Why the Hef is my hero

Over the weekend I had the privilege of watching a documentary on the Hef's life titled: Hugh Hefner: Playboy, Activist and Rebel. This film goes far beyond portraying Hugh as simply the founder of Playboy, the masturbatory companion of choice for countless men. It also delves into the aspects of Hefner's life that may be lesser known such as his commitment to equal rights and progressive politics.

Not only is Hef the most enviable heterosexual male around, he is a maverick, not fearing to tread where others dared not. Back in the '50s, he hosted a television show that included white, black and Jewish performers alike, at a time when this was unheard of or at the very least, sneered at with derision. 

A few token "feminists" were included in the documentary, criticizing Hugh for portraying females as merely sexual objects. To which he replied, and I'm paraphrasing from memory: "They are sexual objects. This ensures the propagation of the species. But they are also so much more." He championed women's reproductive rights and the repealing of abortion laws, and brought to the forefront the idea that it's ok for women to like sex, and that "nice girls" like it too.

The Hef has been criticized time and again for his "questionable" morality. The documentary aptly portrays a man who is nothing but honest about his intentions, has never led any of his female companions astray with false expectations and lays his cards on the table. Even during his eight-year marriage to Kimberly Conrad, he remained faithful to her. If anything, Hugh Hefner is a very moral man. Much more so than the hypocritical Christian fanatics who are among his loudest critics.

While Ronald Reagan was selling out his fellow artists to the FBI during the McCarthyan Inquisition of the '40s and '50s, Hugh Hefner chose not to judge his neighbours based on political views but rather accepted differing ideas with an open mind. The Hef was also involved in freeing a man from a 15-year jail sentence for having received a blow job from another man, following a letter sent by the inmate to Playboy magazine describing his situation.

I already admired the Hef but after watching this documentary, my respect for him has only deepened. He is an intelligent, caring, courageous, generous man. Hugh Hefner is who he says he is, and his actions are not discordant with his words. He has done far more to advance black, gay and women's rights than he is given credit for, especially during periods of American history when it was incredibly risky to do so.

Hugh is indeed a rebel, but with a cause. He asked a simple question in his youth, when still following in his elders' footsteps, before founding Playboy: "Is this all there is?" It was his yearning for more, his desire to go beyond what was perceived as possible that indelibly changed the American cultural landscape forever. 

The day I got face raped

They'll look great once the swelling goes down! Wait, let's go back to the beginning.

It all started a week ago... Sometimes, I have whims, whims that I must indulge. I sensed this was one of my creative whims so obviously, as an artist, I had to address it. It's part of my creative process. I decided, after five or six years of going makeup free, that I wanted to be a girl again. I wanted to wear makeup.

So I mosied on down to this fabulous makeup store a few blocks away, shared my dilemma with the friendly staff (I haven't worn makeup in like, forever, please help me!) and a short time later I left with a bag full of loot and a makeover.

But, being me, I wasn't completely satisfied with just the new goods, no, I had to complete this mission by booking a brow shaping appointment so that my eyebrows would match my new, polished look.

A few days later, I showed up to said fabulous makeup store once again, brimming with enthusiasm at my pending brow shaping. After this, I would look effing good. Between the perfect brows and the new makeup, I could do no wrong. 

The esthetician guided me to my seat where I happily entrusted my brows and flawless skin to her. The actual waxing wasn't too bad, some very short-lived discomfort for a lot of gain. That's how I saw it anyway. She also suggested I get my upper lip waxed which I agreed to after a flashback of that photo where I look like I have a mustache. 

Once the deed was done, she applied some liquid foundation to the now red areas of freshly waxed skin. I admired my new brows in a mirror and was on my way. Success! The rest of the day went as planned until I got home and washed my face.

Oh holy Moses. Not only were the waxed areas red but numerous welts were forming on my face! My face people! My moneymaker! I've had waxing done before but didn't remember it being so hard on my skin. I figured I'd put some moisturizer on, go to bed and everything would be ok in the morning.

WRONG. I awoke to the same red, welty wilderness I had had the night before. Shit. I looked like a freak and my tinted moisturizer could not quite contain the scarlet tint of the raped zones. What had I done? I'd become a slave to superficial beauty, voluntarily submitting myself to painful procedures in the name of vanity.

And now I was paying the price. My skin was itchy and tight, and I felt overwhelmed with self-consciousness. I was monitoring the progression of this ailment in my compact mirror every few minutes to see if there had been any advancement in my healing process.

A couple days later, while sharing my tale of woe with some friends, one of them indicated that I'd probably had such a bad reaction because of the foundation applied to the affected areas immediately after waxing and that all that chemical shit basically seeped into my open, sensitive pores. 

Ah HA! Mystery solved. My face is still healing although it looks much better than it did a couple days ago. I'm on the road to recovery and everyone's prayers and well wishes are deeply appreciated.

Of course I'm going to go back. They'll look great once the swelling goes down!

An ode to Charlie Sheen

Since EVERYBODY is talking about Charlie Sheen and his very public implosion, I thought I'd put my two cents in, 'cause I'm down with the homies, if ya know what I mean. Actually, I don't even know what I mean. It just sounded cool. Anyway... here's a poem, for Charlie. 

N.B.: This little ditty is a combination of fact and fiction. In other words, some of it is true, and some of it is made up so the lines would rhyme. 'Cause I'm cool like that.

An ode to Charlie Sheen

You were born Carlos Irwin Estevez

Such a shy and quiet boy

Loving toy race cars and Pez

The simple things brought you joy

You were a high school baseball star

Making Super-8 films in your car

Then you got kicked out for bad attendance

And swore you'd become an actor as vengeance

You went on to work on Wall Street

And even City Hall

Replacing Michael J. Fox 

Then CBS gave you a call

Cast as Charlie Harper

A character loosely based on you

Two and a Half Men was born

And to you it would be true

Until the day you slammed its creator

When it was evident you were losing your shit

So they canceled the show and called you a traitor

And you resorted to your quick wit

In the meantime you fathered five children

And married all of three times

Now you're living with porn stars, and that's bitchin'

But they took your kids away for alleged crimes

You've trashed hotel rooms and partied hard

And were arrested on Christmas Day

Now the police say you've got to stay in your yard

Via a restraining order, come what may

What happened to you Charlie Sheen

So handsome and so lean

You sniffed too much white powder, got louder and louder

And on self-destruction you are keen

The train wreck that was last night's Oscars telecast

I will begin my post-Oscar dissection with this lovely quote from my boyfriend, stating his feelings on last night's telecast: "Why are we watching this show with people we don't know, accepting awards we don't care about at an event that is irrelevant. Thank God there's a repeat of the Family Guy Christmas Special."

I must concur. Last night's Oscars ceremony was a complete disaster, probably the worst I've ever seen. As much as I like Anne Hathaway and James Franco, they fell flat as the show's hosts, as in flatlined. They were lifeless, without natural chemistry, painfully boring. Tragic, considering they're both very talented actors. However, having chosen them to host the Academy Awards was a mistake, a momentary lapse in sound judgment.

There was a mildly entertaining video montage to kick off the show highlighting the best picture nominees but as soon as the show went live, with Anne and James on stage, the whole thing fell apart. It was awful. I felt like the audience was laughing out of pity because frankly, why else would they be laughing? Nothing the hosts said or did was funny.

Another mistake: asking Kirk Douglas to present the Best Supporting Actress award. Yes, we all know Kirk is a Hollywood icon and we adore him. BUT, the man still suffers from devastating after effects of a stroke. His speech is slurred and erratic. This does not a good presenter make. If he was making a speech after receiving a lifetime achievement award, that would be different. I would have gladly and patiently listened to him. 

Dear Academy: please make sure your presenters can speak clearly and swiftly. Listening to Kirk Douglas trying to be funny was like listening to nails on a chalkboard. I know this may not be a politically correct statement to make but since when do I give a flying f*ck about political correctness?

The writers made the best acceptance speeches last night, notably Aaron Sorkin, for the screen adaptation of The Social Network and David Seidler for the original screenplay of The King's Speech. Those writers, they're a witty bunch. Colin Firth's speech after having won the Best Actor award was also pleasantly amusing, and, it's Colin Firth. Anything he says just sounds so... yummy.

Apart from a few scarce, barely entertaining moments, I sensed a tangible undercurrent of apathy at this year's Oscars, especially from a younger generation of actors such as Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake. Perhaps these awards are slowly but surely losing their appeal and on their way to becoming relics of a past era.

If a repeat of the Family Guy Christmas Special is much more appealing than the Academy Awards, then perhaps slipping into insignificance is not a bad thing. And just to be clear, the Family Guy Christmas Special is a masterpiece, not to be easily outdone by beautifully adorned, self-congratulatory Hollywood glitterati.

Fun with CNN Souvenirs - Episode 3

If you missed the first two episodes, catch up on all the action here:

Episode 1

Episode 2

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

Anderson: My God. That was incredible.

Sanjay: It was wasn't it.

Anderson: I think I went blind for a minute there.

Sanjay: Has your wife ever made you feel that way?

Anderson: Can we please not talk about her?

Sanjay: Sorry. I just, I can't help it.

Anderson: You know I can't give you what you want.

Sanjay: I know.

Anderson: But it's not like I can't give you anything. 

Sanjay: Tell me a secret. Something no one else knows.

Anderson: Why?

Sanjay: If you tell me something, I'll tell you something.

Anderson: Again, why?

Sanjay: 'Cause it's fun. And it'll bring us closer together.

Anderson: I don't want to lead you on.

Sanjay: I know where you stand. It's ok. But come on, what's wrong with having a confidante? Someone you can entrust with your deepest, darkest secrets?

Anderson: I don't trust anyone.

Sanjay: You can trust me. 

Anderson: And why would I do that?

Sanjay: We've been lovers for weeks. You know you feel the same intimacy between us that I do. And it's easier to share something than to try and carry it alone.

Anderson: (pause) For the past five years, I've switched the tags on my wife's clothes to make her think she's wearing designer stuff but really, they're all cheap knockoffs.

Sanjay: What!

Anderson: I know. It's terrible. I'm so ashamed. She trusted me and I let her down. 

Sanjay: No, I mean, why are you buying her clothes?

Anderson: She doesn't like to shop.

Sanjay: She doesn't like to shop! 

Anderson: No. 

Sanjay: Something is very, very wrong with her.

Anderson: She's been depressed for a while, that could explain it. Although she's never really liked shopping since I've known her.

Sanjay: I don't know what to say.

Anderson: About me or about her?

Sanjay: Well, what you're doing is despicable, practically unforgivable. You have impeccable taste and you're dressing your wife in ghetto rags. That's harsh man. Harsh.

Anderson: I know. I'm a cheap bastard! And if she ever finds out, I don't know what she'll do. It's eating me up inside.

Sanjay: It must be since you're letting Soledad hold you hostage.

Anderson: What? How do you....

Sanjay: How do I know? I didn't until just now. But I know what she's really after and I'm going to give you the information she wants. The question is: will you tell Soledad or will you be honest with your wife instead?

Anderson: Don't tell me anything. Please.

Sanjay: I know you're a good man Anderson, you'll do the right thing. I'm going to give you the recipe for the chocolate that, if eaten regularly, melts away excess weight, tones muscles and gives you a nice, healthy glow, without self-tanner or damaging sun rays. Do you really think I'm that naive? I hold the secret to what every woman wants - a perfect body via regular ingestion of chocolate. You think you're the first to try and get it from me?

Anderson: So, all this time, you've known...

Sanjay: Yes.

Anderson: Why didn't you say anything?

Sanjay: Because your wife set this up, to find out why Soledad has such a hold on you.

Anderson: What! How do you know my wife! 

Sanjay: Let's just say I owe her, a lot.

Anderson: She set you and me up? But I thought Soledad set us up, and, obviously, you know why.

Sanjay: That's what Soledad thinks, too.

Anderson: I've done terrible things. Why would you want to be with someone like me? 

Sanjay: The heart wants what it wants. 

Anderson: You still haven't answered my question: how do you know my wife?

Sanjay: She's been keeping secrets from you too. She set me up with a Prada wholesaler - I haven't paid full price in months. It's changed my life. I owe her big time.

Anderson: How does she know Prada wholesalers? She hates shopping!

Sanjay: That's where you're wrong. She pretended to hate it because it turned into an ugly addiction that she didn't want you to know about. That's why she sends you to do it for her, you have self-control, well, most of the time.

Anderson: Does she know what I've been doing?

Sanjay: What do you think? I'm just here to confirm her suspicions.

Anderson: Oh my God. I'm such an asshole. 

Sanjay: She's kept things from you too. 

Anderson: Why wouldn't she come to me?

Sanjay: She was afraid you'd be angry.

Anderson: My God. My poor little cupcake. I need to see her. 

Sanjay: I understand. But first, here it is, what Soledad's been looking for. I trust you'll do the right thing.

Anderson: She has no power over me anymore. That little conniving bitch is gonna get what's coming to her. 

How will Anderson avenge himself against Soledad? Will he admit his affair with Sanjay to me? Will Sanjay be willing to give up Anderson for me? Find out on the next episode of Fun with CNN Souvenirs.

You don't have to be a writer! Just a headline-generating skank!

Soooo..... apparently, Jesse James has signed on with some publisher to pen a tell-all book. (Insert sound of crickets here.) Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. Much like mine was when I discovered this little tidbit of information. 

What exactly would Jesse James have to say that would be even remotely interesting? Is he going to try and justify his cheating ways? Oh wait, he already did that. But I'm guessing he's gonna recycle that shit 'cause, I mean, come on, you can milk that "poor me" teat 'til it's dry and crusty. 

I'm guessing the book will go something like this (I may have embellished some details. Ok, most of it is just plain made up. I'm trying to make a point here. Stick with me people.): 

Before I became famous with my (surprise, surprise) reality show, I was nothin' but white trash. I grew up poor, in some nondescript trailer park (like a zillion other kids in the US). My momma was a prostitute and my dad was a drunk. That's why he beat me. 

And my momma, well, she was workin' on the streets so she was never around to protect us kids from dad's "fits". Then, when I was a teenager, I joined a gang, smoked dope and was bangin' anything with a tattoo. That's when I discovered my love of motorcycles and chicks. One became my saving grace, the other my downfall.

You gotta understand, I was tryin' to fill a void inside me with all the sex (yawn). I had such low self-esteem from my pops beatin' on me and my mom whorin' around, I felt like a nobody. Screwin' skanks filled up the emptiness inside me. 

And even though I was married to a smart, attractive, sweet movie star, my horrible childhood compelled me to continue to pursue unhealthy and hurtful behaviour. Every time I stuck my dick into a new vagina, it lessened the pain of my daddy's blows, which weren't just physical but emotional too. 

You see, it's not my fault I'm a lyin' whore. It's my daddy's and my momma's and the sad, sad circumstances of my early life. So basically, I can't take any responsibility for my actions as an adult since I was abused as a child (barf).

I'm engaged again, and y'all know that's gonna work out 'cause I went to therapy and shit after my split from the movie star and I'm all better now. I was able to blame my parents for everything that's gone wrong in my life, and now I can move on and be in a healthy relationship. 

And if that don't work out, I can blame the movie star for not "understanding" me. 'Cause it ain't my fault.

But I may have to reveal some intimate details of my marriage to the movie star so's I can cash in on her celebrity to sell my crappy ass book. You know how it is...

The yoga of TV

A colleague of mine recently loaned me the first season of Three's Company on DVD. Watching this show once again instantly brought me back to my childhood, when re-runs would air Monday to Friday. Back then, most of the sexual innuendo went over my head but I loved it nonetheless. It was one of those programs that felt like a warm security blanket, that made everything better, if only for half an hour.

This could explain, in part, my addiction to television. Certain shows, at different times in my life, filled a need to escape, created a safe environment for however long the show lasted. Back in the eighties, shows like Three's Company, Family Ties and the Dukes of Hazard were among my faves. 

Every Friday night, I'd always try to sneak in Dallas which aired immediately after the Dukes of Hazard. I'd sit quietly in our rec room, which was downstairs, while my parents were milling about upstairs and hope my mother wouldn't notice it was past my bedtime. Sure enough, every time, as soon as she heard the Dallas theme song, she would call me up to bed. Damn, I would think, foiled once again!

When I got a little older, I was allowed to stay up later to watch Miami Vice, which led to my unhealthy obsession with Don Johnson and the disintegration of my promising acting career.

In the early nineties, when I was struggling with homesickness and low self-esteem during my first year of university, Beverly Hills 90210 was my saving grace. The kids on the show were also in their first year of university, albeit richer and in a warmer climate. I escaped into their college experience to momentarily forget my own which, although academically successful, was wrought with difficulties, not the least of which was contending with one of the coldest winters I can remember, an apt manifestation of how I was perceiving my environment at that time - cold and inhospitable.

I also had a fiery affair with a short-lived remake of a vampire program, Dark Shadows, starring Ben Cross. After only one season and one hell of a cliffhanger, it went off the air. I was incensed. This, of course, was an early harbinger of my later obsession with vampires, pre-Twilight. Don't get me started on that bullshit... When the spoof Vampires Suck is better than the actual movies, somethin's gotta give.

The mid to late nineties were peppered with great sitcoms: Seinfeld, Friends, Frasier, Roseanne. And, irony of ironies, my dad introduced me to Sex and the City in 1998. He was watching it one night and hollered: "You gotta come and see this!" And then I was hooked. 

These days I'm all about HBO and Showcase and shit. They're producing some of the best TV ever. And it just keeps getting better. Although I would be remiss if I didn't mention two of my network faves, 30 Rock and Modern Family.

Throughout my life, television programs have been there, like a faithful friend, momentarily suspending reality and allowing me to escape into some other universe. Not that my life was filled with hardship. Quite the opposite, actually. I was, however, struggling with what everyone faces in their lives: self-doubt, low self-esteem, perfectionism (my own), relationships with family, friends and boys, societal expectations, etc...

Say what you will about TV and, for the most part, its ever devolving content, it still provides a reprieve from reality, from fears and frustrations, demands and expectations, and simply allows me to be. It's the yoga of TV.