Perez Hilton: Stepin Fetchit
By: Ed Gonzalez On: 12/19/2006 14:57:12 In: Gossip Comments: 382
About two months ago, we entertained the idea of running regular columns about Mario Lavandeira, alias Perez Hilton, on this site. We wanted to focus on what we see as Perez's egomania, reprehensible ethics, and genuinely disturbing personality disorder, as well as his incestuous relationship with the entertainment industry. A danger to women and the gay community, though he will tell you he is our premier gay-rights advocate, Perez has built an empire out of intimidation and manipulation, using his vulgar sense of entitlement as leverage. The fear-mongering Perez's blog disturbs us because its success would seem impossible without the people who loathe him patronizing his site on a daily basis. It also disturbs me because I used to be friends with Mario and it is our personal connection that mainly stopped me from turning this blog into a vendetta against the dangers he commits regularly on his own site. Another friend of Mario's from our NYU days, Japhy Grant, has written a piece on the "success" of Perez Hilton over at Salon, which I'm linking to here because it summarizes, with great honesty and scant rage, everything that needs to be said about Perez (and disappoints me personally about Mario), from his "non-ironic obsession" with celebrity culture to his vile Stepin Fetchit routine. I assume that Japhy no longer hangs out with Mario and, like myself, no longer gets phone calls from him looking for personal advice or business counsel about how to help further the financial possibilities of the Perez Hilton brand (with success like his, who needs friends?), so we might agree that all that needs to be said about Mario is that he has become, among many other things, the ultimate sell out.
About two months ago, we entertained the idea of running regular columns about Mario Lavandeira, alias Perez Hilton, on this site. We wanted to focus on what we see as Perez's egomania, reprehensible ethics, and genuinely disturbing personality disorder, as well as his incestuous relationship with the entertainment industry. A danger to women and the gay community, though he will tell you he is our premier gay-rights advocate, Perez has built an empire out of intimidation and manipulation, using his vulgar sense of entitlement as leverage. The fear-mongering Perez's blog disturbs us because its success would seem impossible without the people who loathe him patronizing his site on a daily basis. It also disturbs me because I used to be friends with Mario and it is our personal connection that mainly stopped me from turning this blog into a vendetta against the dangers he commits regularly on his own site. Another friend of Mario's from our NYU days, Japhy Grant, has written a piece on the "success" of Perez Hilton over at Salon, which I'm linking to here because it summarizes, with great honesty and scant rage, everything that needs to be said about Perez (and disappoints me personally about Mario), from his "non-ironic obsession" with celebrity culture to his vile Stepin Fetchit routine. I assume that Japhy no longer hangs out with Mario and, like myself, no longer gets phone calls from him looking for personal advice or business counsel about how to help further the financial possibilities of the Perez Hilton brand (with success like his, who needs friends?), so we might agree that all that needs to be said about Mario is that he has become, among many other things, the ultimate sell out.
Attack of the Duffs
By: Ed Gonzalez On: 04/10/2005 01:29:35 In: Gossip Comments: 0
So I was on my way to see It's All Gone Pete Tong, a film about DJ Frankie Wilde and how he lost his hearing after listening to too much loud music, at the Broadway Screening Room in New York City when the seventh gate of hell opened. According to someone in the film, hearing loss is an "occupational hazard" for a DJ. For a critic, the equivalent may be bumping into someone like Rex Reed or Bill O'Reilly on your way to a screening. Waiting for the elevator I heard Joy Behar's voice. I looked up and saw her walking out of the building with a small group of people. No biggie: I see and hear (emphasis on "hear") Joy at screenings all the time. For whatever reason, though, the elevator was taking entirely too long to reach the first floor and I was struck by the unusually red glowing dots possibly denoting which level of purgatory the elevators were on. When the doors to the leftmost elevator finally opened, it was like the season finale of HBO's Carnivale all over again. Was it Joy that I had seen or some servant of the hell beast? Out of the elevator came Susan Duff looking a little confused, followed by daughter Haylie, who walked passed me to the right, ostensibly looking for the exit. "This way Haylie!" someone shrieked. The guy next to me froze—in ecstasy or in fright, I don't know—whereas I wanted to cover my ears at the sound of the wild shriek. I looked to the left and there she was: My arch nemesis, Hilary Duff. Next to me she looked as if she were three feet tall, but make no mistake, this creature towered above us all as she summoned her sister to her side. Surrounded by Duffs, I didn't know what to do. Hilary looked at me as Haylie came charging toward my right. I prepared for whatever epic battle had been preordained in Slant Magazine's film and music reviews over the years, but I realized there was no way she could have known who I was. Or did she? I may have been spared at the moment, but Hilary's eyes suggested something more was about to happen. I piled into the elevator with two other guys, but instead of going up, the elevator went down. Had Hilary pressed the button for the basement? Was there something waiting for us down there? "I can't believe I just saw Hilary Duff," said the guy next to me. I responded, "You should be lucky that you're still alive." But as I was sitting in the screening room waiting for It's All Gone Pete Tong to begin, I couldn't help wondering which Hilary Duff movie (Foodfight! perhaps?) had just been playing in this screening room only moments before. More importantly, had Hilary Duff's butt warmed my seat before I got there? We may never know.
So I was on my way to see It's All Gone Pete Tong, a film about DJ Frankie Wilde and how he lost his hearing after listening to too much loud music, at the Broadway Screening Room in New York City when the seventh gate of hell opened. According to someone in the film, hearing loss is an "occupational hazard" for a DJ. For a critic, the equivalent may be bumping into someone like Rex Reed or Bill O'Reilly on your way to a screening. Waiting for the elevator I heard Joy Behar's voice. I looked up and saw her walking out of the building with a small group of people. No biggie: I see and hear (emphasis on "hear") Joy at screenings all the time. For whatever reason, though, the elevator was taking entirely too long to reach the first floor and I was struck by the unusually red glowing dots possibly denoting which level of purgatory the elevators were on. When the doors to the leftmost elevator finally opened, it was like the season finale of HBO's Carnivale all over again. Was it Joy that I had seen or some servant of the hell beast? Out of the elevator came Susan Duff looking a little confused, followed by daughter Haylie, who walked passed me to the right, ostensibly looking for the exit. "This way Haylie!" someone shrieked. The guy next to me froze—in ecstasy or in fright, I don't know—whereas I wanted to cover my ears at the sound of the wild shriek. I looked to the left and there she was: My arch nemesis, Hilary Duff. Next to me she looked as if she were three feet tall, but make no mistake, this creature towered above us all as she summoned her sister to her side. Surrounded by Duffs, I didn't know what to do. Hilary looked at me as Haylie came charging toward my right. I prepared for whatever epic battle had been preordained in Slant Magazine's film and music reviews over the years, but I realized there was no way she could have known who I was. Or did she? I may have been spared at the moment, but Hilary's eyes suggested something more was about to happen. I piled into the elevator with two other guys, but instead of going up, the elevator went down. Had Hilary pressed the button for the basement? Was there something waiting for us down there? "I can't believe I just saw Hilary Duff," said the guy next to me. I responded, "You should be lucky that you're still alive." But as I was sitting in the screening room waiting for It's All Gone Pete Tong to begin, I couldn't help wondering which Hilary Duff movie (Foodfight! perhaps?) had just been playing in this screening room only moments before. More importantly, had Hilary Duff's butt warmed my seat before I got there? We may never know.
Michael Jackson's Jesus Juice
By: Ed Gonzalez On: 02/18/2005 01:30:02 In: Gossip Comments: 234
Whatever hope I had that years of parental abuse and media scrutiny hadn't quite turned Michael Jackson into a monster may have been shattered today after reading the 112-page testimony given by "John Doe" to a Grand Jury on March 30th of last year (posted on the Smoking Gun website). Seriously, people, if John Doe is lying about Jackson pumping him full of liquor and whacking him off on several different occasions then I wouldn't be surprised if he's a half-Mexican relative of Dakota Fanning. After popping in the second disc of Danny Howells's Global Underground Nubreed CD (trust me, the techno throb makes the testimony go down better) and pouring myself a glass (or three) of "Jesus Juice," I took the liberty of cataloging the "greatest" moments for anyone who'd rather skim through the thing:
1. Page 20. After Jackson gives John Doe a Mac and the singer's former employee Frank Tyson helps the boy establish an Internet connection, the trio surfs through different sites on the Web featuring naked women (just women…and all ranging "17 to like 25 years old"). Prince Michael Jackson and Paris Jackson were nestled all snug in their father's bed when Jackson walks over to them and allegedly whispers to his son, "Prince, you're missing the P-U-S-S-Y." It is at this point that John Doe clarifies that Jackson didn't actually spell out the word pussy.
2. Page 24. John Doe is asked by Tom Sneddon, the man targeting Jackson and who is the subject of the singer's 1995 song "D.S.," to list all the "entertainers" he requested to meet because he had cancer. "Like Jim Carrey, Adam Sandler, Jennifer Lopez," replies John Doe, to which Sneddon replies, "Well, she's not a comedian." (There is no indication from the transcript that a rimshot was heard in the courtroom following Sneddon's statement.)
3. The cast of ghouls in this sordid tale includes people with names like Ronald, Dieter, Jesus, Azja, and Hamid. It's like Rainer Werner Fassbinder's The Passion of the Christ.
4. Page 55. Asked by Sneddon if he should have been drinking, John Doe replies, "Well, it wasn't really a good idea for me drinking because I only had one kidney. And so it harms my kidney for I drink that stuff. But he would just say, ‘It's okay.' And he would just keep on telling me to drink." This is the part of the testimony where—had I been one of the grand jurors—I would have nudged my fellow juror and said, "Ouch…that's gotta hurt."
5. Page 61. John Doe is told to drink wine by Jackson. "He told me Jesus did it so it was okay," alleges John Doe.
6. Page 92. It seems like Sneddon is feigning not being able to hear John Doe's answers just so he can get the kid to repeat "doo-doo head" into the microphone over and over again.
7. NEWSFLASH: Despite reports to the contrary, the term "doo-doo head" was not coined by Michael Jackson but created by the pop singer with former playmate Macaulay Culkin.
8. Page 97. Sneddon says, "Okay. John, I—I don't want to cause utter laughter throughout the room here, so I'm not going to say that I'm going to ask you one last question, but do you remember the computer Mr. Jackson gave you?" I don't know what's creepier: The idea of Michael Jackson having possibly jerked off a 13-year-old boy while touching himself or Sneddon repeatedly using his witch hunt as a launching pad for his career in comedy.
9. Page 99. Michael Jackson has sex with a mannequin.
10. Pages 109-110. After Michael Jackson's interview with Martin Bashir, John Doe pisses into the largest urine container on the face of the earth.
Whatever hope I had that years of parental abuse and media scrutiny hadn't quite turned Michael Jackson into a monster may have been shattered today after reading the 112-page testimony given by "John Doe" to a Grand Jury on March 30th of last year (posted on the Smoking Gun website). Seriously, people, if John Doe is lying about Jackson pumping him full of liquor and whacking him off on several different occasions then I wouldn't be surprised if he's a half-Mexican relative of Dakota Fanning. After popping in the second disc of Danny Howells's Global Underground Nubreed CD (trust me, the techno throb makes the testimony go down better) and pouring myself a glass (or three) of "Jesus Juice," I took the liberty of cataloging the "greatest" moments for anyone who'd rather skim through the thing:
1. Page 20. After Jackson gives John Doe a Mac and the singer's former employee Frank Tyson helps the boy establish an Internet connection, the trio surfs through different sites on the Web featuring naked women (just women…and all ranging "17 to like 25 years old"). Prince Michael Jackson and Paris Jackson were nestled all snug in their father's bed when Jackson walks over to them and allegedly whispers to his son, "Prince, you're missing the P-U-S-S-Y." It is at this point that John Doe clarifies that Jackson didn't actually spell out the word pussy.
2. Page 24. John Doe is asked by Tom Sneddon, the man targeting Jackson and who is the subject of the singer's 1995 song "D.S.," to list all the "entertainers" he requested to meet because he had cancer. "Like Jim Carrey, Adam Sandler, Jennifer Lopez," replies John Doe, to which Sneddon replies, "Well, she's not a comedian." (There is no indication from the transcript that a rimshot was heard in the courtroom following Sneddon's statement.)
3. The cast of ghouls in this sordid tale includes people with names like Ronald, Dieter, Jesus, Azja, and Hamid. It's like Rainer Werner Fassbinder's The Passion of the Christ.
4. Page 55. Asked by Sneddon if he should have been drinking, John Doe replies, "Well, it wasn't really a good idea for me drinking because I only had one kidney. And so it harms my kidney for I drink that stuff. But he would just say, ‘It's okay.' And he would just keep on telling me to drink." This is the part of the testimony where—had I been one of the grand jurors—I would have nudged my fellow juror and said, "Ouch…that's gotta hurt."
5. Page 61. John Doe is told to drink wine by Jackson. "He told me Jesus did it so it was okay," alleges John Doe.
6. Page 92. It seems like Sneddon is feigning not being able to hear John Doe's answers just so he can get the kid to repeat "doo-doo head" into the microphone over and over again.
7. NEWSFLASH: Despite reports to the contrary, the term "doo-doo head" was not coined by Michael Jackson but created by the pop singer with former playmate Macaulay Culkin.
8. Page 97. Sneddon says, "Okay. John, I—I don't want to cause utter laughter throughout the room here, so I'm not going to say that I'm going to ask you one last question, but do you remember the computer Mr. Jackson gave you?" I don't know what's creepier: The idea of Michael Jackson having possibly jerked off a 13-year-old boy while touching himself or Sneddon repeatedly using his witch hunt as a launching pad for his career in comedy.
9. Page 99. Michael Jackson has sex with a mannequin.
10. Pages 109-110. After Michael Jackson's interview with Martin Bashir, John Doe pisses into the largest urine container on the face of the earth.
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