L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

Pimpin' ain't easy, Dawg

Don’t you just hate it when you finally make your millions and you’re all set to settle down with a gorgeous gold digger but you simply haven’t got the time (or personality) to go out there and snag one for yourself?

Have no fear! For a hefty fee, you can hire Bravo’s latest reality star, Patti Stanger (and her bodacious and completely real ta-tas), otherwise known as the Millionaire Matchmaker. What does she do for that fee? Verbally abuses a bunch of rich douchebags who typically have nothing else going for them beyond the fact that they have a million+ in their bank accounts, finds out what they’re looking for, and then berates them for their tastes.

She then gathers together a bunch of girls looking to bag themselves a rich douchebag, tosses out any girl who fails to pass her physical appraisal (but not before berating them for being too fat, too frumpy, too tacky, too manly, too matronly, too stupid, too whatever it is that she can find wrong with them), keeps the ones who look “exotic” or “classy” (which are apparently Stanger’s code word for “silicone tits” or “Botox Barbie”), and verbally abuses them as well as a means of coaching them in how they need to look and dress if they want to snag the millionaire in question (because who cares what you’re like on the inside?).

Then Stanger and her staff hold a little soiree in which the millionaire gets to mingle with Stanger’s herd of call girls, picks a couple they find the most aesthetically schwinging, does “mini dates,” and then narrows the choice down to one. The rich douchebag then gets verbally abused by Stanger some more before taking their choice on the “big date” to find out if it’s really a match made in heaven Beverly Hills.

What this show should really be called is I Pimp for Rich Douchebags.

Could you imagine the uproar that this show would have caused if, instead of Stanger, the Millionaire Matchmaker was a guy? Yet, because it’s a woman doing the pimping, that somehow makes it better? I don’t know. I don’t really feel all that much better or particularly empowered watching a woman berate other women because of how they look as she selects millionaire-grade breeding stock. Should I? Should I be rooting for these women, hoping that they can bag the millionaire and secure a life of luxury (or at least secure a few awesome dates in which they fly off in his personal jet for a picnic in Maui)? Is this the ultimate victory of all that bra burning and marching done by our predecessors in the fight for women’s rights? The right to unabashedly pimp your own for a massive fee?

True, sometimes the millionaires are women. But they are few and far between. And it doesn’t really make me feel any better knowing that there are just as many men as there are women who will gladly line up for Stanger’s pimp call. This isn’t the equality I was hoping to see in my lifetime.

This show actually makes me root for the recession, if only to diminish the number of people who can join Stanger’s “Millionaire Club”…which, in turn, would diminish her clientele and get her off the television that much faster.

…but sometimes it’s simply bad.

What am I babbling on about this time? Well, have you ever set out to watch a movie because you know it’s going to be 100-percent undeniably awful? Sometimes these are the best movies in the world. They’re so horrifying that they somehow transcend their awfulness and become something wonderful, something to be treasured far above rubies. Or rubes. Whichever is your pleasure.

I sought out such a movie last night. I remembered all the hype and bashing of it when it hit the theaters. I knew there was no way in Sto-Vo-Kor that I was going to pay to see it then, but I logged it in my mental vault of things to watch out for on cable.

And then…there it was in the OnDemand Free Movies section: I Know Who Killed Me.

Oh. My. God.

I’m beginning to think that I have deeply ingrained sadomasochistic tendencies that choose to surface in my entertainment choices, because this movie should be listed as a viable torture option for Gitmo detainees.

Yes, before you ask, this is that “big girl” movie that Lindsay Lohan made 2 years ago, as a means of defining herself as being more than the little girl who used to star in all those Disney movies. Seems that somewhere along the line, someone in Lindsay’s confidence convinced her that undulating around a stripper pole somehow equaled gravitas and maturity on screen. From what I’ve read about Miley Cyrus’s latest performance at the Teen Choice Awards, this same person is now in Miley’s confidence. Billy Ray, you have been warned.

This movie is atrocious, and most definitely not in any sort of transcendent way. I’m amazed that any recognizable name would sign on to what should have been a direct-to-DVD flick starring the actress who played “Goth Girl in Crowd” in one of a slew of teen parody flicks that recently clogged Hollywood…or something like that.

What made it impossible for me to laugh at it is the fact that, beyond having severe torture porn moments, this seemed to be the line of delineation for when Lindsay Lohan wandered into the woods of her own very public personal meltdown. Actually, though, I think the meltdown had already begun, because the release of this movie seemed to be almost secondary to all the craziness that was going on IRL.

I can’t help but draw a comparison between Lindsay Lohan and another actress who started out as a Disney girl: Jodie Foster. The comparison is made even stronger by the fact that both played the precocious teenager in their respective versions of Disney’s Freaky Friday.

The same year that Jodie Foster made Freaky Friday, she also did a little movie called Taxi Driver. One could argue that this was the equivalent at the time of Lindsay’s role in I Know Who Killed Me. Only with a much better…everything. Jodie Foster was 12 years old when she played Iris, the runaway prostitute. I’ve heard Foster discuss how she had to meet with a psychiatrist to make sure that she was well-adjusted enough to play the role of Iris.

That might sound silly to us now, but think about the significance of that: Here were people involved in filmmaking who were concerned with how such a role would affect Foster’s well-being. And from what I’ve read of the role Foster’s mother played early in her career, Foster had no dearth of people around her, protecting her and making sure that she made right choices while still retaining as much of her privacy (and, subsequently, dignity) as she could. Looking at Foster now, you kind of have to agree that she grew up pretty well for someone who has spent practically her entire life in front of a camera.

Do you think there were any such people on the set of I Know Who Killed Me, looking out for Lohan’s well-being? No, Lohan wasn’t 12 when she was sliding down a pole in her stripper garb…but I kind of get the feeling that even when she was 12, there were more people in her life trying to figure out how to make a buck off her than there were people trying to help her realize that while there might not be such a thing as “bad” publicity in this celebreality we live in, there are such things as bad decisions that can have as damaging an effect on you as all those horrible chemicals in your Oompa Loompa spray-on tan.

I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say with this post. All I do know is that I’m so tired of watching celebrities self-destruct in the media. And I can’t help but notice that it’s mostly young women doing the destructing. I’m also tired of how we’ve become a culture addicted to lapping up the viscera of these meltdowns like kittens bogarting the milk bowl. I don’t understand how people can make a living highlighting (exacerbating?) other people’s flaws and stumbles. With all this instant global connectivity, shouldn’t we be striving to build each other up, to support each other, to find common grounds and ways to work and live together? Or is that simply too namby-pamby for what seems like a large swathe of the population who finds comfort in the celebration of famous people schadenfreude?

Wow. I’ve gone way down the rabbit hole on a post about I Know Who Killed Me. Let’s reel it back in, shall we?

One final thing. Lindsay, sweetie, I say this with all sincerity: I would love to see you succeed. I remember seeing your cute little Disney movies and thinking that you had something special that could be turned into something great. I wish that you had more people in your confidence who felt the same and said similar things to you. I wish there were more people in this world rooting for you to succeed as opposed to angling for how to make a buck off you when you stumble and fall.

Fall, not fail. I don’t think you’ve failed. You’ve just strayed away from the path that’s going to lead you out of your woods, that’s all. I hope you find your way back on track soon.

Know what makes me tired? How so many recent events have proven that we are a society trapped in a downward spiral of uncontrolled rudeness and stupidity. What am I talking about? Why, what everyone else is talking about, of course: Joe, Kanye, and Serena, oh my!

We start out with Rep. Joe Wilson’s outburst during Obama’s address to Congress. It was disrespectful, yes. Then again, so were the Democrats who booed George W. Bush during his State of the Union address in, I believe, 2005. Wilson, however, is also being labeled racist. (Those booing Democrats, in case you’re wondering, were never labeled moronists.)

I’ve gone over this one before, but apparently I’m screaming into the wind yet again. Now even former presidents are getting in on the racism tagging. To Obama’s credit, he refuses to take this tired, stale bait. Perhaps because he realizes that this is simply another smokescreen to detract our attention away from an honest debate about important issues. Kind of on the same level as death panels and tea baggers (yes, please giggle if you must at that one).

That’s what Republicans are guilty of at this juncture: not being blatantly racist. No, their specialty is fearmongering as a smokescreen to deflect attention from real issues. How do you think they convinced half the country to re-elect Dubya even though he didn’t have enough qualifications to be elected school crossing guard? Fear. “If you don’t vote for George W. Bush, the gay terrorists will invade and turn all your children into gym teachers and nancy boys! And they’ll do a FABULOUS job of it!”

Same difference now. “Obama’s health plan will mean Great Aunt Myrtle will have to be put to sleep because she’s too old! Obama’s going to personally euthanize her! Then he’s going to turn her into Soylent Green and serve her to the unemployed!”

Okay, that last part was a bit over the top…but so are the death panels. What purpose does this kind of panic serve beyond the obvious of detracting from intelligent discourse? Yeah, like we’re capable of such a thing in this country.

Actually, though, I’m derailing myself. I’m not here to talk more about the universal health care issue or all the other political piffle that’s been irritating me. It’s too early in the day to get my blood pressure that high. No, because now we move from Joe Wilson to Kanye West. I don’t want to say much about him, because he’s really not worth a lot of commentary. I’m simply acknowledging that he was a big douchewanger…yet again. But then there’s Serena Williams threatening to cram a “fucking ball” down someone’s “fucking throat.”

All righty then. Women, we still don’t make the same pay for doing the same work as a guy, but we’re now able to throw tantrums in the sports world, like the big boys do! Just like Mary Tyler Moore, looks like we’ve made it after all!

Now, of course, all three of these hotheads have apologized. It took Serena a little longer, but she finally came around (after much pushing from her agent and others within her financial inner circle, I’m sure; we mustn’t tarnish ourselves too much or the money won’t keep rolling in). And now all will be forgiven (well, at least for Kanye and Serena; Joe’s going to keep getting dragged through the racist ringer a bit longer).

But why should we accept their apologies? Better yet, why should we tolerate this kind of behavior at all? Why shouldn’t Joe Wilson be censured? Hell, why weren’t the booing Jackasses..er, Democrats from 2005 censured? It’s the State of the Union, not a pep rally! Why shouldn’t Serena Williams be told she’s out the rest of the tennis season? Yeah, she was fined. $10,000. Wow. That’s pretty much the equivalent of fining one of us mere mortals a dime.

(Why am I not trying to punish Kanye? I think he’s punishment enough, both to himself and to anyone who listens to his music.)

Why am I bothering to rant about this, as if what I say here is going to make any difference? Will Serena read this and realize the error of her ways? Will Kanye tweet me his apology for being a wanker yet again on national television? Will Joe Wilson care that a Democrat outside his jurisdiction is commenting on him? Why should he? He’s raised more than a million dollars thanks to his outburst. And Kanye got me to talk about him (because Lord knows I sure wasn’t talking about his music). And Serena? Hell, she earned $350,000 just for getting to that match where she had her little meltdown. She’s a winner no matter what the score, if you ask me.

Which, of course, no one did. But I shared anyway, because that’s the kind of wolf I am. Now it’s back to work. I promise I won’t try to shove my mouse down anyone’s throat, although if you’d like to pay me $350,000, I’ll see what I can do. I do have that infamous red-haired temper working in my favor…

Never fear! My crotch flare and ripped physique will protect us from ghosts!

It’s been a while since I visited this particular topic…and since this is only the second entry and it’s about another Travel Channel show, it must seem like I’m focusing all my ire on one of the few channels that I still watch with any frequency. Don’t worry. There’s enough anger within this wolf’s warp core to break the Travel Channel barrier soon enough.

Right now, though, this is the show in my line of fire. First, let me point out that I love scary things. Scary books, scary movies, scary music, scary coworkers…love it all (well, maybe not the coworker part). I always have. Even before I was assimilated into the Star Trek Collective, I was a horror hound.

Additionally, within recent years I have become addicted to many of the “reality” ghost shows out there, starting with another Travel Channel offering, the British BS of Most Haunted, right down through Ghost Hunters, Paranormal State, The Scariest Places on Earth…hell, my obsession probably started with the scary episodes of Unsolved Mysteries. I know that most, if not all, of what is seen on these shows is either faked or edited to be more than what it really was, but I still find them fascinating.

As for what I believe in regard to the paranormal, supernatural, otherworldly, or whatever…I’m not really sure. I’ve experienced things that, I’m sure if I thought about them long enough, I could come up with a logical explanation for them. But would that be me just trying to rationalize something that really was irrational? Or me getting a grip on reality rather than letting myself be swept away by the fantastical? I’m not really sure.

I do know this, though: If the afterlife is real and I was somehow stuck in that netherworld and forced to walk this earth as a spirit, the last thing I would want is to have my sanctuary disturbed by these douchewangers from Ghost Adventures.

These three are the most insipid, ridiculous, posturing assclowns ever to enter the paranormal reality show genre (and that’s a huge feat since they share this genre with the likes of Derek Acorah). I suspected as much when I heard them being marketed as “Extreme Paranormal Investigators.” The word “extreme” makes me want to vomit. Why does everything for my generation have to be “extreme”? No, I’m sorry… EXTREME!!!!1!!1!!!

Whatever. I’ve actually watched several episodes of Ghost Adventures. Yes, I secretly am masochistic. The premise itself is quite intriguing: Three investigators are locked inside a location that is presumed to be haunted, with no camera crew, no additional staff, no nothing. Just them, their equipment, and the possibility of paranormal activity that they must find before sunrise. What could have been an amazing premise in the hands of actors able to inspire a sense of competency and intelligence is instead a clusterfuck of testosterone-induced strutting and screaming strung together by the ever-present bleat of curse words being censored out. It’s boring. It’s tedious. It’s predictable. It sucks.

Final analysis: If you like paranormal things like I do but have no patience for predictable Gen-X drivel, definitely skip Ghost Adventures. The Mystery Inc. gang is more professional in their ghost hunting than these piles of smegma. Check out A&E’s Paranormal State or Syfy’s Ghost Hunters and Ghost Hunters International. Sure, they’ve all been edited down to meet viewer expectations, but at least these shows offer something a bit more intelligent than “Holy shit! Oh my god! I am fucking out of here, dude!”

Indeed.

Opening line from this article that has set me on my latest rant:

Virginia drivers will face new restrictions today, when hundreds of laws take effect, including a ban on sending or reading text messages and e-mails.

This is why I hate people. Not cell phones. People. Stupid people who think it’s a good idea to compose an e-mail while roaring down the road at 80+, more often than not in some ginormous vehicle that could house the entire Lilliputian population in just the glove compartment.

Several times now I’ve nearly been unwillingly shuffled out of my mortal coil by these offenses to common sense…these mutated beings with cell phone-shaped tumors that connect one hand to the side of their head and cause the other to flail around emphatically. This, of course, means that—unless they are spectacularly well-endowed—they’re not really steering their land boats.

I would surmise that the latter is true for two reasons: 1) scientific reports have proven there is indeed an inverse relationship between genitalia size and automobile size; and 2) if they were actually steering with something, they wouldn’t be drifting into my lane like the roadkill nutsack that they are.

Anyway. Seriously, this should have been a “der” moment, not something that needed to be legally restricted. If you’re behind the wheel of a car, you really don’t need to be tapping away on a keyboard. Which brings me to my solution: Every cell phone needs to come with a tamper-proof speed-sensitive lock. If the sensor detects movement above a normal walking pace, it deactivates phone, text, and Internet features. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Is this fair to those who can multi-task? First off, most people who believe they can multi-task are just people with severe ADD who start several different things at once and never finish any of them…most often because in the end they’re distracted by texting with their BFF. People who actually can multi-task understand that it’s not for every situation. Top of the list of inappropriate places should be behind the wheel of a freakin’ car.

Is this fair to non-drivers in a car? No. But we obviously are too childish in our intellectual development to understand that just because the passenger can e-mail while you’re driving, that doesn’t mean that you should be able to do the same. So, just like bedraggled parents who are sick and tired of dealing with whiny children, we’re going to have to go with the “If one of you can’t play nicely, then none of you can play” response.

I figure it’s either this or allowing Darwinian survival of the fittest take over. And while I’m all for tidying up the gene pool a bit, I’d rather not find myself in future Russian roulette situations in which I’m staring down the gold-plated trim of a Cadillac Escalade being driven by Blabby McDumbass.

You make me sick. Your entire havoc-inducing, thieving, whoring generation disgusts me.

Thank you, Principal Himbry, for that rousing diatribe against my beloved Generation X. Yes, this is my generation. And, no, I don’t think we’re an entirely bad generation. In fact, we’ve done some pretty cool things during our time on this planet.

But I come not to praise Gen-X, but to bury it…in my personal seething frustration. And I’m dragging you all down with me. What’s got me all in a frothy lather now? The Travel Channel’s show Man v. Food.

Hey, you've got a little something on your...oh, never mind.

The “Man” in question is Adam Richman. His modus operandi is to travel to different regions of the country, highlighting their culinary delights and downfalls as he goes. Then he accepts whatever ridiculously indulgent “food challenge” that said region has to offer. Past challenges have included attempting to consume in one (sometimes timed) sitting:

• One 72-ounce steak.
• One 7-1/2-pound hamburger.
• Five 24-ounce milkshakes.
• One 7-pound breakfast burrito.
• One meter-long bratwurst.

Now I’m not ever going to be mistaken for a highly religious wolf…but I do believe that gluttony is a sin. Especially when all around the world there are people starving to death who would be happy with a sliver of the food that Richman gorges on during each show. Hell, there are people right in our own freedom fry-loving U.S. of A. who are starving (oh, but don’t even get me on the topic of these waify little glamor girl tumbleweeds starving themselves on purpose and looking so frail that you just want to scream at them to eat a freakin’ pie, but you’re afraid the impact of the scream would snap them in two). Meanwhile, Mr. Richman is paid to regularly glut himself to the point of vomiting.

This show disgusts me in ways that I didn’t think were possible anymore. We’re so fat in this country that they have to make special extra-wide coffins for us. Do we really need shows like this? And is this the only way we can remain competitive with the rest of the world? Yeah, you might be home to more Nobel Prize winners, world-renowned scientists, and brainiac children, but we’ve got this dude who can eat a plateful of food that weighs more than a baby seal! USA! USA!

Give me a break. And people are defending this show, saying things like it’s our right as Americans to eat this way. Yes, for those of you unfamiliar with our Constitution, nestled between our right to trial by jury in civil cases and our right not to be cruelly or unusually punished is clearly stated our right to be obnoxious, fat nationalists. In your face, Queen Lizzy!

Sigh. Will this become another regular feature here at the lair: a semi-regular evisceration of all the things that bring down the overall cool factor of being a member of Gen-X? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve just been in a particularly snarky mood the past couple of days, for no particular reason. And this post has been stewing for a few days. Feels good to finally get it out of my system. See? Blog of Dorian Gray, Redux!

During my commute this morning, I heard about a report released by The Education Trust that states that, if current trends continue, one in four students currently in high school here in the States will drop out before graduating.

So much for No Child Left Behind.

Even more disturbing was the very next report, which announced that state budgets around the country are in such dire trouble that tuition rates for many public colleges and universities are slated to skyrocket. Some states are even considering mid-semester tuition hikes to cover their shortfalls.

Begs the question then: Why is it so important for high school students to actually graduate when they will more than likely not be able to afford a college degree, which in today’s society has become what a high school diploma was to my parents’ generation?

Sorry, but I am particularly surly when it comes to this topic. I find it abhorrent that we are such a global failure when it comes to educating our children. And the failure is so multi-tiered that it’s going to take a lot of work for us to ever come close to improving things.

First, teachers are horrifically underpaid, under-appreciated, and in some places, under-protected. I had a friend who left her contractor job to become a teacher at a school here in D.C. She left after less than a year because she had a breakdown after being subjected to verbal and physical abuse from her students. Oh, did I mention that her students were 6 years old?

That leads to number two: Parents are severely failing when it comes to raising children who understand that you don’t bite and spit at your teacher. Or attack them with a baseball bat, which is what a high school student here in Maryland did a few years ago.

It doesn’t take long for qualified teachers to realize that they are in for a world of abuse for a pitiful paycheck. So schools are very often left scrambling to find people with bare minimum qualifications (Are you a warm body? You’re hired!) to teach students filled with such utter apathy and contempt as to be uncontrollable. They also wield undeserved power over teachers. Many teachers are terrified of taking any kind of punitive action toward unruly students out of fear that they will be accused of some horrible misdeed. I’ve known teachers who refused to speak with a student in private without either having another teacher present as a witness or leaving the door to the classroom wide open.

Next there is the still unchanged truth that school is “danger and disease wrapped in darkness and silence.” Okay, so maybe that’s space according to Dr. McCoy, but I think it can be applied to many schools. Ten years after Columbine and I question what, if anything we have learned from the actions of those two shooters. True, school officials now take threats more seriously, but have they also taken seriously the scarring effects that perpetual bullying can have on the psyche and the soul? Especially on kids who obviously have very little parental supervision and interaction. I mean, come on, these two boys were stockpiling Terminator amounts of guns and ammo, trying to build bombs in their rooms…and their parents were completely clueless.

(I’ve said much more in my last blog about Columbine, and I will be posting a link to that blog very soon. I promise.)

So you’ve got terrified and sometimes under-qualified teachers dealing with unruly students who often lack any form of structure or discipline from their parents, interacting in an often bully-infested school culture. Is it any wonder students are dropping out at an alarming rate?

Of course, this is not the environment at all schools. But it is a recipe for disaster that I think is playing out in way too many cities throughout this country and that cannot be ignored any longer. Improved testing is not going to solve this problem. Government intervention isn’t going to solve it either (unless the Obama administration has some clever trick up their sleeve that is going to retrain parents in how to raise even moderately behaved children).

I truly believe that the change does need to start in the home. Parents need to become more involved in their children’s lives. Ask them about their day, teach them not to disrespect others, join them while watching television or playing a game, engage them in conversation. And if you just can’t be bothered with all that, then don’t have any kids. If you raise them correctly from the very beginning, 9 times out of 10, I’m willing to bet they’ll be a far better little person for it.

And then you send them off to school, where they don’t abuse their teachers or their peers. And then, just maybe, teachers will stop being afraid and will start returning to the schools. You know what, though? Start paying them better! Screw the millions thrown at athletes. If these undeserving demigods are really playing the sport because of their love of the game, switch their annual income down to match the median income of the state for which their team plays. We’ll see just how deep that “love” really runs. And send that extra money into the communities where it will actually do some good, including keeping college tuitions down low enough so that everyone can afford the opportunity to a higher education, not just the rich.

I know, I know – I’m dreaming on all these fronts. I just find it so freaking frustrating every time I hear statistics like I did this morning. We should be doing better by our country’s children than this. We need to do better. But what do we do? And is it too late for the current generations? Or has the damage already been done?

I’m sure we’ve all heard this rather famous quote about gossip before: “If you haven’t got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.” It’s attributed to Alice Roosevelt Longworth, oldest daughter of Theodore Roosevelt (just in case you were wondering). Probably the most familiar-to-my-generation utterance of this quote comes from Clairee Belcher (Olympia Dukakis) to Truvy Jones (Dolly Parton) in Steel Magnolias. Yeah, I referenced Steel Magnolias. It can’t all be Nietzsche and Shakespeare.

I daresay everyone gossips to some extent, whether it be the vapid vitriol of those Orange County housewives or water cooler banter about a coworker’s proclivities (I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m on the gossipee end of this lollipop stick more often than the gossiper end). I think it’s just one of those ugly genetic glitches we have programmed into our DNA.

Then there are those who make a living peddling the dirty little secrets of celebrities. We all know the gossipy trash tabloids to which I’m referring. They line the aisle in almost every supermarket in the country, screaming their headlines in bold primary colors that are always accompanied by the absolute worst photographs imaginable of that week’s celebrity targets. The one positive aspect of Princess Diana’s tragic death is the fact that, for at least 3 months here in the DC area, several supermarkets removed these overpriced pieces of bung fodder from the main aisles and hid them back in the magazine section. It was a short-lived but well appreciated respite.

I try to avoid making eye contact with these rags, because all they do is enrage me with the thought that there are enough people out there buying this shit that they remain a viable industry. Long-respected newspapers are being forced to shut down or go completely electronic, but the fucking Enquirer plugs on. I failed yesterday in averting my gaze and ended up with an eyeful of a sickness-emaciated Patrick Swayze.

I get that many of us believe that, because someone has chosen a career in the entertainment industry, they have chosen to expose themselves to the constant glare of public curiosity regarding every detail of their existence. I will even confess to spending what many might consider to be an unhealthy amount of time learning as much about my favorite entertainers as is readily available. But a line must be drawn somewhere, and I think a perfect place to start is at allowing an entertainer to deal with serious medical problems in peace and privacy. Mr. Swayze is seriously ill with a form of cancer that is brutal, unforgiving, and most always unstoppable. Why, then, do these smut peddlers feel justified in stalking him and snapping photos of him in his illness-induced deterioration?

Actually, I know the answer to that question: It’s because there are enough people out there who want to see such images, whether out of morbid curiosity or out of a feeling of entitlement because, goddammit, he’s a star and he owes us the right to watch him suffer!

I am very fortunate to have a lady friend who just happens to have an Adam's Apple.

Well, screw that attitude. I don’t want to see these images, and damn the supermarkets for placing them once again in areas that I can’t avoid being. I am truly sorry that Mr. Swayze is so ill, and I wish for him nothing but peace at this time. And while these useless rags choose to exploit his sickness to extend their own cancerous existence, I instead choose to remember him here, in one of my all-time favorite Swayze roles. Yes, that’s right, I think I’ve loved him most as Vida Boheme in To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar. I wrote in my last blog about my secret love for drag queen movies (I really should post a link to those archived posts). I know it’s not high-brow, but it’s so damned funny. And god bless these guys, but they make the ugliest drag queens ever (except, perhaps John Leguizamo).

So, I encourage you all to avoid these tabloids. I encourage you to complain to the stores selling them in prime locations. And I encourage you to go out and rent your favorite Patrick Swayze movie (or pick it from your DVD shelf if you already own it) and celebrate what has made him such an enduring and endearing icon of 80s cinematic schmaltz.