date machine : celebrity confessions

Celebrity Confession: Lesbian Lovers

airheadgenius — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 02:54:00 GMT

It's official, according to Perez Hilton,
THEY'RE OUT! Lohan Confirms Lesbian Relationship!

Apparently they have been a couple for ages, exchanges rings and being seen out and about by all and sundry, but this weekend the announcement was finally made.
They are Americas "new young lesbians". Cute.

Who cares though really?
Before you cry "no one" let's remember one of the significant contributing factors to John Kerry losing the election four years ago. He was in favour of, gasp, civil unions which is just one step away from same sex marriage!
Now maybe the general public can just about stomach Lindsey Lohan and Samantha Ronson, after all they are both good looking enough to fuel many a Republicans lesbian fantasy, and even dear Melissa Etheridge presents an acceptable face of lesbianism, being a family gal and all. But, celebrities can get away with it.
It's a whole different story if Joe Public has to deal with gay parents at PTA meetings, kissing same-sex couples on the subway and the like. Then it's not so cute at all. (According to Joe Public that is. Airheadgenius endorses all manner of sexual practise)

But not everyone is happy with this latest outing. Lindsay's dad is having an attack about it and, according to The Sun, for the most bizarre reason:

"Personally, I think she is dark, hideous and a disgusting representation of humanity!"
The cause of this outburst? Apparently she ran out of toilet paper and, when her attention was alerted to the fact, she suggested that the person use the cardboard roll to wipe their arse.

Now, granted, this does not make her the best host in the world. And it certainly raises questions about her personal hygiene, but "hideous and disgusting representation of humanity"? Seems a bit strong doesn't it?

Would Mr Lohan's feelings have been similar if his daughter had a male fiance and he discovered that he was a bit tardy with the bum wiping? I suspect not.
It's not so much that Ronson's got a smelly arse that's the problem, more that Lohan's likely to have her tongue up it.

Maybe Daddy is just concerned for her health?

And back to spjv's post - I wonder what kind of impact this unsupportive daddy had on Lindsay's choices? Maybe he wasn't such a champion bum wiper either.

In honour of the lovely couple, today's Daily Knob features a gay man. What's the diff really? It's not as if I am going to meet him, so if you're jonesing after him, just pretend he's straight. The lovely Rupert Everett.

The obligatory back catalogue:

Digits

Asymmetrical Knobbage

The Chick Facial File

Mirrors

Confession plus Daily Knob!

Abusive?

Celebrity Confessions: Boy George

Dick Trilogy Part 3

MORE dicks in my inbox

Dicks in your inbox

Read my Sodding Profile!

Nerve Confessions: Herpes

The Queen Confesses

The Arse Man Cometh

The Ass Play Chronicles

The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection

Bangin Ass

Deformed Dicks

Did I really dream that?

Why I don't date Celebrities

Fashionably late or just a slacker

Celebrity Confession: Who is Lauren Cohan and Why Is She Hitting On Me?

amboabe — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 14:29:00 GMT

I've never slept with a celebrity. Not that it matters. The people we tend to celebrate as stars are almost always entertainers. I definitely appreciate the art of performance, and the terrific difficulty. But I don't really understand the continuing necessity of elevating these people to some quasi-celestial status. They're actors, singers, or dancers. They contribute to society in the form of entertainment, by uniting us at our lowest common denominator. They don't create, they make believe. As Ian McKellan put it on Extras, "How did I know what to say? The words were written down for me in a script. How did I know where to stand? People told me."

So then, one night last year, when I still lived in Hollywood, I was out for a drink with a friend of mine at the best bar in the world on a Sunday night. The bar was mostly empty. P and I drank Pabst tall boys and listened to the Misfits on the jukebox, arguing about some arcane cinema minutiae. After an hour, two women came in and set themselves at the far end of the bar. There was a pretty blonde who, despite all her physical symmetry, still looked like morning breath to me. The second woman was a skinny brunette in a loose silk shirt with had a hint of rodentia about her face.

Both women were pretty, but I generally don't care about pretty. I try not to think too hard about the people I hit on. Either there's something beyond my power of understanding that compels me to go deliver some stupid line, or there isn't. I appreciate prettiness but, like acting, I don't really see the long-lasting value in it. If there's no ripple in the air underneath the well arranged face then who cares.

So I went back to deconstructing Maborosi or whatever stupendously important film I was in the midst of prancing over, when the rodent lady walked over to us. "Excuse me, I've been dying to have a kind gentleman buy me a glass of champagne all night," she said. Great, the pretty woman in the empty bar is going to spend the rest of the night harvesting drinks from us. Pretty or not, I generally am disinclined to paying for conversation with strangers, even as a demonstration of good faith. If someone wants to talk with you, extracting $10 from your wallet should never serve as precursor.

P, however, is not half the chilly bastard that I can be with strange women and he immediately set about waving the bartender over so that champagnes could be discussed. After some verbal pitter-patter it came out that this woman was an actor and had been in Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj. It's rare enough that a woman hits on me in public (for a free drink or otherwise), but entirely unheard of when the woman hitting on me is a celebrity.

It's debatable whether or not the lead from Van Wilder 2 qualifies as a celebrity or not. Photos of her walking out of a Starbucks with a terrier in her purse aren't burning up TMZ, but in terms of contribution to the world, she's got to be in the same league as any of the more popular starlets clotting up our magazines. To me she's a celebrity.

P played right into her, flirting and asking her leading questions. I listened to them talk and tossed out dismissive one-liners here and there. "You know, your friends kind of an asshole," Lauren tossed off after I made a joke about actors (if Hitchcock can call them cattle, I don't seen why they can't be fodder for jokes in good company). And telling someone you were the lead actor in Van Wilder 2 is a pretty good continuation of a hustle. How many people have actually seen Van Wilder 2?

Anyway, I realized that P was giving Lauren the hard sell and I was probably hurting his chances so I decided to shut up. She had approached me initially, and directed most of her early conversation towards me, but P was going to make a go at it. So I started talking to the bartender and let P and Lauren work things out. That took about three minutes and then Lauren took her free champagne and went back to her friend. Free drink hustle confirmed.

Still skeptical about the whole thing, I looked up Van Wilder 2 as soon as I got home. There was Lauren's face, staring right back at me from the monitor. She really was an actor. A few images down the Google search I saw some naked stills someone had harvested from the movie. Reader, I have no excuse for what happened next, but I confess I masturbated to pictures of Lauren Cohan naked after having derided her in real life an hour earlier. It's strange that I wouldn't spring for a drink for her, but I would still fantasize about stripping down with her. This is part of why I don't trust beauty or celebrity.

There seems to be a Pavlovian connection between the idea of it and the need to compulsively gratify one's sexuality (at least my home-alone-on-a-Sunday-night-sexuality) in the basest way. Celebrities are wonderful cupie dolls to preoccupy our spare mental energy with, but for all the energy we reflexively spend thinking about their love lives, political causes, and career choices, they're just actors in a bar trying to hustle a free drink on a slow night.

Previous Posts:

Sex Machine: My First Muff Dive

Crying in Public: Remember the Cheerleaders

Sex Machine: Masturbating Upside Down

Date Night: Two Women in One Night

Date Machine: Kissing on the First Date

Nerve Confessions: Rate My Penis Size

Celebrity Confession: Tom Brady's Love Handles

Date Night: The Wine Bar as the End of Civilization

Crying In Public: The Sichuan Night Train

Love machine: How I Date On The Internet

Sex Machine: Zeitgeisty's Ass Bangin'

Sex Machine: Rate My Blowjobs

Crying in Public: My Cubicle

Celebrity Confessions: Amy Winehouse & Blake Fielder-Civil

airheadgenius — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 02:35:00 GMT

Sort of a Celebrity Confession, but more of a Celebrity reveals all.

Our own (err, if you're from Blighty) Amy Winehouse, that sweet National train wreck, almost got to be re-united with her husband Blake Fielder-Civil today as he was due to be released on parole from the nick. But, he chose to stay in because a condition of his parole was that he wear an electronic tag and stay at his Mum's in Nottingham with a 7pm curfew.

Not desperately Rock n Roll is it?

What's a drug taking wild boy to do, but stay in the clink. So he did. But that's not the reveal. Oh no. The best is yet to come. Apparently there's been much speculation as to why Amy stays with this loser. He's not talented. He's mean. They've been seen in fist fights. He films her off her face and leaks videos to the press. Not exactly husband of the year material.

But, his one saving grace as exposed to the UK this very morning (by way of some new full-frontal photos on Amy's facebook page and The Sun) is that Mr Fielder-Civil is hung like the proverbial brewers horse.

And a big penis can go a very long way. To maintain a relationship I mean.

I never met a small penis until I moved to America in '94. Before then, they had all been in the 6-8'' range. Since living here, I've encountered several 5" ones and that just doesn't cut it for me.

Now, I've tried to back up my empirical evidence with statistical findings, but have come up short. Hehe. According to statistics, there is a certain amount of truth to the claim that one ethnic group swings bigger than average and another ethnic group tends to dangle smaller, but even that is not across the board.

My largest one to date was of the accepted shade for big ones, but the tiniest one ever was attached to a 6'5" man who, presumably, had been born into the wrong skin. Incongruous doesn't even begin to describe it.

So, ethnicity can sometimes, but not always, be a determining factor, but nationality apparently not. At least no one has studied it. Well, except me that is. And, to substantiate my claim, the aforementioned biggest one was English born and bred.

I have a theory about circumcision and penis size. You see, I'd also never met a cut one until I graced these shores. The ones I'd toyed with prior to '94 were all blissfully intact - just the way I like them. My medical opinion is that American members are so traumatised at having their protective covering cut off that they never meet their growth potential. My findings are being published in The Lancet any day now.

So there you have it beautiful people, English men have big penii. I hear Virgin Atlantic has a special if anyone wants to book a ticket.

And thus, aptly enough, on to my daily knob:

By all accounts he's not very bright, but I wouldn't exactly want him for his conversation. The talented and packing Mr David Beckham. I hear he can bend it.

The obligatory back catalogue:

The one that got away The Chick Facial File

Mirrors Confession plus Daily Knob!

Abusive?

Celebrity Confessions: Boy George Dick Trilogy Part 3

MORE dicks in my inbox

Dicks in your inbox

Read my Sodding Profile!

Nerve Confessions: Herpes

The Queen Confesses

The Arse Man Cometh

The Ass Play Chronicles

The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection

Bangin Ass

Deformed Dicks

Did I really dream that?

Why I don't date Celebrities

Fashionably late or just a slacker

Celebrity Confession: Eva Mendes Had Sex in All 50 States

spjv840 — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 12:38:00 GMT

Apparently, it's important for us to know where and how our celebrities of the world have sex.

Thankfully, celebs are always eager to share their sex related adventures with us. In a recent promotional event at Macy's for her new line of bed sheets, Eva Mendes told those in attendance that she's had sex in all fifty states. How does one go about promoting bed sheets to sliding in this small bit of vital info? With the fine art of subtly, of course.

"These sheets are so great — I wish I’d been rolling around in them when I had sex in all 50 states," Mendes told reporters. But don't worry, all you tight pantied-folks, she didn't sleep with fifty different men to acheive this goal. She mentioned that, "A lot of it was on a road trip I took when I was younger," and that the best sex she had was in Arizona and Colorado. "Maybe it was the clear air, or the quiet, or the endless sky. Whatever it was, it was really, really good." The worst sex had was in Alaska and then went on to say that she'd like a "do-over for that state" and suggested Alaska Air sponsor a trip for her so she can get it on up north.

Maybe she can call up Mick Jagger. I'm sure the aging rockstar would happily canoodle Mendes in front of a fireplace in Alaska. IMDB.com reports that Mendes confessed to having a crush on the dino-rocker, Jagger, who, amazingly, still has tons of sex appeal for women of all ages. Mendes recently proved that she's like every other girl in the world with rockstar crushes, mentioning how she had run into Jagger in an elevator in a hotel in France and geeked out afterwards.

"I literally collapsed when he got out a floor later. He’s delicious, he still looks really good," Mendes says.

My idea? Get the two together with Alaska Air to sponsor some sort of crazy-rockstar-sexy-actress mile high club party.

(Via MetroNews

Related posts: Nerve Confessions: Single and 30
Sex Machine: Toss My Salad, Hold the Syrup
Nerve Confessions: Should I Stay or Should I Go?
Personals Drama: I'm Not Cupid
Date Machine: You're Not My Type
Sex Machine: The Butt Sex Bandit
Sex Machine: Hot Sex vs. Bad Sex
Celebrity Confession: David Duchovny is a Sex Addict

Celebrity Confession plus Airheadgenius's Daily Knob

airheadgenius — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 22:43:00 GMT

(I am on a blogging roll today in an attempt to dodge the project I am working on)

Actually, less of a celebrity confession and more of a confession about a celebrity...

I love Paul Weller!

Despite the fact that he has bad inappropriate hair. Despite the fact that he was mean to Dee C Lee. Despite the fact that he is a born again Christian. Despite the fact that he is by all first hand accounts a royal arsehole. As far as I am concerned, he is a God.

I went to see him last night. He was everything I needed him to be. And the closest I will ever get to a religious experience.

Paul Weller, you are the man. (Here endeth my confession about a celebrity)

Oh, and here's a little something extra for ya. Can't have Zeitgeisty having all the fun. Paul is my first "Daily Knob".

(Knob is English for dick, in case you've never crossed the pond)

(I ripped Daily Knob off Zeitgeisty's Daily Throb obviously. You can choose if you prefer the first or second generation product)

Don't be fooled by his slightly weasel-ish appearance.

In person, this man has bucketloads of sex appeal.

Confession plus Daily Knob! Abusive? Celebrity Confessions: Boy George Dick Trilogy Part 3 MORE dicks in my inbox Dicks in your inbox Read my Sodding Profile! Nerve Confessions: Herpes The Queen Confesses The Arse Man Cometh The Ass Play Chronicles The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection Bangin Ass Deformed Dicks Did I really dream that? Why I don't date Celebrities Fashionably late or just a slacker

Nerve Confessions: What is Abuse?

airheadgenius — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 12:49:00 GMT

I've just read a bunch of Nerve Confessions and there's a bit of a theme brewing...

What constitutes abuse?

The original confession was:

Which elicited these:

And this:

My first thought is that the original confessor sounds mildly pissed rather than devastated. "Little fucker" doesn't seem to connote super sad. To me at least.

But, there's no doubt that some people use silence as a weapon. It's passive aggressive bullshit to keep silent rather than engage in a conversation that one partner feels is necessary.

At least s/he could say something like "we've discussed this ad infinitum and I don't see any benefit of talking further on the subject" for example.

Better than sticking yer lip out and glaring fixedly at the telly.

Anyway, the floor is open: How do you feel about the silent treatment? and Is it abusive?

Oh, and just so I don't get my lip on, please be so kind as to read Celebrity Confessions

Celebrity Confessions: Boy George plus Nerve Confession: Boy Miserable

airheadgenius — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 04:34:00 GMT

It's my "Celebrity Confession" day, (err, well wednesday was and it's now thursday, Oops) but I must first confess that it's not my bag. I have a decade old TV attached to a DVD player for my children, but there's no cable and we don't even get the free channels. Once in a while, I watch online shows, but TV isn't really my thing. (Except when I am in Blighty when I overdose on it.) And I only read gossip magazines once every 6 months when I am getting my hair cut. I saw the Helen Mirren confession last week because it was in The Guardian.

Perez Hilton need not sweat in other words.

But, I do remember a confession from back in the day. When dear Boy George as he was being questioned about his sexuality and it hadn't yet become fashionable to be gay or bi, said "Sex? I'd rather have a cup of tea."

Which neatly (in my mind at least) segways into Nerve's Confession of the Day:

Is it permissible to not be out there having sex? It seems not.

We are all supposed to be dressed up (or dressed down Williamsburg wannabes) lipsticked and high heeled, if applicable, and out on the town. Flirting with boys, kissing with girls, fingers in arses, tongues in salads. Basically having a rare old raunchy time.

Back in the day, growing up in a town of 20,000 people, no one was ridiculed for not having a boyfriend or girlfriend. I guess it was an accepted fact that there were only so many people to meet in any given week and you couldn't shag all of them. An extended dry spell might raise a few guffaws, but in general it was "allowed".

But in this technological age, there's no excuse. There's Internet dating doncha know? Permanent access to new and exciting people across the globe. Even if you live in East Bumblefuck and there's only one other dater in the vicinity, there's no excuse not to be logged on and having phone sex with someone in a different state. And if you're in New York, LA or London where bodies are a plenty, then you must be some kinda desperate sad sack if you're sat home cutting your toenails.

The pressure is most definitely on.

Now I like dating - well, at least beyond the first date when you've met someone you like and the excitement is building. I like relationships. I really like to have sex. But some days I just can't be bothered. As a 40 year old woman though (actually 41, but that's a story for another day) I am comfortable with myself. If someone was to ridicule my sex life, I'd tell them to do one.

Why does this guy have to pretend to be a player? Maybe he would prefer to be having a cup of tea. Make that cawfee.

Maybe we all need to give each other a break and acknowledge that being home alone doesn't mean you are unattractive or unappealing, but rather that you are a discerning individual comfortable enough in your own skin to opt out. And if your friends tease you for your temporary celibacy and they are under 30, fuck 'em - get new friends. If your friends tease you and they're over 30, get them a few therapy sessions, cos they could surely use the help.

Would someone pass me the clippers...

Dick Trilogy Part 3 MORE dicks in my inbox Dicks in your inbox Read my Sodding Profile! Nerve Confessions: Herpes The Queen Confesses The Arse Man Cometh The Ass Play Chronicles The Sandwich Blowjob Porn Connection Bangin Ass Deformed Dicks Did I really dream that? Why I don't date Celebrities Fashionably late or just a slacker

Celebrity Confession: Tom Brady's Love Handles

amboabe — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 08:40:00 GMT

To celebrate the start of another NFL season, news broke on Sunday that Tom Brady, the man-hunk quarterback for the New England Patriots, used to have love handles. Some guy that owns a pizza place in some random Palookaville that Brady once danced through on his way to Olympus has been quoted as saying that the college-age Brady used to eat ham and cheese grinders with a fatty side of onion rings. To back the claim, a shirtless photo has surfaced of Brady from his rookie weigh-in with the slender but doughy physique of a cubicle surfer.

I imagine seeing stories like this satisfies some need for prurient gloating inside our collective cultural psyche. The man who has been leveraged as an ascendant molding of raw male ambrosia used to be that regular guy in old gym shorts nursing some cheesy fries at the end of your dorm hallway. The key to Tom Brady the sex symbol is his body; the key to Tom Brady the regular guy is the layer of fat gently covering over his physiology with the faintest hint of sloth and youthful gluttony.

That schism is disturbing to me. The sex god Tom Brady, with his hulking triceps, hairy chest, and chiseled jaw might as well be an animatronic sex doll. That's not a slur on the human being the doll was based on; I have no idea who he is (though he has at least partially consented to this presentation of himself as a glossy object of desire, based exclusively on physiology). Attractive people are nice to look at and all, but there's something pathetic about the creation of some superhuman version of a person just to stoke the interest of the Sex & The City culturatti who need a new pet name for their vibrators. (There is a male analog to that pith, but I'll leave it to you to customize your own pithy snipes)

I realize protesting about the image of Tom Brady is sort of absurd because this kind of dehumanization through sexual iconography has been the yoke born by women in the public spotlight for years, decades, centuries, millennia, and beyond. There's nothing particularly tragic about Tom Brady's ascension to swank material. But it did remind me of feet.

I hate feet in general. I can't think of anyone I know off-hand that I would say has nice feet. I have one lovely friend who has an unfortunately permanent toenail fungus and she takes great pleasure in torturing me with her feet. That's as concise a way as I have to characterize my aversion to feet: they're the part on a person's body where things inevitably fall apart and begin to decay. So it's surprised me over the last few months to notice just how much I miss my ex-girlfriend's feet. She didn't have particularly nice feet, but I sometimes find myself staring off into odd corners remembering the knobby pink bunions on her third toes. I miss them.

It's not the body that matters. It's what the body says about the person, how it comes to be an effigy to the spirit inside after you've come to know someone. In the glut of celebrity media that has come to embody our aesthetics and consumerism, we've somehow lost track of the fact that there are actually people inside of those blank celebrity automatons moving across the pages of People magazine. We punish celebrities for breaking from their idealized image. But the image is always the least interesting part of anything; a person, a place, or a moment in time. So take the time, for a moment, to enjoy the gap between rookie-Tom and the man who's become Giselle Bundchen's real life vibrator. Alas, Tom, I hardly know you, and I hardly even care.

[Source – Boston.com]

Previous Posts:

Date Night: The Wine Bar as the End of Civilization

Crying In Public: The Sichuan Night Train

Love machine: How I Date On The Internet

Celebrity Confession: In Which Kevin Spacey Bangs Ass

Sex Machine: Zeitgeisty's Ass Bangin'

Sex Machine: Rate My Blowjobs

Crying in Public: My Cubicle

Sex machine: My first kiss... a remembrance of things past - plus The Daily Throb!

zeitgeisty — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 16:26:00 GMT

I was 17 years old when I had my first kiss.

It was the summer before I headed off to college, and she was the girlfriend of my best pal. I can still remember it clear as day, we’d been swimming at the public pool in our home town, and we were both lying down on damp towels – mine was festooned with Snoopys sporting his Joe Cool persona. All that day we’d been flirting with each other, but when she leaned over to plant one on me, I was still pretty surprised.

I must admit I felt a bit guilty, but not terribly, you see, my best friend was screwing some Fillipino chick on the side anyway. So I figured he wouldn’t care much. He was charismatic and exceedingly handsome – kind of like a strange hybrid of Brad Pitt and John Denver, and I really looked up to him. She on the other hand was kind of plain and non-descript, her most discernible feature being this big floppy head of over-dyed 80s hair, accented by a long rat’s tail running down her back. I was a skinny loser with glasses – horrible brown frames picked up from the post office. In a weird way, I felt she was more ‘in my league’ anyway, so it sort of made things alright in my head.

All that summer, she and I would drive around in her VW Golf, listening to her XTC and Smiths tapes, whilst excitedly talking of our adventures ahead at college. I think that summer was the last time I ever felt truly young.

On that fateful day at the community pool, my life changed forever.

Before the kiss I idealized women all out of proportion. To me they were unattainable and remote. I honestly felt that I’d wind up living a monastic existence completely devoid of female companionship. As soon as her tongue snuck into my mouth, twisting and mingling with my own - the spell was broken.

I sometimes think about how far away it seems to me now. All the vaginas, assholes, jugs, hands, and lips I’ve slipped in and out of over the years makes it hard to realize it all started with a simple kiss at a community pool - a kiss which felt both strange and eerily familiar all at the same time.

My best friend eventually found out about it, but he didn’t care, like I said he banging that Fillipino chick and was looking for a way out of the relationship anyway.

As for ‘my first kiss’, well I actually still hear from her every now and again all these years later. She’s married now and living in DC. I think she works for Verizon or something…

She doesn’t have the rat’s tail anymore

The luscious Pam Grier...the original Foxy Brown

In case you missed it....The Zeitgeisty Chronicles archived.

Feel the paste in you face - The FACIAL file

Talk dirty to me!!

I abstain! The fear to fuck

The unvarnished TRUTH about dating on the internet.

BITE ME!!!

Pontifications on the bangin' of ass - The ANAL file

The brass ring

Celebrity Confessions: The Queen!

airheadgenius — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 22:21:00 GMT

Well, sort of the Queen, but more like Helen Mirren. An article in The Guardian a few days back explained why she gave up snorting coke. She was quoted as saying:

"And I read that in the paper, and all the cards fell into place and I saw how my little sniff of cocaine at a party had an absolute direct route to this fucking horrible man in South America. And from that day I never touched cocaine again. Until that moment I had never grasped the full horrifying structure of what brings coke to our parties in Britain."

How honorable!!! Giving up hedonistic enjoyment to spare those poor child drug runners and to stop making a horrible man even richer! What a woman. Did she simultaneously switch to fair trade coffee and start recycling? Maybe a percentage of her earnings goes to poor Indian children?

She was quoted in GQ too. There, she said that she was was locked in a room and forced to have sex "a couple of times" during her college days but did not report the incidents because "you couldn't do that in those days".

"It's such a tricky area, isn't it? Especially if there is no violence," "I mean, look at Mike Tyson. I don't think he was a rapist. I guess it is one of the many subtle parts of the men/women relationship that has to be negotiated and worked out between them."

She went on: "I was [date-raped], yes. A couple of times. "Not with excessive violence, or being hit, but rather being locked in a room and made to have sex against my will."

The actress also explained that she "loved coke" [cocaine] during her younger days but stopped after learning of the drug-dealing success of Nazi war criminal Klaus Barbie.

First of all, she was concerned about some nasty South American. Now she's got her knickers in a twist about Klaus Barbie. The two quotes were all but interchangeable though. Does she think the two are connected?? Was Klaus on his holidays or something and set up a drug cartel because he was bored of making sand castles?

(What is mind blowing is that if you google dear Klaus, the FIRST hit is Helen Mirren. Nothing to do with his Nazi war crimes, but all to do with some daft bint from England!)

But forget about the drug thing, what about the date rape thing?! Oh yes Hels, date rape is most certainly one of those little subtle nuances of behaviour between the male and the female. Oh yes indeedy. What a tool.

And let's not forget, way back when, that HM got her kit off in those Peter Greenaway movies. She claimed over and over again that she only embraced nudity in film if it was central to the theme and not in any way gratuitous.

I don't care about celebrity behaviour. It makes no difference to my life. It just irritates me when their baser instincts are elevated to celebrity status also. Like, I gave up doing drugs because it was affecting my work and I couldn't afford to get fired. She did it for the greater good.

Her ludicrous confessions are the latest in a long long line though. Remember these? "I tried marijuana once, I did not inhale." Well then, dear Bill, that was a bit of a waste of effort wasn't it?

or

"I did not have sexual relations with that woman." Again, barely worth the scandal if you're not even going to get your end away.

Why can't Mirren just fess up and say "I like getting stoned, I like getting laid and I like getting my tits out for the lads" and be done with it. And why couldn't Bill simply have said "I get stoned to cope with Hilary who happens to be a man and that's why I fucked Monica" and we would have all just said "of course you had to Bill, it would've been rude not to."

Here endeth my celebrity confession.

Celebrity Confession: In Which Kevin Spacey Bangs Ass

amboabe — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 05:19:00 GMT

Maybe. Truth be told, I have no idea. But a picture can be pretty persuasive and here is Kevin Spacey with a man in his lap, whose pants are being pulled down to expose his smooth, hairless buttocks. The picture looks like a set up. It looks like a camera man paid some drunk Croatian a couple of beers to go dive on a celebrity's lap while some conveniently-placed bystanders yank the lad's trousers down. Look at Spacey's legs; they aren't even uncrossed. Had he willfully received a strapping young Croat into his lap you'd think he would have at least uncrossed them to make a better flesh cradle for his eager nubber.

Celebrity news is a mystery to me. I don't understand what's so interesting about whether or not famous actors behave properly or have certain gender preferences for their lovers. I understand prurience. The need to leer and gawk at those in the crowd willing to plumb their own depths for entertainment, or no purpose at all. But I wonder who cares about Kevin Spacey being gay? Who cares if photos of him surface happily frolicking in a Croatian disco with some pretty young boys into the wee hours of the night?

I like to go over the news headlines that Yahoo! puts on their front page every so often. It's an exercise in cultural insanity. The schizophrenia our culture is leaving in its wake is so startling it's almost unnoticeable, numbing. Right now you can read about Hurricane Gustav being downgraded to a tropical storm, find the 20 best steaks in America, learn about strange blue clouds spotted at the edge of the earth's atmosphere, or see how children with older fathers have a higher propensity for bipolar disorder. It reminds me of Glamorama, where popular culture, news, and politics eventually devolved into a hallucinogenic fantasia of violence, pornography, and celebrity gossip. Is that Stephen Dorff?

These are the kind of vapid poofs off useless information that we collect and build psychic forts out of. TMZ, People Magazine, Newsweek, Entertainment Tonight, Oprah. It all blends so easily into a kaleidoscopic pastiche in which we're told to care about people that fill the channels of the media and to hold them to the behavioral standards of mannequins. It's just fun, though, you might say, flipping through the pages of People magazine. The things we say to each other matter, and the channels we use to share those messages are important. The culture of celebrity news is as sure a sign as any that we've lost a handle on our most basic forms of civility and are headed straight into the maw of the beast. As Ellis quotes Hitler in the epigraph of Glamorama, "You make a mistake if you see what we do as merely political." People winds up in more homes than The Economist. What does that say about us?

But so what really strikes me as curious is the pack of cigarettes in the corner of the frame. Does Kevin Spacey smoke? It makes sense that I have little real information on his sex life because that's something that happens at home (usually), or at least under some sanction of privacy. But smoking, that's something he should be doing on the red carpet or at the E! after party on Oscar night isn't it? Why have I never seen Kevin Spacey smoking before? Is he hiding something from us?

[Source: TMZ]

Celebrity Confession: David Duchovny is a Sex Addict

spjv840 — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 14:10:00 GMT

Duchovny, most known for his role as Fox Mulder on the X-Files (perhaps we'll see the XXX-Files soon?), has confessed to being a sex addict and is seeking help.

"I have voluntarily entered a facility for the treatment of sex addiction. I ask for respect and privacy for my wife and children as we deal with this situation as a family," the actor said in a statement released by his attorney.

That's what we call irony. Duchovny won a Golden Globe award for portraying a sex-obsessed womanizer on Showtime’s Californication earlier this year.

So, I'm wondering how long it will take until other men follow suit in hopes of avoiding divorces and fights with significant others, and join the "sex addict rehab club". I can see it now.

"I'm sorry, honey. You know I have a problem, but your sister has those tits and ass and the long hair and you know how I love long hair and well, I tried, I really tried to control myself, but I forgot my meds at home and well, you know I have a problem. You knew this when we got together." [Via E! Online]

Celebrity Confession: Jessica Simpson thinks she has the perfect guy

spjv840 — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 11:36:00 GMT

In a recent interview with People Magazine, Jessica Simpsons lets it all hang out (again) about her relationship with Tony Romo. This girl will never learn.

"I just told (Tony) today, 'You're the love of my life.’ I don't really ever say that to anybody."

Firstly, admitting that anyone is the love of your life is a no-no. It's not sweet or charming, it's bordering on psycho material and sounds desperate. It's always girls that are spewing this kind of line around. You never hear a guy tell their partner that they're the love of his life (well, except for Barack last night, but he doesn't count - that was almost...sweet). Guys know better.

Poor ol' Simpleson. She's just a sweet country girl at heart, isn't she? She just wants to do the right thing. Even if the right thing involves wearing horrible country-inspired clothing and even worse career decisions.

She also told People that she changed her phone number and e-mail address so ex-boyfriends and anyone in her life before BimboRomo cannot contact her. Again with the psycho material! She did this, apparently, to prove her devotion to Romo, yet Romo hasn't done the same. This doesn't bother Simpson, however, because she isn't "a jealous girlfriend". She even went so far as to say that Romo was the "perfect guy". Expect a break up in the next four months. Men don't like to hear that they're perfect unless they're saying it about themselves. It's too much pressure.

When asked about her relationship with John Mayer, she confessed: "I had to regain self-esteem and self-value". Hence, the too-small bikini choices.