me: The Bachelor is on tonight.

The boyfriend (laughs hysterically): So this is what it's come to.

Me: It's a great way to celebrate Valentine's Day - I mean, it's about romance and finding love and stuff.

The boyfriend: Uh-huh.

You must understand, skating in Ottawa is a special event. The longest outdoor skating surface in the world, the Rideau Canal, is located in the heart of downtown Ottawa and it's "an experience" to skate on it what with the beautiful scenery, hot chocolate and scrumptious Beaver Tails. If you don't know what Beaver Tails are, come to Ottawa and find out. It'll be worth the trip, I promise.

So me saying no to what could have been a nice, romantic Valentine's Day skate, and opting instead to stay home and watch reality TV is really, well, sad. However, watching The Bachelor at our crib is a family affair. The boyfriend, the stepdaughter and I watch this show with great enthusiasm and running commentary, especially since we're noticing a trend with the male bachelors. 

They swear they're in it to find true love but end up thinking only with their penis. How do we know this? Because they keep the crazy bitches and eliminate the nice girls. Don't get me wrong, the nice girls are just as pretty as the manipulative wack jobs, except they seem emotionally stable. I guess that's not appealing.

That's exactly what the current Bachelor, Brad Womack, is doing. Sometimes, he appears to be thinking clearly, and makes logical decisions. But most of the time, the three of us are incensed by his incomprehensible attraction to nasty ass, sometimes abusive women. 

What's the deal Brad? One of them is outright crazy, with fairytale-like delusions that she was "meant to be" on the show and thus Brad should pick her. Another confessed that she purposely sabotages relationships because she feels no one can deal with her past baggage. 

And yet, there are a couple of women who are genuinely interesting, attractive and not constantly thinking about themselves but about Brad, and how he's feeling throughout this arduous process of picking a mate for life. Kudos to Brad for keeping some of them but why he's kept the crazies and booted off the other nice girls is beyond my comprehension.

I'm quite aware of the fact that the extent to which this enrages me is disturbing in itself. It's a goddamn reality show, for Christ's sake! Why do I even care! And yet, I do, dammit. I want Brad to be happy. I want him to find a suitable partner. But he's f*cking it up big time. I wish I could have a little sit down with him, tell him he's gone astray and who my picks would be. 

Then again, maybe that's my wish to exert control over him, and then I'd be no better than the bitches I claim are intolerable. 

 Chris Harrison, why do you do this to me! Why do you subject me to these mind games! They're f*ckin' me up man!

I'll trade you my apple for your gold iPhone 4

It's been a while since I've done a celeb.rant (meaning: spirited commentary on celebrity bullshit of epic proportions). While perusing Pop Eater recently, there was such an inordinate amount of celebrity stupidity that I couldn't resist weighing in on it.

Russell Brand and Katy Perry in couples therapy

I'm surprised it took this long. I mean, really. It's Russell Brand! Ex-deviant sex addict. There's no way he can keep his junk in his pants when Katy's not around, at least not for a "lifetime". Katy, what the f*ck were you thinking? Give your head a shake girl.

Jude Law and Sienna Miller Split

I'm surprised it took this long. I mean, really. It's Jude Law! Ex-deviant sex addict nanny f*cker. There's no way he can keep his junk in his pants when Sienna's not around, at least not for a "lifetime". Sienna, what the f*ck were you thinking? Give your head a shake girl.

Tom Cruise, Scientology under investigation for human trafficking, free labour

If you didn't get the memo, Tom Cruise is f*cking crazy; a grossly self-aggrandized science-fiction cult zealot. Katie Holmes has to have been lobotomized (there's no other explanation for her coupling with Tom or her fashion choices) and Suri doesn't have a hope in hell of escaping. But I guess if you've been raised Scientologist your whole life, you aren't aware that humans didn't descend from aliens.

Jennifer Aniston claims she's really happy - really she is!

WHO F*CKING CARES!!! Jennifer hasn't done anything since Friends except churn out shitty rom-coms and date douchebags. 

Ashlee Simpson files for divorce from Pete Wentz

WHO F*CKING CARES!!! Ass-lee hasn't done anything since... since... what the f*ck has she done?

Nancy Grace can't believe Lindsay Lohan isn't in jail

Nancy, call me. I think we're soul mates.

Victoria Beckham owns a $35,000 custom-made 24-karat gold iPhone 4

What's the vaginal equivalent to "small penis"?

Fun with CNN Souvenirs - Episode 2

If you missed episode 1, click here. 

**These episodes are solely a product of my own imagination. Any resemblance whatsoever to actual events is purely coincidental.

Soledad: So, what did you find out?

Anderson: Nothing yet.

Soledad: Nothing? It's been weeks! What have you been doing?

Anderson: I have to establish a relationship first. Sanjay needs to know he can trust me.

Soledad: And how long will that take?

Anderson: I don't know. These things take time.

Soledad: Time is not a luxury I have. You know that. 

Anderson: I'm well aware of the situation. 

Soledad: Then what's the hold-up?

Anderson: I'm almost there. I can feel it. He'll open up to me any day now.

Soledad: "Any day now"? That's not good enough. I needed this information yesterday, last week even!

Anderson: Hey, back off, ok? I'm doing the best I can. 

Soledad: I beg to differ.

Anderson: You can always hire someone else to do your dirty work.

Soledad: Oh pooky, you know you can't get out of this one. 

Anderson: I could if I decided to come clean.

Soledad: Do you really want to do that?

Anderson: It's better than being under your thumb.

Soledad: Ahh, poor Andy. It's your own damn fault for getting yourself in this situation in the first place.

Anderson: There's always room for redemption.

Soledad: Ha! You think your nasty-ass wife will be forgiving? I highly doubt it.

Anderson: Hey, leave her out of this! 

Soledad: Ooh, touchy. Don't tell me you still have feelings for that wretched woman.

Anderson: I said, leave her out of this.

Soledad: Oh my God, you still love her. After everything she's done, you still love her.

Anderson: My marriage is none of your f*cking business. 

Soledad: Well, this changes the game a bit, doesn't it.

Anderson: I don't want to talk about it. 

Soledad: Fine. But I hired you to get things done, and you're sleeping on the job.

Anderson (to himself): More like sleeping with the job.

Soledad: What did you say?

Anderson: Nothing. 

Soledad (looking at her watch): I have to go. I'm expecting better news the next time we meet.

Anderson: Whatever.

Soledad: It's your life that hangs in the balance, not mine.

Anderson: We'll see about that.

Soledad: Is that a threat?

Anderson: No, it's just... conjecture. 

Soledad: Don't toy with me. I can make your life a living hell.

Anderson: What do you mean "can"? You are making my life a living hell.

Soledad: So sweet of you to say that. Ciao for now.

Anderson (mockingly): Ciao for now. 

Sanjay: I can't do this anymore.

Me: Sanjay, you have to. To save my marriage!

Sanjay: It's not all black and white anymore. (pause) I love him.

Me: What? But I thought...

Sanjay: I know what you thought, but...

Me: How... I mean....

Sanjay: I don't know. It's so... unexpected. I just... he's so...

Me: I know. 

Sanjay: I told him I loved him the last time we were together.

Me: What did he say?

Sanjay: He couldn't say he loved me back.

Me: I'm not altogether unhappy about that.

Sanjay: I understand. You're not... jealous?

Me: Sanjay, there are things I've done. Awful things. Anderson deserves some happiness, and you're giving him things right now that I can't.

Sanjay: But I can't keep doing this. It's tearing me apart. 

Me: Can you bear it just a little while longer? For me?

Sanjay: I'd do anything for you. You know that.

Me: Thank you. It'll all be worth it in the end, you'll see. I won't let you get your heart broken.

Sanjay: It's too late for that.

Me: Baby don't say that, you're making me sad.

Sanjay: Well, it's true. You of all people should understand how I feel.

Me: I do. But I'll make it all better. I promise. 

Sanjay: Do it fast, because I'm falling hard.

What information does Soledad want Anderson to extract from Sanjay? Why would Sanjay do anything for me? What does Anderson need to "come clean" about? Find out on the next episode of Fun with CNN Souvenirs.

Wanna be my best friend?

Not too long ago, I unearthed a diary I wrote when I was 12 years old. So far, it's explained why I'm not a famous actress. It's a veritable treasure trove of insights into my young, still forming psyche. Today, I thought I'd share with you what I found out about my friendships back then, that is, in 1986.

Apparently, the "best friend" bond was taken very seriously in 6th grade, as seriously as a monogamous, exclusive relationship. No joke. Check out this excerpt from January 29, 1986. (Names have been altered to protect the innocent.)

Dear Diary,

I had an interesting day today. I was playing with Joanna and so Darlene thought that I was her best friend. But I told her we weren't. But she doesn't trust me so she didn't believe me and I'm never going to be her best friend again. Then Darlene called Christine and told her that Nadine and Savannah were B.F.'s which wasn't true. Nadine and Christine were good B.F.'s. But Christine believed Darlene and now she's Darlene's best friend. Then, we played with the boys a little and we got in trouble by the principal but it wasn't too serious. Well, I had a great day.

I'm trying to determine if I was simply much more emotionally healthy back then or in total denial. After all that drama, I declare I had a great day. What exactly constituted a bad day in 1986 for 12-year-old me? Getting gang raped and shanked in a dark alley? Not that that actually happened but I'm trying to imagine the severity necessary for me to have declared: " You know, today wasn't so great."

What is becoming apparent in this excerpt, however, is my future sluttiness - playing with the boys and getting in trouble - my innocence was already compromised, there was no turning back. 

Also, note my use of abbreviations, i.e. B.F. I was clearly ahead of my time, heralding the day when writing in abbreviations would become the norm. LOL. 

Here's another excerpt, dated February 12, 1986, which vividly demonstrates the apparently dysfunctional, toxic friendships I was involved in:

Dear Diary,

We had a little fight today. Darlene asked me if I was Joanna's best friend and I got mad so at 4:20 that afternoon I became Christine's but I'm Darlene's now. Anyways, Darlene called me five times and she was crying four times. She ripped her Corey Hart poster because of me. Joanna called her twice for me. Besides that not much happened. We got our picture taken and I think everybody took a nice picture. Well, that's it.

I'm amazed at the precision of my memory when it comes to the exact time that I became Christine's BF. These days, I'm lucky if I can remember what happened an hour ago. 

Also noteworthy, Darlene's severe distress over my defection from our exclusive friendship. I don't think any man has ever cried over me or ripped a Corey Hart poster in broken-hearted despair. 

You must understand, back then Corey was the shit and he had a hit album out, possibly his only hit album, but whatever... He was DA MAN. Ripping a Corey Hart poster would have been akin to... oh, I don't know, to boycotting iTunes or something. (How am I supposed to know what matters to kids these days?; teenage stepdaughters notwithstanding.)

Following all this intense drama, is my ever so nonchalant statement that "Besides that not much happened". Dude, the whole day sounds like a total washout - chalk full of crying, destroying personal property and gnashing of teeth. 

I'm not sure what the equivalent of that would be in 2011, but you can bet your ass I would be finishing off the day nursing a potent drink and declaring what an atrociously awful day it was. 

Perhaps there's something to learn from my 12-year-old self who could so easily brush aside personal slights and fights with loved ones, and go on to declare that "everybody took a nice picture". I don't recognize this part of myself anymore because the 36-year-old me holds on to a grudge like a crack addict to a pipe. 

I have a hard time remembering most of the pleasant, beautiful moments in my life but ask me what someone said in November 1998 that pissed me off and I'll be able to tell you in two seconds flat. Sad, I know. 

I haven't yet begun to delve into the other volumes of personal diaries I found, the next one starting in 1991 at the tender age of 16 but I suspect, given my present self, that it's a slow and steady downward spiral. 

"But Sassy", you may be thinking, "why are you so hard on yourself? We've all made mistakes." (Pause) You know what, you're right. I f*cking ROCK, diaries notwithstanding...

Fun with CNN Souvenirs - Episode 1

On a recent trip to Atlanta, I went on a studio tour of CNN headquarters. They took a photograph of all us tourists at a CNN news desk and if we purchased the picture, we got free bookmarks. What ensues is the result of my acquisition of said news desk photo, my Anderson Cooper, Sanjay Gupta and Soledad O'Brien bookmarks, and my depraved mind. 

**These episodes are solely a product of my own imagination. Any resemblance whatsoever to actual events is purely coincidental.

Fun with CNN Souvenirs - Episode 1

Me: Andy, baby, don't forget to buy toilet paper at the drugstore and some Preparation H - you know how your 'roids act up this time of year. You really need to take better care of yourself.

Anderson: Poopee, don't worry. I told you, I won't forget. I know how much you like to snort coke off my tight ass. 

Me: How did I ever get so lucky? 

Anderson: No, poopee, how did I ever get so lucky? I have the most beautiful, intelligent, talented, sexy woman on the whole entire planet. 

Me: Aaawww, Andy. Stop it. You're making me blush.

Anderson (grabbing my ass): Mmm... where?

Me: Not now honey.

Anderson: But when?

Me: When this retched antidepressant doesn't make my cooch numb and I can orgasm again. 

Anderson: When will that happen?

Me: When I'm not a needlessly depressed rich housewife anymore.

Anderson: What are you saying?

Me: I'm saying, let the pills kick in. When I'm not harboring this sickening feeling of standing at the edge of an abyss every time I have to sit through some yuppie dinner party, sipping expensive wine in my overpriced, tight-ass Ralph Lauren clothing, talking about our trips abroad like they're chips at a Black Jack table, betting on our social status, maybe then we'll have sex again. (pause) But the coke helps.

Anderson: Anything for my poopee.

   

Me: Baby, we're gonna get through this.

Anderson: Yes, we are. I'm not giving up on you. I remember a once vibrant, creative, happy, horny woman. I will find her again, if it's the last thing I do. 

Anderson: I'm gonna f*cking kill her, I swear.

Sanjay: Ouch, take it easy, I'm not used to being on the bottom.

Anderson: Oh, sorry.

Sanjay: You know, I hate it when you talk about her while we're making love. A little sensitivity please?

Anderson: I'm sorry. It's just that she drives me crazy. She's either crying or nagging or high.

Sanjay: Why are you still with her? 

Anderson: I don't know. Maybe I feel sorry for her. 

Sanjay: Feeling sorry for someone is no reason to stay with them. She's a big girl, she'll be fine on her own.

Anderson: I won't be - she'll take me to the f*cking cleaners.

Sanjay: You didn't sign a pre-nup?

Anderson: No.

Sanjay: Are you crazy?

Anderson: No, but I'm married to it.

Sanjay: Oh God...

Anderson: I know. It's a bad situation.

Sanjay: No, I mean, oh God, I'm gonna come, I'm coming!!!! Aaahhhhhhh!!!! 

Anderson: That is so hot.... oh God..... oh God....... Aaaahhhhhh!!!!!

(Both are lying on the bed, in post-coital bliss.)

Anderson: I have to leave her. 

Sanjay: Yes, you do. (pause) I love you, Anderson.

Anderson: What?

Sanjay: I said, I love you.

Anderson: But I thought...

Sanjay: I know what you thought. But I have feelings for you.

Anderson: Don't say that. 

Sanjay: I have to. I can't keep it to myself any longer. I think about you all the time. I miss you when we're not together. 

Anderson: I don't know what to say. 

Sanjay: Say you love me.

Anderson: I don't know if I can.

Sanjay: Why not? 

Anderson: There are things you don't know about me. Things I'm not proud of.

Sanjay: Nobody's perfect. 

Anderson: You wouldn't understand. (Anderson gets up and quickly gets dressed.)

Sanjay: What the hell are you doing? Don't go! 

Anderson: I don't have a choice, I have to go. 

Will we find out about Anderson's deep, dark secret? Has Sanjay been keeping a secret of his own? Stay tuned for the next episode of Fun with CNN Souvenirs to find out!

Why I'm the Bridget Jones of business travel

When I travel for fun, I'm not too concerned about how I present myself. I wear my comfy traveling clothes and my carry-on bags usually consist of backpacks or large purses bursting with trashy magazines and snacks. However, when traveling for business, I like to think I'm a professional, and I try to present myself as such.

Yesterday, I made my way from Ottawa to Atlanta and demonstrated, on numerous occasions, why I'm the Bridget Jones of business travel. It all started out well. I got to the airport, checked in, and my colleague and I made our way to the lounge to wait for our flight. I even bought an "intellectual" magazine, Lapham's Quarterly, instead of my usual People or US. 

Leaving the lounge, I almost left my very business-like carry-on bag behind which my colleague kindly pointed out. Then, on an hour-long flight from Ottawa to Toronto, I managed to read all of three pages of my "smarty-pants" magazine, which was quite fascinating indeed - it's a historical, cultural and intellectual analysis of celebrity. It's the smart person's People. But my God, it was so much more demanding to read than my usual gossip rags. 

I think I'm becoming dumber with age. I came across proof of this not too long ago when I found some dissertations I wrote in university, attempted to read them, and realized I could barely understand what I myself had written. Apparently, at one time, I was quite the intellectual. Of course, that was before The Bachelor, America's Next Top Model and Wipeout. But I digress.

Then we arrive in Toronto for a connecting flight to Atlanta. For some reason, my fairly sleek carry-on bag on wheels manages to collide with or get stuck on every post, wall, elevator door and escalator stair I pass by or come in contact with. This does not jive with my cool business travel persona which evidently, only exists in my head, not in reality.

Boarding the plane to Atlanta, I realize there is no room for said carry-on bag in the overhead compartment over my seat. So, I decide to walk back a few rows to find a spot for it. I managed to find some free space only to discover that my carry-on would not fit into the overhead compartment on this smaller plane. Sweet Jesus.

Imagine, if you will, a salmon swimming upstream, against the current. This was me, trying to get back to my seat, against the tide of passengers still boarding the plane, in a too narrow aisle, with a small suitcase in my hands. I decide to shove it with all my might under the seat in front of me and rest my feet on the still protruding portion of my bag. I also had my very business-like attache bag with me. 

At one point, the flight attendant noticed the small mountain of luggage under my feet and told me this was unacceptable. I explained that my suitcase did not fit overhead, so she very politely took it away. Luckily, she was quite nice, or sympathetic to my plight, and found a spot for it somewhere else on the plane. 

Of course, when we landed, this meant I had to wait for everyone to get off the plane before a flight attendant could retrieve my bag and I could head into the airport. Good times.

Imagine, if you will, a girl trying to act casual but ending up running, arms flailing, scarf flying about, shoulder bag slipping off occasionally, and tugging on a piece of luggage on wheels that always seems to get stuck on something.

Yep, that's me, trying to be a professional business person.