Paparazzi Leftovers

As the last few hours of the year creep by, I've stopped flipping through my friends' Facebook years in review and started deleting them as friends instead, so if you're reading this post right now you can consider yourself one of the lucky ones.  And consider yourself doubly lucky, because instead of posting my own year in review (Ice bucket challenges!  Kim K.'s ass!  My trip to Greece!  Oh joy!) I'm still scrambling to post the last few celebrity photos of 2014 so I can start the new year as fresh as a summer's eve.

Sure, I coulda come up with something witty about Cheers so I could post these photos of Ted Danson and Rhea Perlman.  But I didn't. 

And yes, I should have taken the time to write about Shark Tank, and how I accidentally stiffed Barbara Corcoran out of $2.00 for charity.  But again, I didn't.

I could talk about how great television was when I was a kid, and reminisce about Happy Days,

The Dukes of Hazzard,

Fame,

but that would be too much work.

I could tell you that Mario Lopez is even sexier in person,

that Ryan Phillipe is not,

and that while Fred Armisen and Emma Thompson are happy to sign autographs,

Bill Murray ignores everyone like he's autistic.

I could praise Andy Cohen for firing Aviva, or tear him apart for this season of The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

I could even go into detail about how Anna Camp didn't want to take this photo because she just took her shoes off (do YOU see shoes in this photo?),

or how perfectly cast the cold, slightly glazed over Madeleine Stowe is on Revenge,

but all of this would take time that I just don't have.

Instead, I'm gonna end this blog, and this year, on a positive note.  That's right you fucks, I'm gonna plaster a smile on my face like I do every day, pretend that life is great and I don't occasionally think about jumping in front of the subway train as it's pulling into the station, and grin like I mean it.  I learned it from Marie Osmond.

As You Wish

I've always been a fan of soap operas.  Daytime, nighttime, it doesn't matter.  The drama, the grandeur, the outrageous storylines, I love it all.  One of my all time favorites was Santa Barbara, and I remember racing home from school each day with my mom to watch Robin Wright as Kelly Capwell in one of her first acting roles.  When she was cast in The Princess Bride, Kelly went insane after killing Dylan Hartley and was locked in a mental institution until Pearl had himself committed, fell in love with Kelly and helped her escape to Switzerland until the Capwell family could convince Gina to hand over the videotape proving Kelly killed Dylan in self defense.  But this post is not about Robin Wright or Santa Barbara, it's about Cary Elwes, who was also in The Princess Bride but not nearly as interesting.

Blondes With Big Tits That Aren't Pamela Anderson

I love talentless, attention seeking whores who crave fame so badly that they'll take off their pants for Playboy or star in some Skinemax 'erotic thriller' until they can prostitute themselves to the rapper or actor they meet in the grotto, convincing themselves it's 'love' when the guy is all "She's got a vagina, she's got tits, she gives me anal, I'll put up with her shit for a little while 'cause I get to cum in her."

That's what makes these photos of Shannon Tweed and Coco Austin so great.  Delusion.

Half the Sex In The City

I had a hell of a cardio workout at the gym this morning, and by that I mean I spent an extra hour on the elliptical machine watching Sex and the City just to see Samantha's hot neighbor's cock Charlotte poughkeepsie her pants again.  There's talk of a third movie, in which they all retire to a three bedroom home in Miami and bemoan their terrible sex lives over cheesecake in the kitchen, but I feel like that's been done already, no?  Plus, with  Kim Jong-un running Hollywood it may be just talk.
Anyway, here are Kristin Davis and Kim Cattrall running around NYC promoting shit that isn't Sex and the City between hot flashes.

Could It Be Magic?

He's come a long way since the days of performing in gay bathhouses with Bette Midler, and this morning Barry Manilow was on the Today Show to promote his 30th studio album My Dream Duets, a compilation of duets with dead people.  No kidding.  Now, I'm not one of those middle aged Fanilows who's seen him a million times and still throws their panties up on stage like a teenager, but I am a fan and I really wanted a photo.  I've heard Barry doesn't like taking photos with fans (I've also heard he's into black men, but that's another story) so it's a miracle this even happened, and I'm not even a little upset that he looks better than me in it.

Cheap Thrills, Courtesy of Victoria

Every year I sit transfixed, watching the annual Victoria's Secret prerecorded infomercial for overpriced, cheaply manufactured underwear that I clearly have no use for and nobody to buy it for, scratching my head wondering why, and Tuesday night was no exception.  Maybe it's a deep seeded desire to watch a malnourished South American hooker teeter down a runway in heels and uncomfortable wings, trying to look elegant with a plastered on smile while silently praying she doesn't trip or have a tit pop out.  Does that make me a bad person? 

This year, Victoria amped up her game with TWO fantasy bras, worn by Alessandra Ambrosio and Adriana Lima, seen here promoting the show at Good Morning America

but the real highlight was when toddler diva Ariana Grande got smacked in the head by a model's giant wings.  CBS chose not to show it, but I'm happy to because it's the season of giving.

Peter Pan Live!

If you hated yourself enough to watch NBC's Christmas in Rockefeller Center last night, you'll probably tune in again tonight to see Allison Williams put on a busted wig to play the mischievous boy who never grows up in the live TV musical Peter Pan.  I'm not sure why they chose her to follow in the footsteps of JR Ewing's mama, a dilapidated gymnast and a wonky eyed shill for Nabisco Wheat Thins when there are so many grown women more suited for the role, like Pink and Justin Bieber, but what do I know?  I'll be watching Mob Wives anyway.


Here's Sandy Duncan and another Peter Pan at NBC to promote this mess.

Hello, I've Waited Here For You....Everlong

Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee, former Nirvana drummer, Courtney Love nemesis, head Foo Fighter and all around bad ass Dave Grohl was on the Howard Stern show this morning to promote the Foos' latest album Sonic Highways, their HBO series documenting the making of the album, and a surprise concert at Irving Plaza this Friday night that I won't be able to attend because tickets are only available at the box office, the line opens at 3PM Friday for a 5PM sale time, and I don't get out of work until 5:30, and I know you're all "Bitch, you have a job?" because you're probably thinking I just chase celebrities around all day but yes, I have a job, and I'm quite good at it.  I've seen the Foos rock small clubs, intimate theaters and large arenas, and this will be a great concert, so I'll just take consolation in these photos with Dave and Taylor Hawkins outside Sirius today.

420 In The 212!

When I lived in LA I pretty much did every drug available with the exception of pot, which is ironic considering it's the only one that's legal in California, all you need is 'anxiety' to get a medical marijuana card, and there are dispensaries on every corner, right next to the Starbucks.  I mean, who wants the munchies when you're working out twice a day and it's always swimsuit season, right?   Anyway, here's Tommy Chong, who never had that problem.

Jessie J - OK!

It's 29 degrees in NYC today, which explains why Jessie J looks like a beautiful Eastern European call girl in this photo.  I'm not familiar with her music, but I am familiar with that fur hat, first worn when Alexis Colby confronted Dominique Deveraux about trying to take over ColbyCo.  There is no glamour like Russian hooker glamour, and the world is a much homelier place without it.

They Don't Know About Us!

I have a list, hanging on my desk at work, of all the celebrities I'd love to meet someday.  I've been slowly ticking names off that list since I made it two years ago, and tonight I got to tick another name off.  Possibly one of the coolest, at least in my opinion, and someone I never thought I'd get another chance at since I passed up a clandestine photo of her in the frozen food section of Grace's on the Upper East Side when my boyfriend reminded me of my rule of never shooting celebrities living their normal life and not out promoting something, a rule I made back in Los Angeles when I worked out next to Jake Gyllenhaal, Josh Duhamel, Justin Timberlake and Jerry Bruckheimer at one of the coolest private training gyms in Santa Monica, where Arnold Schwarzenegger complimented me one day on my workout technique and my trainer got all excited like he was the one lifting the weights.  I'm talking about the brilliant comedienne Tracey Ullman, who's single They Don't Know still makes me smile and sing along whenever I hear it and has me laughing hysterically whenever I pop The Tracey Ullman Show in my DVD player.  Sadly, I don't know what kind of ice cream she was buying.

She's doing a play right now with Michael McKeon, best known as Lenny in Laverne and Shirley and David St. Hubbins in This is Spinal Tap, and I'd recommend you get your tickets quickly before the show ends next Sunday.

I'm So Glad We Had This Time Together!

No, that's not someone dressed up as Carol Burnett for Halloween.  It's really comedy legend Carol Burnett, one of my all-time favorites!  And my double chin.  Couldn't get the treat without the trick.

Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This!)

Music has always been a huge part of my life.  As a gay boy growing up in a small town in the '80s, I turned to music as an escape, racing to the record store with my allowance money to whenever a new Culture Club album came out, counting down with Casey Kasem every Sunday morning or poring through the latest issue of Rolling Stone, 16 or Star Hits, reading the articles two and three times before carefully pulling out the posters to hang on my bedroom wall.  Madonna, Boy George and Duran Duran transported me to exotic worlds where the rain was purple, everyone dated supermodels, had pet lions and got chased on yachts and in jungles by dangerous women in body paint, exposing me to a world much bigger than the boredom and isolation of the town I grew up in.  Twenty (ahem!) years later, that music still resonates with me, sitting in my memory bank almost frozen in time.

Among the greatest was goddess, icon, advocate and all around genius Annie Lennox, whose pure and powerful voice is one of the most beautiful instruments I've ever heard.  Defiant one moment and vulnerable the next, this otherworldly creature still helps me navigate the jagged terrain of my heart.  And I'll be sure to thank her tomorrow, when I'll be one of ten people attending Annie Lennox: Iconography at SiriusXM studios.  That's right bitches!  While you're stuck in meetings or answering more mind numbing phone calls from idiot coworkers, I'll be spending my lunch hour with one of the greatest female singers of my generation.  I'll tell her you said hi, and maybe even get this photo signed.

Sharknado Touches Down In NYC!

There comes a time in every party slut's life when they start to look a little busted, especially when they spent their 20's and 30's destroying their bodies with coke, cock and Cristal, so it's a miracle that Tara Reid looks as good as she does in this photo.  Sure she's got bags under her eyes, brushed her hair with a tumbleweed and fished that outfit out of the bargain bin at Hot Topic in 1993, but she's upright on a Monday morning and that's something!

Forever Your Gurl!

How the fuck is American Idol still on TV?  The show hasn't produced a 'star' in the last hundred seasons, and really hasn't been the same without the incoherent ramblings of the heavily medicated Vicodin angel Paula Abdul.  Paula was the thread that bound the show together, and I'm shocked it hasn't all come crashing down without her.  In town to promote her breast cancer awareness video, which is as cringeworthy as it sounds, Paula's glazed over eyes lit up arriving at the Today Show yesterday to a crowd of three fans, signing autographs and posing for photos like it was 1989 and she was still dueting with MC Skat Kat, hugging and kissing me like I was her dealer making a house call.  Someone get this girl back on network TV quick!

Billy Idol Popped My Hotel Cherry, and Other Rock and Roll Tales of the Week

It's not every day I get to meet some of the greatest musicians of my lifetime....oh who the fuck am I kidding?  Yes it is!  In the last few weeks alone I've met Slash, Neil Diamond, Melissa Etheridge, John Mellencamp and Chris Stein, and we all know what happened a few weeks back with Boy George!  This week was no different, yet MUCH more surreal, which is how I found myself standing outside the London Hotel at 6:15 AM Wednesday waiting for Billy Idol.

I swore to myself that I would never be that fan that stalks a hotel, but the son of a bitch blew past all the graphers his fans at the Today Show the day before,

and I damn sure wasn't gonna spend two hours at the Barnes & Noble booksigning and be told I couldn't take a photo with him.  Well someone woke late, alone, and on the wrong side of the bed, because the fucker tried to brush me off again leaving the hotel for the Stern show until I asked him to sign the memoir he's in town promoting, which he begrudgingly did as he walked to the SUV and took off without posing for a photo.

Fucking punks!

Good thing I live in New York and there's traffic, because I sprinted to the Sirius building without having a heart attack, barely beating him, only for him to blow past all the fans waiting and head straight into the building.  MOTHERFUCKER!  IT'S ON!  Two hours (and two radio interviews) later, he finally leaves the building and I'm right there waiting, and while the publicist says 'no photos' (standard publicist bullshit) I stood beside him, he smiled/sneered/did that Billy Idol face he's done so many times, and I finally go this picture.

Having invested four hours into an autograph and a photo, I won't feel bad illegally downloading his new album Kings & Queens of the Underground, due out October 21st.

So last night, thanks to a dubiously obtained press pass and a friend with persuasive email skills, I'm at the opening reception of 24 Karat Gold, a photographic exhibit of Polaroids Stevie Nicks took on tour in the 70's and 80's.  My love of Miss Stevie Gypsy Goddess Rhiaaaaaanon Nicks is legendary, so to be in such an intimate setting with the white witch (and a thousand of our closes friends) was a dream come true and I could hardly hold my camera steady to take these photos and not wet myself.
STEVIE FUCKING NICKS you guys!!!!!!

There to show support were bandmates Mick Fleetwood and Christine McVie (I KNOW!)

and Dave Stewart of Eurythmics!  I KNOW!

I did everything I could to get a photo with Stevie so I could die today feeling complete, but she wasn't having any of the crowd, disappearing into a back room to do a line of coke compose herself before viewing the exhibit, flanked by bodyguards in tight suits shouting "Stand back" without any trace of irony at all.