Lie Low, LiLo

It makes my daughter's skin crawl to hear me refer to Lindsay Lohan as "LiLo," but frankly, the former has too many syllables, causing me to waste even more time discussing her. What's the fascination? Schadenfreude? Oh, how the mighty have fallen kind of thing? Yes and no.

For those who don't know, Ms. Lohan's is a tragic tale of a yet another Disney star gone wobbly. Ejected from the same fame mill as Justin Timberlake, Christina Aquilera and Britney (do I have to say her last name?), she rocketed to fame as a co-star in Disney's Parent Trap with follow-ups Freaky Friday, across from mega-star, Jamie Lee Curtis, and in Mean Girls, all high-grossers. Maybe what cracked her pot was having a car as a co-star in Herbie Fully Loaded because after that, both publicly and in her filmography, she moved toward strictly grown-up stuff, like rampant, in-your-face sexuality, beaver-reveals and nip-slips a-plenty, the rumoured, but so-far-untrue, cell-phone sex videos, allegedly being beaten up and spat upon by her supposed ex-girlfriend, Samantha Ronson and, of course, not one, but two DUIs within a ridiculously short time span, both also involving the possession of coke, and I don't mean the fabulously sweet carbonated beverage that gives me agita, either.

Really, WTF? We are talking about a "successful" 24 year-old with two records under her belt and more than fifteen movies, a few of which have been huge hits, right? And the potential is there, not because she's a great actress or a fabulous singer, but because she is smack-dab in the middle of the Hollywood success machine, at just the right age, with loads of momentum. And she apparently doesn't give a f*ck. That's sad.

What's sadder still is that she hadn't taken a page from the Celebrity Manual of Contrition. Michael Vick took his lumps, served his time, apologised and ponied-up a barrel full of money to help counter the publicity surrounding his dog-fighting conviction. It didn't mean that he had to lay prone while animal rights activists took their best shots in a poorly-lit east Philly parking lot, but he instead negotiated the situation and whatever arc of a career as a star NFL player he has left can now be followed neatly to its inevitable conclusion to a network color commentary chair, surrounded with a smattering of dealership ribbon-cuttings and a side of strength-training supplement endorsements. All because he got caught, weighed the difference between being a feckless thug and the potential of true star status, and decided that it would be better to make people like him again so that they would show him the money. LiLo's attititude is exemplified by the creative mani she sported on sentencing day in July - "f*ck u."

Blah, blah, so it's a "shame." Unfortunately, it's a little more than that. Hollywood types have been self-destructing since the days of Fatty Arbuckle and we've been eating it up since then, gossip whores that we are. Thing is, it's not alright. It's about time that the divas and dudes that do this kind of thing understand that a nip-slip or drunken brawl might be momentarily entertaining, in the end, it's pretty nasty and does nothing for our country's image in the world. Further, as a celebrity, one has the obligation to be respectful to one's fans. Celebrities don't have a private life when they're in public and if they want to behave like drunken, drug-addled idiots, it's really an intentional insult to the lesser "great unwashed." Hey, listen, you're cute, hot, talented, whatever, but there are limits. So, behave badly all you want, just not in our collective livingroom. It's just plain rude. And sad. And it's about time that we collectively set a standard both for ourselves and for our kids that says to these lilotypes that we're not sinking any further - sorry. And for those celebrities - and sports stars and politicians - who can't respect themselves enough to show a little respect for the rest of us, well, we must commit to just turning away like we turn away when someone else's toddler explodes in frustration at the Pathmark because he just wants it wants it wants it. Well, you can't have it. Behave yourself.

It's Magically Delicious

Forget about the Pink Hearts, Orange Stars, Yellow Moons and Green Clovers. Here's something better, kiddies:

It's incontrovertible proof that what lies at the end of the rainbow ain't tiny marshmallows or Pots O' Gold, but BOOZE! Glorious, soul-numbing, mind-deadening hootch. My favorite? New Jersey Port. Yum. Makes me all English an' sh*t.

Can You Keep A Secret?

I learned the hard way that not everything needs to be said,even when this means that an opportunity for understanding is lost. In fact, i paid a lot of money to a very able therapist to train me to shut my big trap. Oh, i understand why i "share too much." And, yes, i have parents at fault. My father was my guide to this M.O.. He simply uttered every thought that entered his brain without an apparent thought to self censorship, though i have no idea if he actually had more vile and horrible things to say that never made it out of his pie-hole. Frankly, i can't imagine it: it would be much better if all he had to say was said. It was enough as it was.

So, now i consider, reframe, scenarize my thoughts before my internal editor will release them to publishing and, i must say, it's difficult and unnatural for me. the further downside is that i seem stodgier than ever, unless i employ the body language techniques i learned to help my talking buddy feel at ease and speak on. In other words, i'm in the role of the non-directive therapist. The upside is that people like me better, mainly because they are of the impression that i give a fashizzle.

One other big downside is that since my free-wheeling stream-of-conciousness has been clamped, i'm not as brilliantly funny in person as i uster be. This is disappointing.

But, i can talk to the dog and he looks at me questioningly, trying to pick out words like "walk" or "bisquit." Convinced that i am not near to an action that addresses his needs, he lowers his head and snuffs his disappointment. Little bastard.

There have been collecting a coven of secrets in a sort of pool in my mind, things that should probably be talked about but that i know may more organically resolve on their own or things that are, by themselves, not all that important. Still, there are things that i just know in my gut have to be resolved before i croak. Maybe if i mix those things in with far more pedestrian issues, the impact will be diffuse. Maybe i am wrong. Maybe these are secrets that should be kept. Maybe i should just keep my big trap shut.

I'd rather tell you, though. I'd rather it all get sorted, but only for you, whose loyalty could never truly be called into question, except in anger. On the other hand, what right do i have to impose the truth on anyone, whether it's a universal truth or mine alone. Ah. What does it matter? Who cares?

I do. Dammit. I do.

Where Am I?

It's dark out and cold. I catch a glimpse as I pass a mirror and see a gaunt face that I am surprised to recognize as my own. My body is lost in the zippered black fleece that makes the unreasonably chilly air just this side of bearable.

There's nothing to remember except that I am in the prison of my decisions under a sentence of death.

I don't think I can stand it much longer. Where am I?

9 Lives of The Undead Zombie Superhero

Ya know, i took inventory of how many close calls i've had in the white-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel department and it seems i've just about run out. There was that time i found my father's Manlicher Carcano carabine in the bedroom closet when i was very little and very curious. Then, there was the ravine-tumbling challenge by by school chums. I can scarcely forget the high-speed crash with Howie's Dad's Impala while were we on our way to a midnight show (totally not Howie's fault, just so you know.) Then, there was that unfortunate toxic substance incident on a rather hot day, to boot. Let's see, that makes four, so far. Then, there was the throat cancer scare, the skin cancer scare, the thyroid scare, the crazy ex-wife arrow-flinging event, the near-miss, icy spin-out, the fall, the bee attack, that stupid bar fight with the broken bottle in the neck, that really crazy red-headed chic with the Harley tattoo and only one nipple.

Oops. Seems i'm over. I guess it's actually a mode of superherodom that i've failed to fully engage. Perhaps i am in fact indestructable and can only be finally downed when presented with appropriately weighty toxic jewelry from the deepest part of the methane oceans on my home world.

I am writing this at 36,000 feet. I think this would be an opportune time to test my theory. Well, then . . . I need a catch-phrase, something heroic?  Ah, yes: Salute The Day! Away! Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!