#14 - Paris Hilton

It was the decade when...

You were famous for being famous.


Resistance is futile! Turn off your TV. Avoid web sites ending in .com. Avert your eyes when passing billboards on the road. In the Aughts, no maneuver could help a person escape the galactic entity that was Paris Hilton, mega-mega famous socialite and celebutante to end them all. Eager to have her face plastered hedcut-style next to the word "celebrity" in Webster's (she already was located next to the words "skank" and "shallow"), Paris was the decade's most famous person that people loved to hate. Actually, she was this decade's most famous person, period. One had a better chance of avoiding coverage of the Iraq War than of bypassing Paris Hilton's event horizon, sucking, as it inevitably does, anything that nears it into a black hole of gossipy skulduggery. Paris was celebrity in the Aughts, designed to induce ridicule and, simultaneously (though clearly not paradoxically), envy. Created by and for the same audience who balks and gripes about the inexorable celebrity news coverage that they (secretly, ironically) can't stop watching, Paris Hilton was rich, pretty, and famous enough to make us want to be her just as she was shallow, artificial, and tacky enough to allow us to dismiss her. In this way, she was a kind of non-threatening comfort; we were all allowed to take her seriously because, of course, no one takes her seriously.

A joke more than a person, the most amazing thing about Paris Hilton was the ease in which she adopted the persona that the market demanded. Shameless and unaware of the fact, Paris Hilton would, seemingly, stoop to any low to keep her picture frequency in US Magazine high. Of course, this shallow bottom-feeding is exactly what drove the hotel heiress all the way up to the top. If Paris Hilton had not existed, we'd have had to invent her. Either the Paris Hilton persona was the grandest piece of performance art since Andy Kaufman declared himself a professional wrestler or Hilton was a figure of Hegelian import and inevitability, embodying her era with the same magnanimity as "history-on-horseback" himself, Napoleon Bonaparte. (Paris Hilton is to the Aughts as: a) Leonardo Da Vinci is to the Renaissance, b) Socrates is to Ancient Greece, c) Adolf Hitler is to 20th Century Fascism or d)F. Scott Fitzgerald is the the 20's. Answer: All of the above!) Who knew being a spoiled brat was such an art? (Or a business!) Paris (definitely not pronounced "Paree") invented a new kind of persona: the famous famous person. To be an icon in the 21st century one didn't have to act well, or sing fabulously, or even succeed as model...no. One simply had to be famous...for no reason at all.

Of course, the template here is Barbie. Ample of bosom, vacant-eyed, with a ludicrously singed and minuscule waist, the absurd proportions of America's most beloved doll are, strictly speaking, impossible in natural biology. It's more of a goal to strive for. With a polyurethane complexion amplifying her strained vacuity, the flesh and blood (we think) Paris came as close as any to embodying a life-size, walking, talking, breathing Barbie doll, albeit a Barbie with the fashion sense of a high-paid prostitute. Though it's easy, if sad, to see how Paris embodied an obvious male fantasy (blond, dumb, an easy lay), it still perplexes what women saw in the Diva of Ditz. And yet it seemed that every girl wanted to be Paris's BFF; they'd even compete for the honor. We couldn't decide if we worshiped her or wanted her publicly flogged in the town square. (Probably both and for the same reasons.) The stench of blatant schadenfreude permeating Hollywood when Paris was carted off to jail for drunk driving had people holding their noses from coast to coast. We built her up to bring her down. It was an ungainly sight all around.

Paris represented a grand cultural displacement, the myriad anxieties endemic to the new century were at once too horrible to dwell over and yet too distant to fully confront: terrorism threats, foreign wars, the flooding of American cities due to poor infrastructure - the problems were legion and yet, for most, not necessarily personal. Paris was the rejection of all such concerns, a nexus of artificiality to distract from the real. The shallow overwhelmed the deep, and the excessive vanquished the temperate. Underpinning it all was the worship of loose cash and excess spending; Paris's one legitimate claim to fame, if you can call it that, was her copious family fortune. Money was rolling in in the Aughts and Paris was there to show us how to spend it.

With the heiress nearing 30, the bloom is off the rose. So too with America. The collapse of the financial system has made the conspicuous consumption of celebrity culture obscene. Paris, practically a sketch comedy character to start with, is doomed to greater and greater irrelevance and embarrassment should she attempt to maintain her cultural cache. A product of her decade, with its passing so to does Hilton's grip on pop-culture. She's no longer a viable cultural force, she's a Hollywood Square in waiting. A wise woman would willingly fade away from the spotlight, sparing herself and the country the indignity of a 40-year old Paris doing specials on TV about her plastic surgery or later-in-life dating fiascoes. (You know it's coming.) But, somehow I fear that Paris is going to cling to her fame like some 21st Century Norma Desmond, ending up isolated and alone in her Hollywood mansion watching reruns of The Simple Life on a loop.

The point of pop-culture, what in fact makes it interesting, is it's shameless consumerism; pop culture is what people want to buy. And because of that, because it actually responds to the desires and whims of the general populace with greater flexibility and honesty than other more "refined" artistic pursuits, pop culture acts as a kind of Rorschach test for the mental state of a whole society. It's what we really desire even when think we don't. And in the Aughts, what we desired, at least figuratively, was Paris Hilton. The hotel heiress should be analyzed less as an object of the Aughts than a mirror of its vain, superficial, easily titillated, excessive and privacy-averse face. Paris was the endless cycle of paparazzi photographs, tabloid magazine headlines, online gossip mongering and "Entertainment" News television programs. She was the Aughts's seething, white-sunglass wearing id. And that is definitely not hot.

You AUGHT to remember...

#19 - Celebrity Babies

It was the decade when...

Celebrity progeny were as famous as their parents.

Apple Martin -

Ah Apple. Adorable Apple. Ye of fruitsh name. Last name Martin no less! Your oh-so-sophisticated parents (almost) named you after an overpriced sickly-sweet cocktail; I don't know about you but if my last name is Collins I'm not naming my kid Tom. All but setting up years of school yard taunts, the Martins, in their first action as parents, showed themselves to be either totally oblivious naifs, mild sadists, or strained ironists. In any case, Apple is the one who will pay the price. (Maybe the Mr and Mrs. Martin thought...when your Dad is a rock star and your mom an Oscar winner, bullies tend to go easy on you. Probably true.) Here is Ms. Paltrow's defense of the unusual name:

It sounded so sweet and it conjured such a lovely picture for me – you know, apples are so sweet and they're wholesome and it's biblical – and I just thought it sounded so lovely and … clean! And I just thought, "Perfect!"

Gwenny! Love you doll, but Apple is not a biblical name. Ishamel is a biblical name. Bernadette is a biblical name. Fuck, Madonna is a biblical name! Apple...that's a food. The bible has an apple in it but, what's your point? Are you going to name your next kid frankincense?


Shiloh Jolie Pitt -

Though the Jolie-Pitt operation has practically become an orphanage at this point, you Shiloh are special. You are the first (though as of 2008 not the only) biological child of the world's hottest, most famous couple: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, aka Brangelina. This being the case, your DNA alone should keep men drooling. You can expect to grow up and become the most beautiful girl since Helen of Troy. Congrats. All your adopted brothers and sisters must resent you so. You even got a wax figure of yourself in Madame Tussaud's. Maddox was bestowed no such honor.

This being said...why are you kinda fugly? (Ok, I said it, but you, dear reader, were thinking it!). Seriously, is it just me or do you look a little downsy? Maybe expectations just ran too high but you Shiloh are definitely a sufferer of UBS: ugly baby syndrome. (See Seinfeld episode: here.) I realize that evaluating the beauty of a baby is tacky, and gross and stupid (and even vaguely creepy). I even understand that a baby's attractiveness bears little relation to their future beauty, but...your parents are BRAD PITT and ANGELINA JOLIE! You were expected to make the Gerber baby look like Quasimodo.

Don't worry Shiloh, everyone has an awkward phase, maybe you should be grateful that yours was when you couldn't even go to the bathroom for yourself. I am sure in 20 years, when you are on the cover of Vogue (or Vogue's holographic teleputer multimedia download), you'll laugh at what a funny-looking baby you were. Because if you turn out anything but stunning, the study of genetics will be proved to be nothing but hogwash.

Suri Cruise -




I feel bad for the Cruise-Kidman kids. No one cares. No one takes their picture. Does Tom even see them? Who knows? They don't matter. Kidman and Cruise worked hard to keep them away from the spotlight. How stupid is that? Everyone knows that babies and young children love nothing more than to be accosted by hoards of paparazzi from they day they are born. The flashing lights are oh-so-pretty. Kidman and Cruise's kids are adopted anyway. That's no fun. Everyone knows you love adopted babies less than your real ones. I mean, duh!

We must understand Suri Cruise, the child created by the entity known as Tomkat, in two modalities. There is Suri the person: an adorable, smiling young child who has been thrust into one of the most unique and scandal prone family situations this side of Buckingham Palace. This is the Suri we should care about, and the Suri who deserves both a modicum of privacy and maybe even a little pity. Then there is Suri, the press release: a baby who proved that Tom 1) Actually slept with his new paramour (why were those Kidman babies adopted anyway??) and 2) Was serious enough about the relationship to have a baby in the first place. Tom's career needed a child, a biological child, and Suri fit the bill. And to think, she didn't even have to go to central casting. (I don't think.)



Where is this all leading? Either these celebrity babes will use their vast fame and copious opportunities to do great things in the world (and maybe even become great stars themselves) or we are setting ourselves up for the worlds most pathetic reality TV show ever: I was a celebrity baby, get me out of here!

You AUGHT to Remember...

#25 - Celebrity Sex Tapes

It was the decade when...

You weren't a real celeb unless their was footage of you taking it off and getting it on.

Celebrities have sex. Shocking I know. The logical and unavoidable extension of our fascination with the private lives of the rich and famous, the sex tape is a celebs most guarded of private moments decimated to a salivating public. (Maybe birth tapes with celebrities popping babies out of their swollen vaginas will be the next paradigm.) Not pornography in the strict sense of the word - I doubt the tapes are watched for sexual stimulation very often - sex tapes are instead near perfect voyeuristic red meat. (Near perfect because they would be even more voyeuristic if the celebrities didn't know they were being taped, which usually they do.) Sex tapes are unabashedly intimate experiences starring people whose stock in trade is acting and artifice. To watch a sex tape is to rob a celebrity of their mystique, to see them as just another mammal, sweating and panting and emitting fluids. Deflating the bubble of superiority that surrounds the famous is a gratifying experience for most laymen; we build 'em up to tear 'em down. "You wanna be rich and famous? There is a price to pay bitches! We get to watch your sex tape with no guilt!" Or so the thought goes. And, let's face it, catching anyone, celebrity or no, in the act of sexual congress unawares is always a good excuse for snickering. Any urbanite who has peeked through open blinds at apartment dwellers in flagrante delictio will surely attest to this. Why the sight of two adults engaged in a common adult activity summons up the 7th grader in all us is a mystery. It's probably just another one of civilization and it's discontents. But, giggle and gawk we do, unable to turn away. And, if this is how we react to strangers, then a sex tape with celebrities is bound to be as transfixing as a hypnotist's spinning wheel of mystery.

The sex tape business is booming thanks to advances in both production and distribution. Before the advent of video in the 1980's, sex tapes were difficult to make without embarrassment. With images stored only on film, getting private X-rated footage developed was no mean feat. With video, the home user could at last easily make their own private sex tapes. Mass producing a low-grade videotape, however, from the already low-fi original proved a challenge that never was quite conquered. Nonetheless, video was the first golden era for the genre; it's why we call them sex "tapes" and not sex "movies." There were legendary examples by the likes of Rob Lowe (with two girls, one of whom was 16 mind you) or the extremely graphic Honeymoon video of Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee, in which the couple acted as if they were, in fact, porn stars and not a married couple. Still, sex tapes sputtered out infrequently in the 80's and 90's. It wasn't until the digital revolution that society had at last found the recipe to make sex tapes easily. Spreading them to a cubicle near you was even easier.

How easy? A sex tape (how long are we even going to be using the antiquated word "tape" ) can now be shot on a cellphone and, with the click of a button, sent over the Internet to be accessed by any curious party almost instantaneously. It's really ridiculous when you think about it. Not just celebrities but even the general populace now is more willing to dally in amateur porn. (A quick google search will prove this.) It's gotten so simple, maybe too simple. Luckily, for home grown porn stars, there is little interest by the general public to see you heaving and panting away. With celebrities though, a whole lot of other people want a peek. You think a famous person would be aware enough of this fact to refrain from ever filming themselves in the act but, alas, some lessons are hard learned.

So who scandalized us all in the Aughts with their sex tapes?

• Fred Durst proved his Bizkit wasn't so Limp when a sex video was leaked to the Internet. He ended up suing Gawker.com for posting the footage.
• A menage a trois with Grey's Anatomy's Eric Dane, wife Rebecca Gayheart, and former Miss Teen USA contestant Kari Ann Peniche was also leaked by Gawker.com; the drunk, high, and naked threesome provide twelve minutes of Grade-A NSFW cavorting accompanied by the the kind of asinine chit-chat one would expect from a naked prom queen and stoned television stars. It's very underwhelming.
• Though the tape itself has yet to be leaked, Dustin Lance Bareblack, I mean, Dustin Lance Black had images of a very graphic sex tape leaked to PerezHilton.com; in them the studly Oscar winner (for his screenplay to Milk) is seen having unsafe sex with an anonymous male partner. Given the writers outspoken advocacy for safe sex, the pictures were no small embarrassment.
• Dustin Diamond, known to children of the nineties everyone as uber-nerd Screech on Saved By The Bell, also had a sex tape leaked in this decade though, given the actors willingness to do anything to stay famous, from obnoxious and contrived dramatics on Celebrity Fit Club to bottom-of-the-fame-barrel Celebrity Boxing tournaments, it's mostly likely he leaked the tape himself as yet another stab to keep his name afloat in Hollywood. Sorry Screech, but when you do that it's not a leaked sex tape, you've just descended into pornography. I'll just watch Tobey Maguire imitate you on SNL instead. Much more entertaining.

Like the one ring, there was one sex tape to rule them all. One sex tape that catapulted its already infamous star into the stratosphere of fame like few other people in history. I am of course talking about One Night In Paris, the Paris Hilton sex tape. Penetrating deep into the general consciousness, One Night In Paris was watched even by those who proclaimed a disdain for such vulgarity. It was irresistible. Even Christopher Hitchens couldn't avert his gaze. The only celebrity sex tape whose title sounds like a mid-level James Bond punchline, One Night In Paris was the moment when Hilton crossed the Rubicon and became perhaps THE celebrity of her generation. (It was also her best acting work so far...sad but true.) Though the hotel heiress gave a half-hearted cri de couer when the movie was leaked, it's hard to shake the impression that the socialite was secretly grateful for all the attention, media coverage being the staple of her diet.

But with One Night In Paris the scandal of the sex tape and the feeling of titillating violation one felt while watching it, began to wane. With the proliferation of DIY porno sites like Xtube, the entire libidinal edifice of the sex tape has begun to crumble. Non-professional sex videos are slowly becoming just another series of clips sandwiched between Saddam Hussien's execution and videos of cats playing the piano. Surely we can expect a lot more celebrity sex in our future but really, who cares anymore?

You AUGHT to remember...

#29 - Dr. Phil

It was the decade when...

Folksy, homespun, judgmental advice and tired catchphrases replaced psychology.

The Ballad of Dr. Phil.

(Sung to the tune of the Ballad of Davy Crockett)

Born in Oklahoma at the half century.

To Jerry and Joe, (Oh! Jerry is a she.)

Bald as an egg since he was only three,

A bald Phil McGraw is a fait accompli.

Dr., Dr. Phil

Boy of the wild frontier.

Annulled his first marriage in '73,

A real purdy gal but not enough for he.

Cheated on her with a girl menagerie.

Now she runs a liquor store in Kansas City.

Dr., Dr. Phil

At least he 'aint no queer!

Now, Phil was real strong and big and tall

So he got himself a scholarship to play football

Tackling Phil was like hitting a wall.

But in the big game he scored almost nothing at all!

Dr., Dr. Phil

He needs a new career.

Phil had it in his mind to be a headshrinker

Just like his daddy before, of that he was sure.

"Dr. Phil" was born, a man you cannot deter,

A so-so shrink, a great entrepreneur.

Dr., Dr. Phil

Psychological buccaneer.

Now a piece of advice from those in the know:

To get rich and famous go on Oprah's show.

Be tough and folksy and next thing you know,

You've got best-sellers and your own TV Show!

Dr., Dr. Phil,

A celebrity who knows no peer.

Now out on his own, McGraw was up to bat,

Taking a swing, he knew where it was at.

How to reach America and not fall flat?

Just talk about diets cause they're all really fat!

Dr., Dr. Phil

Obesity profiteer.

No longer a shrink, McGraw's just a guy,

Who says what he thinks while his guests sit and cry.

But Phil kept his title, though it's kind of a lie.

But if Phil's not a "Dr.", well then, no one would buy.

Dr., Dr. Phil

He's not quite sincere.

Over ten million is his yearly paycheck,

for telling his guests how their lives are wreck.

And his advice is a notch above dreck.

Follow up with guests? Why? No one will check!

Dr., Dr. Phil.

His judgment is severe.

His Nielsen ratings are beginning to slip.

Once neck and neck with Oprah, he's losing his grip.

His southern drawl is anything but hip.

Let's all give the "Dr." a bird we can flip.

Dr., Dr. Phil.

The end must soon be near!

You AUGHT to remember...

#38 - Perez Hilton

It was the decade when...

Hollywood's biggest power broker worked out of a coffee shop.

The original title of Perez Hilton's now infamous namesake blog was "PageSixSixSix." It was the last instance of wit that Perez would ever display. In just five years this foul-mouthed, flame-y haired, even flame-yer acting, gutter minded chimichanga has gone from an unemployed freelance writer with $60,000 dollars of debt to the worlds most famous gossip blogger, a six figure salary and multi-media fame. In retrospect the Miami-born, NYU educated, Mario Armando Lavandeira's rise to Hollywood fame was as unlikely as his blog (or one just like it) was inevitable. As such, and as horrifying as it is to contemplate, Perez Hilton is one of the Aughts most emblematic personalities. Oy.

Stylistically, somewhere between a Michael Musto missive and elementary school bathroom stall scrawl, Perez Hilton, the site and the man, have come to define what gossip is in the new cyber-media. Walter Winchell he ain't, Perez was the first to realize that in the era of the mouse click and hyperlink, volume always trumps quality. Best to have forty hastily organized posts a day than five brilliantly pithy, well written ones. Grammar is for losers, sentences are passe. In the Internet area, a picture (of Clay Aiken with drawn on ejaculate running down his mouth) says 1000 words, none of which would be pleasant to read. Hilton's editorial standard requires only that the posts be in English, and even then sometimes you wonder...

Perez may get millions of hits a day but, for most readers, the actual time spent on the site probably lasts about as long as an extended piss or short shit; the experience is always excremental. Perez knows (intuitively, from experience no doubt) that surfing the Internet has bulldozed our attention spans to somewhere between badger and opossum on the phylogenetic tree. We now want our celebrity news digestible in one long gulp, like a frat boy finishing a six pack. You'd throw up if you were to sip it. A brief visit down Hilton lane on your five minute office coffee break can function as an emergency infotainment debriefing. It's gossip redux. A digital Page Six, distilled to bullet points and dirty pictures. Drained of all editorializing, the site is a who-is-doing-who and who-is-pregnant-now memorandum of the most crude kind. The frequent updates keeps its readers hitting refresh like lab mice clicking their feed bar. Communication hasn't been rendered this sparse since the heyday of the pay-by-the-letter telegram.

Perez did much right in his quest to become the self-proclaimed "Queen of All Media." Unlike other low-brow gossip sites like DListed.com or Pinkisthenewblog.com (or even more legitimate Internet gossip sources like gawker.com and it's subsidiaries) Perez's site was as much about the blogger's own cult of celebrity as it was the actual A-D Listers and celebutantes he reported on. You would go to his site to learn about Brangelina drama or the latest Britney Spears disaster scene, but you couldn't escape the man himself. Anything but camera shy, this zaftig trash-talker worked overtime to make his personal persona (not just his blog) synonymous with celebrity in the 21st century. The efforts paid off. Soon, the New York Times was writing articles and old media could no longer ignore this new Hollywood game changer. His inferno-topped visage became a fixture of the LA nightlife scene; soon he was the one in Paparazzi photographs. TV Specials and red carpet gabfests were only going to be a matter of time.

With the new medium of blogging being defined and re-calibrated in real time, the journalistic standards that held sway for decades in print media were, if not useless, totally ignored. Was a gossip blog more like a gaggle of friends pick-a-littling at drinks on a Friday night or was it a newfangled periodical column in the vein of Liz Smith, Cindy Adams and the legendary Page Six? (Or was a blog more akin to a logorrheic nutjob shrieking on a soapbox in Hyde Park?) Perez Hilton assumed the casual, loose lipped informality of private conversation but got an audience as massive as any of the genre's old warhorses. Controversy inevitably followed.

While Michael Musto may snarkily (Michael Musto eats his corn flakes snarkily) and obliquely allude to a well-known closet case's infamous same-sex orgies, Perez will provide pictures and commentary. For Hilton, himself an out and proud gay man, the Hollywood closet was only a doorway to success; he has little interest in protecting any public figure's privacy should they choose to hide their sexual orientation. And Hollywood is afraid, very afraid.

Both Lance Bass and Neil Patrick Harris had little choice but to announce their homosexuality after being backed into a closet corner by the scruple-free blogger. Though "Who's gay in LA LA Land?" has long been a favorite party game of homos from here to the land of Oz (lots of gays there), when such casual speculation finds its way online, the finality of putting the trashy gab in writing (even of the non-print variety) brings to bear a new whole roster of ethical and journalistic issues. But, of course, Perez is not a journalist. He is not a reporter. He is not the employee of a media company. He is a guy with a laptop. In essence, that's all he is or needed to be. This is the 21st Century. Recently, after the feeding frenzy over Miss California's anti-gay response to Perez Hilton's Same-sex marriage question (He later called her a "dumb bitch.") while appearing on the Miss USA panel, Perez has positioned himself as a GLBT activist, even showing up on legitimate talk shows to debate same sex marriage. Not all gays are having it.

Who's really not having it are the paparazzi who risk life and limb daily to get that million (or 500, more usually) dollar shot of Nicole Ritchie eating a corn dog. They struggle and toil only to have their "work" exploited by Hilton, who, as easy as a right-click, appropriates the fruits of their labor, defiles it with his magic markers, and then posts the image for all to see, making boffo bucks all the while. Enter the lawsuits. While it's hard to get worked up about injustices against the pawn-scum that are celebrity paparazzi, what was at stake in the case against Hilton was nothing less than the copyright status of images in the brave new world that is the Internet. In this instance the matter was settled out of court, leaving the precedent still nebulous; further lawsuits, whether against Hilton or other Internet picture poachers is all but inevitable.

As a fabulized, slenderized Hilton stands atop his mini-Empire of over-inflated importance, he must wonder, "How long can this last?" As self-made as any classic entrepreneur in the mythopoeia of the American Dream, Perez Hilton was neither the most original nor talented neophyte bloggerhead to reach for success, he was simply the one who got there first and knew what to do with it when he arrived. He is at once unique and emblematic. Is Perez Hilton really the Queen of all Media? In the age of the internet, you are what you say you are. So, Long Live the Queen.

You AUGHT to remember...

#39 - Tom Cruise, Mental patient.

It was the decade when...

For a Top Gun, acting sane was a Mission Impossible.

Leaked Bellevue Case Study

The patient, a Caucasian male in his mid forties, was admitted to the ward after displaying erratic and self-destructive behavior on and off for the past ten years. Immediately it was apparent that he was in need of treatment and intensive analysis. Initial attempts at psychological evaluation were met with passive aggressive hostility, the patient repeating the phrase "Help Me Help You" over and over again - a clear attempt to undermine the dynamic between doctor and patient. This was the first manifestation of what we later determined to be a chronic and unique case of manic narcissistic personality disorder, complimented by low-level schizophrenia and conscious seizures. We initially misdiagnosed him as bi-polar assuming that the manic episodes would have to subside into depressive periods. To our surprise, the manic phases persisted indefinitely. We have rooted out the cause of this pathological condition as a combination of repressed and confused sexual proclivities, social isolation, continual and persistent positive reinforcement for bad behavior and indoctrination into a religious cult.

An inflated sense of power and self-worth were the first clues to the patient's narcissistic temperament. The condition would manifest itself most prominently through the outrageous claims that the patient would make. In one instance he claimed that at the site of an auto accident, amongst the entire crowd only he could help the situation and assist those in peril. The exalted status he held himself in made his psyche easily susceptible to indoctrination by a religious cult, the cult's ideology acting as a reinforcing mechanism. His existing belief that he has privileged insight which others lacked became a part of his religious faith. The cult then feeds on the patients psychological dysfunction, increasing the schizophrenic episodes to the extent that, by the time he came to us, the patient believed that human beings descended from an alien race implanted on earth in volcanoes which were then destroyed by nuclear weapons. The patient, now fully convinced of his cults dogma, makes it a mission to convince others of his beliefs, overstepping the boundaries that should restrain him from offering up opinions on topics he is not qualified in any professional way to address. If under interrogation, the patient immediately attempts to put his inquisitor on the defensive, reversing the power roles so that his own authority cannot be questioned. He may even dismiss criticisms outright, accusing the questioner of being "glib."

For such an individual external coordinates of success must be maintained at all costs. The cognitive threat of failure could pop such an inflated ego. Sexual health and a satisfying romantic relationship are important criteria in any healthy persons analysis of their own well-being but with a pathological narcissist however, it is merely the impression that counts in his evaluation. This being the case, the patient will overcompensate when discussing his love life, in this instance, jumping fast into marriage and wildly exclaiming his affections to anyone in earshot. This super-abundance of excitement brought about what can only be described as conscious seizure in the patient, forcing him to jump and flail wildly. It is important to note the imbalance between the hysteria manifested by the patient and the quiet anxiety emanated by the partner who is, of course, passive, and seemingly powerless. The display of affection by the patient is directed less at his partner than at the world in general, a signal that what concerns him is not the relationship but his perception of himself in the eyes of, in Lacanian terminology, the Big Other. Romantic gestures are big and broad and ludicrously predictable (the patient proposed to his new wife at the Eiffel Tower, for instance); it's a performance of life not a living of one.

Within the mania there are still massive mood swings. In an indoctrination video that the patient made for his cult the subject displayed an alarming ability to shift from fiercely intense testimonial to wild, uninhibited and unprovoked laughter and then back to steely jawed instruction. This persistent manic energy throughout the panoply of emotions is the most disturbing feature of this patients pathology. It's hysteria on Cruise control.

Our advice is for the patient to take his protein pill and put his helmet on.

You AUGHT to remember...

#42 - Jon & Kate+8 & the Octomom

It was the decade when...

Mothers didn't have children, they had litters.

Darwin was wrong. It's true that nature selects certain individuals to be barren, but not out of genetic deficiency. No, natural selection is not always the culprit. Sometimes nature, in her infinite wisdom, is just trying to spare everyone else the shitstorm that ensues when certain individuals have babies. But we humans, prone to thwart nature's guidance at every possible turn, have made it possible for these progeny-less souls to not only birth a single child but a whole gaggle of them, making Homo Sapien gestation resemble more a rabbit than a bipedal mammal.

Jon and Kate Gosselin were a sweet couple. Unable to conceive children without the assistance of fertility doctors, the pair gave birth to a pair of beautiful twin girls. Tempting fate, the Gosselins felt another child was in their destiny and so back to the experts they went, hoping to add one more bundle of joy to their family. This time medical science proved too efficient. Six embryos decided to park in Kate's uterus and 9 months later the Gosselins were parents to a group of babies larger than some softball teams. TLC saw a marketing opportunity and before the befuddled parents knew what they were doing they had a hit basic cable television program on their hands. The barely submerged tension between the high strung Kate and the lackadaisical, mildly recalcitrant Jon gave the show it's hook, and, in a way, it's heart. In a household of two adults and eight children the environment is bound to be somewhat more tense than an episode of The Waltons; their imperfections were a signal of their humanity. When the friction turned to fire the resulting inferno was beyond anyone's wildest imagination. In the episode where the couple announced their decision to separate, Jon&Kate garnered its highest ratings ever with some 10.6 million viewers tuning in to watch a family get destroyed in almost real time.

Since then, the duo has become tabloid celebrities of the highest (lowest?) order, each week a new fathom southward in their ongoing public squabbles. Jon has regressed to total douchebaggery, pimping out his fashion style, partying in Vegas, and dating younger women of poor character while Kate has become a tear-prone talk show regular, onetime co-host on The View, and, with her "reverse-mullet" coiffure, the most influential trendsetter for women's hair fashions since Jennifer Aniston sported the "The Rachel." When Posh Spice is imitating you, you know you have penetrated pop culture in a way never before reserved for reality TV stars. Lost in the maelstrom are the real victims of Jon&Kate, the individuals now destined to their own paparazzi filled futures and reality show contracts, the eight children thrust into a media spotlight so bright it would make Stevie Wonder squint.

While Nadya Suleman, better known to the American populace by the supervillain sounding title of "Octomom," has no reality show of her own (yet) she has nonetheless ratcheted up an impressive amount of television coverage, mostly on the Dr. Phil program, which, despite weekly protestations by the host to stop discussing the story, continued to give this womb with legs blow-by-blow analysis. As always, media-whore Gloria Allred was there wearing a brightly colored suit of righteous indignation, shouting loudly about "the children." Suleman, already a single mother of six (all from in-vitro fertilization), decided in 2008 that what her life needed was more mouths to feed. After implanting six frozen embryos the 33 year old found herself pregnant with 8 babies (two had split into twins) and in January of '09 she gave birth to the lot of them, transforming herself from pathetic anonymous welfare mother into the now infamous Octomom. With a small of army of children around her, the Octomom became the postermom for the reckless use of fertility technology. Something of dish, it's no coincidence that this Angelina Jolie lookalike was offered One Million dollars to star in a pornographic film, an offer which she later turned down. Not necessarily a wise decision; the movie could have paid for at least three if not four college educations. Only ten more to worry about.

A freak show and domestic disaster parading as a news story, the only thing really interesting about the Octomom is trying to figure out who is going to be more fucked up, her kids or the Gosselin clan. I, for one, can already imagine the worlds most exciting episode of Family Feud.

You AUGHT to remember...

#49 - RIP MJ

It was the decade when...

Michael Jackson snapped the last tether connecting him to planet earth, then died.

Given the orgy of obits and retrospectives that were published after Michael Jackson's untimely demise this year, I have absolutely nothing to add to the chrous of voices. It's all been said. Instead here is a photo-essay about the last decade of Michael's life, commentary by yours truly.

"Hey Brit, did you hear madness is contagious now?"

When Liza is the most realistic looking person in the picture, you know you're not in Kansas anymore. Seriously, I don't even know where to begin with this caption...all I do know is that if they recreated this tableau at Madame Tussaud's, I'd be there in a heartbeat.

At first glance, I thought that was Dixie Carter. With all his money, why did Michael have to construct his protest placard with crafts purchased from Michael's? Did he think that the store was named after him?

"Behold Simba, King of the Jungle!" It's so cute how he dresses his son up as a Klansman for Halloween.

"Martin, if I say it's raining, it's raining."

Blinking is so overrated.

Michael Jackson : 2LGT 2LGT 2QUIT. I guess he was a morning person.

"This is the part of the story when Sleeping Beauty is supposed to wake up!"

"Formerly black now white, freakish, acquitted child-molesting pop superstars of the world, UNITE!"

The Rest Is Silence.

You AUGHT to remember.

#56 - Martha Stewart Goes to Jail

It was the decade when...

Inmate No. 55170-054 brought some class to the Alderson Federal Women's Prison.

$45,673 smakaroonies. That's the dollar figure that Martha Stewart saved when she illegally sold her IMClone stock the day before its share price tanked. Quick refresher: Martha Stewart is a billionaire. A model business woman sitting atop a Golden Horde of her own making called Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia ("Living Omnimedia" sounding less like a corporation than a Sci-fi monster with a murky ontological status), a $45,000 loss is about as consequential to her financial solvency as is the 2 bucks I spend buying my coffee at the corner bodega. Less.

But sell she did. And so began a string of events that would find as its denouement the absurd reality of Martha Stewart - domestic diva and style guru to millions, the epitome of taste, elegance and poise - serving six months in the clinker alongside women for whom a mullet is anything but a seafood dinner. Of course, Martha maintained her innocence, and why not? A businessperson, especially a woman, doesn't get to the top of a major corporation and accumulate a billion dollars by playing sweet and nice with the boardroom sharks and wall street vipers. They get there by standing toe to toe, sinking to the same lows, bottom-feeding all the way to the top. Capitalism is blood sport. Martha merely had wherewithal to hide her claws in well-tailored gloves. Was the sale illegal? The thought probably never crossed her mind. Not after the shit that she has undoubtedly pulled in the past, and most of that stuff was probably legal.

While behind every great fortune there may be a great crime, this was not it. This...this highly selective and conspicuously high-profile use of government resources, this...was a trophy prosecution. Martha Stewart was the sort of attention grabbing white collar criminal that beleaguered DA's with delusions of grandeur (and future political ambitions) salivate over. Martha's highly cultivated perfectionist image and runaway success had already generated enough resentment among the general populace that the idea of bringing down this sacred cow made many hungry for some Tartare. For the wine pairing I recommend the '04 Schadenfreude. When being pressed about the stock trade on Good Morning America during a routine cooking segment we all got to watch the worm wriggle on the hook; "I just want to focus on my salad." said Martha, proving that even ice queens can sweat.

But when the not-so-blind scales of justice eventually tilted against Ms. Stewart she found herself in the surreal position of having to leave her post as one of the most powerful women in business to make license plates with West Virginian riff-raff. A backlash to all the negative press gained speed and a new cry was heard: FREE MARTHA! After months of being put through the wringer, Martha was finally getting laid out to dry. Maybe people were starting to pity the fallen goddess or maybe they felt that justice, if not miscarried, had been at least C-sectioned or perhaps they were just grateful for the Halloween costume idea, but, whatever the cause, sentiment shifted in Martha's favor. M Diddy, as was her cell-block sobriquet, had now begun to follow the yellow brick road all the way to the other Emerald City of American narrative: If she already had trafficked in "The Fall From Grace" now it was sequel time with "The Redemptive Comeback." Omnimedia stock - which had, as you could imagine, suffered though some lean times in the early Aughts - doubled in value while it's founder was in prison. Martha even started a fashion craze for Ponchos on the day she was finally released (see this AUGHT post for full Poncho analysis). Within months Stewart was back on TV with her own new daytime talk show. Martha's downfall did something special for the somewhat chilly icon, it humanized here like no PR campaign ever could.

In retrospect, Martha's show trial of 2004 highlights how the self-aggrandizement of the Securities and Exchange Commission clouded their view of the financial landscape so profoundly that the real pilfering being done by mountebanks like Bernie Madoff went unnoticed for years. But, Robespierre cant get a crowd unless he has royalty on the scaffold.

It all backfired. The SEC failed to protect Americans from the abuses of their own system and Martha walked out of prison more popular than ever before.

The moral of the story? Prison, it's a good thing.

You AUGHT to remember....

#69 - Wardrobe Malfunction

It was the decade when...

The sight of a nipple shook America to its core.

The date: February 1, 2004

The event: Super Bowl XXXVIII

The perps: Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake

The crime: Janet's nipple gets exposed in a climatic dance move.

The mystery:Did Janet experience a "wardrobe malfunction" as she claimed, or was this all part of the plan all along, sinking America further into the miasma of depraved morality and loose sexuality?

The fallout: Total. Media. Shitstorm.

The legacy: "Wardobe Munfunction" enters the general lexicon, its popularity matched only by its silliness.

What really happened? Decide for yourself. Warning: this video might not be suitable for people who have never seen a nipple.

You AUGHT to remember...

#76 - Steve Jobs Riseth Again

It was the decade when...

We worshiped at the altar of Steve.

And it came to pass that in the year of our lord one-thousand nine hundred and fifty five, a child would be borne in the city of Saint Francis. And he would bring unto the world untold riches. And he too would make untold riches. And from his lowly state he would rise to sit on a throne of cash, and be worshipped by the multitudes of nerds.

And, lo, his name was Steve. And he was good. And he would bring to man much fruit. And his company would be synonymous with home computing for many years.

And it came to pass that Jobs found such success that neither he nor his partner St. Woz could control their empire. And so, Jobs proclaimed another as his king but he was a deceiver. And the Deceiver wore the crown of fruit.

Now, the deceiver knew no allegiance to Steve. He hath doubted his maker. And so he said, "thou hast given me power over thee Steve. And I shall smite you with it." And the Deceiver banished Steve from his own kingdom.

And it came to pass that Steve, banished from his own kingdom, wondered the desert for half a score. Whilst abroad he ganeth in strength whilst his old kingdom fell feeble and meek. It was so that Satan prospered whilst Steve wondered. And Satan put forth a new program called Windows. Steve saw that all he had made was stolen by the evil one and this made him mad.

And it came to pass that after ten winters the gates would once again open to Steve. And he would be greeted by the multitude, and there would be much rejoicing. And in the year of two-thousand and aught he would be again crowned to lead his kingdom of fruit. For 10 years hence Steve would reign on high, wielding the power of the letter "I." And he would giveth to the masses much music. And he would build temples for believers to pray in. And he would preach before the techno-pharisees and dot.com moneylenders and offer to the crowd new idols to worship. And these sermons would be called "launch events." And there was much rejoicing.

In Seattle there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Rejoice! For Steve hath returned. And all was right with the world. And may we all eat his fruit for years to come. Amen.

You AUGHT to remember...

#81-It's Britney Bitch!

It was the decade when...

Britney Spears was not so lucky.

Great moments in Speardom:

May 2000: Britney releases Oops...I Did It Again, scaling the highest peaks of pop superstardom. Clad in scarlet leather, Britney solidified her status as pop music's It girl. Sadly though, the album's title was prescient. She would spend much of the rest of the decade saying Oops!

Early 2002: Britney ends her relationship with fellow pop icon Justin Timberlake. She claims they were climbing "two different mountains." Her mountain being a whole-lot crazier.

February 15 2002: Britney tries her best to be a movie star, starring in the universally reviled gal-pal road trip fiasco Crossroads. The movie currently has a 15% rotten tomatoes ranking and garnered the actress a Golden Razzie, an award she shared that year with Madonna for her revelatory performance in Swept Away. At least Crossroads did better than Glitter. Since the Crossroads debacle Britney has shied away from the cinematic limelight. There has been no sequel talk. The world breathes a sigh of relief.

June 27, 2002: Britney officially becomes a New York restaurateur when she opens the crap-tastic NYLA, an abbreviation of New York and Louisiana (the pop star's home state). Serving such appetizing sounding dishes as southern sushi or the chocolate pyramid, the restaurant is lambasted by critics. Can't blame Britney though, seeing as she had never tried the food. She probably didn't know they were using tomatoes from old, dinted cans. Yes, it was horrible, closed quickly and left it's investors $400,000 in the hole, but it could have been worse. She could have been the chef.

August 28, 2003: Britney and Madonna lock lips at the VMA's. The clip is replayed ad nauseum. The press reacts as if Spears performed Cunnilingus on the pop legend in front of millions.

January 3, 2004: Either trying to break a Guinness world record or showing the first signs of mental disease, Britney reaffirmed the sanctity of marriage by getting hitched to her childhood pal Jason Allen Alexander in the early morning at a Vegas chapel only to have the wedding officially annulled 55 hours later. Sadly, this would be Britney's happy marriage.

September 18, 2004: Evidently not too heartbroken about the loss of Mr. Alexander, Britney married Kevin Federline, here and forever after referred to as K-Fed. Poorly groomed white trash dudes everywhere rejoice for now they too have the power to nab some pop-star poontang.

February 6, 2006: Photos emerge showing Britney teaching her baby how to drive. Two thoughts occur to America. 1. Britney = Trainwreck. 2. That baby is fucked.

Novemeber 7, 2006: Britney files for divorce from K-Fed. The world experiences the opposite of shock.

February 17, 2007: In the event that will go down as "the great shave," Spears removes all her hair at a small beauty salon in the San Fernando Valley. Some cynics say the new do was simply a ploy to avoid a drug test. Others of a more sympathetic cast suggest she was purging herself of negativity like a Buddhist Monk. Maybe she just thought Sinead O'Connor is all that and a bag of chips. One thing is certain: Britney was now officially and forever a punchline first, entertainer second. The look does not start a trend.

February 18-September 8, 2007: Britney continues to be a total fucking mess. America becomes exhausted.

September 9, 2007: A well-fed Britney opens the VMA's with a legendary performance. Watching the singer stumble through a poorly lip synched dance routine with all the enthusiasm of Karen Carpenter at a Chinese buffet is akin to rubber-necking a head-on collision. "Gimme More?" Um, I think you've had enough. One voice is raised in defense of the fallen pop star; he shouts and the world hears, "LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!"

October 1, 2007: Britney loses custody of her children. When K-Fed is the responsible option, America thinks again, "those kids are really fucked."

December 2007: In some celebrity variation of the Stockholm Syndrome Britney begins dating Adnan Ghalib, one of her paparazzi. Oy.

January 3 2008: Operation Spears! Refusing to relinquish her children to K-Fed's custody Britney spears locks herself up in her LA mansion like some sort of millionaire Branch Davidian. The cavalry is called in. Celebrity bloggers have collective orgasm. Britney is whisked away to Cedar-Senai for psychological evaluation. She has now become the world most famous head case since Sybil. There is an expression that captures this moment in a person's life and/or career: rock bottom.

September 15, 2008: Somehow boomeranging back from the depths where she had fallen, Britney's new single "Womanizer" reaches number one. Maybe the dark skies have lifted?

March 2009-Present Day: Britney's Circus tour is a smash success, selling out all over America. America waits and wonders "Can the drama really be behind us?" "What is Britney now? Survivor? Joke? Self-fulfilling media prophesy? Future Hollywood Square?"

I for one wash my hands of the whole thing. To paraphrase: BRITNEY, LEAVE US ALONE!

You AUGHT to remember.